The
breach was wide enough to drive a battery through, but the enemy had
thrown up a breast-work and fortified it during the night. But up we
went at the 'double,' Crichton and I in front, you may be sure. As
soon as the Frenchies opened fire, I began to run,--so did Crichton,
but being longer in the leg, I was at the breach first, and began to
scramble over the debris. Crichton was a little fellow, y' know, but
game all through, and active as a cat, and b'gad, presently above
the roar and din, I could hear him panting close behind me. Up we
went, nearer and nearer, with our fellows about a hundred yards in
our rear, clambering after us and cheering as they came. I was close
upon the confounded breastwork when I took a musket-ball through my
leg, and over I went like a shot rabbit, b'gad! Just then Crichton
panted up. 'Hurt?' says he. 'Only my leg,' says I, 'go on, and good
luck to you.' 'Devilish rough on you, Sling!' says he, and on he went.
But he'd only gone about a couple of yards when he threw up his arms
and pitched over on his face. 'Poor Crichton's done for!' says I to
myself, and made shift to crawl over to him.
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