‘Trot, march!’ The bugles sounded, and the French commander, on the opposing ridge, saw a great billow of cavalry coming end on down the slope to the valley in front of his centre.
‘Gallop!’ The bugles sounded, and the grass fields, by this time trampled into mud between their flattened hedgerows, quivered under the weight of the bounding mass, which flowed across the road, and began to ascend among the débris of breached and battered defences on the French hillside.
‘Charge!’ The bugles sounded, and up went the disciplined column, over all obstacles, compact, swift, and heavy as a rushing train, into the gaping jaws of destruction. The mitrailleuses were ready for them; there was a hell of flame and thunder; then a dense pall of white smoke, out of which, right and left, emerged a few score of mangled and shrieking horses, many dragging their dead riders in the stirrups, and all careering madly back across the valley, braining the scared wounded lying about, who tried painfully to get out of the way. This was the finish; the Life Guards had perished with the General, the reserve was broken up, the Americans were pressing on the rear; and now, under a panic no army could be expected to endure, the over-matched British troops gave up the vain struggle, and fled.
Admiral St George had been pounding away all day at the Allied fleet securely drawn up between the friendly shore of Queenstown and the guarded village of Whitegate. As explained already, he fought at immense disadvantage; it was no question of merely giving and taking hard knocks in the Nelson fashion. Still the English hammered away with their old pluck, clinging to the hope that success of the army on land might make up for the failure of the fleet; which indeed, from the patriotic point of view, would be the more
