They
came past in a long horrible procession, men without weapons,
without hands, shot in the head, in the body, lacerated,
bleeding, limping, with white drawn faces, tottering to the town
which they would never see again. I shut my eyes, crouching well
under the tree, while this fight went on. It was nothing but a
time of pain, a roaring, booming horror with shrieks in it. I
don't know how long it lasted. I only know that the shooting
seemed suddenly to pass into a thunder of horse-hoofs as the
King's dragoons came past in a charge. Right in front of me they
galloped, hacking at the fleers, leaning out from their saddles
to cut at them, leaning down to stab them, rising up to reach at
those who climbed the banks. Under that tide of cavalry the
Duke's army melted. They fought in clumps desperately. They flung
away their weapons. They fled. They rushed down desperately to
meet death. It was all a medley of broken noises, oaths, stray
shots, cries, wounded men whimpering, hurt horses screaming. The
horses were the worst part of it. Perhaps you never heard a horse
scream.
That morning's work is all very confused to me. I remember seeing
men cut down as they ran. I remember a fine horse coming past me
lurching, clattering his stirrups, before leaping into the river.
I remember the stink of powder over all the field; the strange
look on the faces of the dead; the body of a trumpeter, kneeling
against a gorse-bush, shot through the heart, with his trumpet
raised to his lips, the litter everywhere, burnt cartridges,
clothes, belts, shot, all the waste of war.
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