They are in my mind,
those memories, like scattered pictures. The next clear memory in
my mind, is of a company of cavalry in red coats, under a fierce,
white-faced man, bringing in a string of prisoners to the King's
camp. A couple of troopers jumped down to examine me. One had the
face of a savage; the other was half drunk. "You're one of them,"
they said. "Bring him on." They twisted string about my thumbs. I
was their prisoner. They dragged me into the King's camp, where
the white-faced man sat down at a table to judge us.
I will not talk of that butchery. The white-faced man has been
judged now, in his turn; I will say no more of him. When it came
to my turn, he would hear no words from me; I was a rebel, fit
for nothing but death. "Pistol him" was all the sentence passed
on me. The soldiers laid hands on me to drag me away, to add my
little corpse to the heap outside. One of the officers spoke up
for me. "He's only a boy," he said. "Go easy with the boy. Don't
have the poor child killed." It was kindly spoken; but quite
carelessly. The man would have pleaded for a cat with just as
much passion. It was useless, anyway, for the colonel merely
repeated "Pistol him," just as one would have ordered a wine at
dinner. "Burgundy." "No, the Burgundy here is all so expensive."
"Never mind, Burgundy." So I was led away to stand with the next
batch of prisoners lined against a wall to be shot. My place was
at the end of a line, next to a young sullen-looking man black
with powder.
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