17
ments, under the lamented Sir Thomas Picton. The whole slope was in our view. Nothing could be more tremendous than the mode of attack; it was headed by artillery, which discharged showers of iron grape shot each bullet larger than a walnut. It was a battle on the part of the French, of cavalry and cannon, both equipped as if by magic, and much more formidable than had ever been known in the French armies, even to take the field.
Heading these columns were the iron-cased cuirassiers in as complete mail, breast and back as in the days of that defensive armour upon which the musket balls were heard to ring as they glanced off, without injuring or even stunning the wearer. These men at arms had immense infantry columns of support at their backs.
A stunted hedge bounded each side of a narrow cross road, which ran along the whole of the British left wing, joining the great road near the Duke of Wellington’s tree, already mentioned. In the hedge there were a number of gaps, which had been made to serve as a kind of embrasures for a line of the British cannon of the left wing; and a trifling bank only here and there, two or three feet high, on which the hedge grew, and in which apertures for the guns were cut where necessary, was the only thing resembling shelter, whish any portion of our artillery enjoyed.
When the cannon and infantry had staggered the masses of the enemy, and somewhat calmed their fury; round the extremity of the cross road, full on the flank of the foe—horse, in perfect condition; men, in steady determination—wheeled like a whirlwind, the Royals Greys, and Enniskillens— England, Scotland, and Ireland, in high rivalry and irresistible union. In vain for the second time
