Part 13 (2/2)
George made a grab at the bridle, but, missing it, fell sprawling to the ground. Springing up, he found his fallen antagonist risen and upon him. ”English dog!” roared the Irishman, and the next moment the two men were at it, both excited, both reckless.
How long they fought they never knew. Apparently the spot was deserted save for themselves and sundry wounded who lay around. It was a desperate encounter. The Irishman had the advantage in height and strength, Fairburn in youth and activity. In the matter of swordsmans.h.i.+p there was little to choose between the two; in respect of courage nothing. It was to be a duel to the death.
The moments flew by, each man had received injuries, and the blood was flowing freely. Still the swords flashed in the air. Then suddenly the Irishman's weapon snapped at the hilt, and the gallant fellow dropped at the same moment to the ground. Instantly George set his foot on the prostrate man's chest, and cried, ”Now your life is at my mercy! What say you?”
”If I must die, I must,” the Irishman answered doggedly, ”but,” he added quickly, a sudden thought striking him, ”take this first, and see it put into the hands of the person mentioned on it, sir.” The trooper pulled from his breast a piece of paper soiled and crumpled, and George, wondering much, took it at the man's hands. His foot still on his fallen foe, Fairburn unfolded the dirty and tattered paper. It was the cover of a letter, and he read with staring eyes the address on it, ”To Captain M. Blackett,--Dragoons.” The handwriting he well knew; it was that of Mary Blackett.
”Great Heaven!” the reader cried, ”where did you get this?”
”It was given me by a poor fellow, an officer, who escaped from the big explosion at Tournai. He blundered by mistake into our lines, and our fellows were about to finish him--leastways one chap was, but I landed him one between his two eyes, and that stopped his game.”
”And you saved the Englishman's life?”
”I did, sir; I thought it hard luck when the young fellow had just escaped that terrific blow up as he had, to put an end to him the minute after.”
”Get up, for G.o.d's sake, man; you have saved the life of my dearest friend!” And seizing the Irishman's arm, George pulled him to his feet, and wrung the hand hard in his own. ”You are a fine fellow, a right fine fellow. What is your name? I shall never forget you.”
”Sergeant Oborne, sir, at your service. But you have not read the paper yet.”
”True,” and George deciphered the line or two written in pencil on the back of the paper. ”I am alive and well, but a prisoner with the French. Be easy about me; I am well treated. M.B.”
CHAPTER XII
CONCLUSION
Almost before Captain Fairburn had read the last word of Matthew's communication, so cheering and so strangely brought into his hands, the French signal to retreat sounded loud all over the field, a mournful sound to one of the two listeners, a delight to the other, George and Oborne glanced into each other's face. ”What will you do?”
the former asked.
”I am your prisoner and defenceless; it is not for me to say,” the Irishman answered simply.
”Nay, not so, good fellow. You shall do exactly as you prefer, so far as I am concerned. I can do no less for you.”
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders and muttered something about catching it hot, if he ran, to which the captor replied, ”So you would, I am afraid, if any of our men got near you. We have lost heavily, and our temper's a bit ruffled for the moment. If you care to come with me as my prisoner I'll see you through safe. What's more, I'll do my best to get you exchanged for the man you saved.”
”Thank you, captain; that's my best card to play, as things are going.
But I'd have given something to have it the other way about.”
”Of course you would, my good fellow. It's the fortune of war; I'm up to-day, you're up to-morrow. And you've no cause to be anything but mighty proud of yourselves--you of the Irish Brigade. I never saw better stuff than you've turned out this day.”
”And many's the thanks, son. A bit o' praise comes sweet even from an enemy.”
”Enemies only professionally, Oborne; in private life we're from to-day the best of friends.”
At a later hour Sergeant Oborne informed Fairburn that he had carried Captain Blackett's paper about with him for some little time, having had no opportunity of pa.s.sing it on to any likely Englishman, or having forgotten it when he had the opportunity.
The slaughter at Malplaquet was terrible on the side of the Allies, amounting to 20,000, or one-fifth of the whole number engaged. The French, who had fought under shelter, lost only about one half of that total. Mons surrendered shortly afterwards, and the victory was complete, the road to Paris open. Yet what a victory! Villars declared to his royal master that if the French were vouchsafed such another defeat, there would be left to them no enemies at all.
This proved to be the Duke of Marlborough's last great battle and his last great victory. ”A deluge of blood” it had been. And, what was worse, rarely has a great victory produced so little fruit.
<script>