Ten Years in India
The most pleasant memories of my boyhood are clustered around the old family fireplace, in our home in Brighton, England, when my father, gathering us all around him, with occasionally a few intimate friends, recounted such tales of war as often made me desire I was a man at once, in order that I might there and then enrol myself as one of my country's defenders. He had served, I believe, with distinction, in the Tenth Royal Hussars, as an officer, both under Sir John Moore, and the Iron Duke. He was present at the retreat on Corunna, and, as the old man touchingly gave that narrative, I well remember the big tears course down his cheeks, losing all control of himself, his utterances almost ceasing when[viii] he pictured the hour when his heart-broken comrades, "Buried him darkly, at dead of night." This was not all, however. Rising to a pitch of the greatest excitement, his language grew bolder and more fierce as he progressed, bringing us all through Salamanca, Talavera, Duoro, Orthes, with the Iron Duke, down to the "King-making Victory,"-Waterloo. He may have been too fond of dwelling on his own exploits-the fierce charge on squares-the hand to hand encounters-sabreing this one and then that one-for, as the night's entertainment closed, for such it was considered, his old arm chair would be many yards away from its original position, driven by force of arms and legs, depicting this cut at a trooper's head, that point at a breast, this guard from an intended cleaver, as he called it, and I have often since thought, how wise my mother was in her forethought to hide away his sword at such times, for I verily believe, so forgetful was he on those occasions, some damage would be done to arms or legs, in his enthusiasm of description.
- Paperback | 64 pages
- 152.4 x 228.6 x 3.81mm | 149.68g
- 29 Jan 1893
- Createspace Independent Publishing Platform
- Illustrations, black and white