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There was, however, a brave American officer, who had the command of the rifle-pit men; he fought like a tiger; was shot in his thigh as the very onset, and yet, though hopping all the while, stuck to Captain Ross like a man. Should this notice be the means to ascertain his name, it should be written down in the margin at once.
The dragoons from south, the troopers from north, were trotting in full speed towards the stockade.
Peter Lalor, was now on the top of the first logged-up hole within the stockade, and by his decided gestures pointed to the men to retire among the holes. He was shot down in his left shoulder at this identical moment: it was a chance shot, I recollect it well.
A full discharge of musketry from the military, now mowed down all who had their heads above the barricades.
Ross was shot in the groin. Another shot struck Thonen exactly in the mouth, and felled him on the spot.
Those who suffered the most were the score of pikemen, who stood their ground from the time the whole division had been posted at the top, facing the Melbourne road from Ballaarat, in double file under the slabs, to stick the cavalry with their pikes.
The old command, "Charge!" was distinctly heard, and the red-coats rushed with fixed bayonets to storm the stockade. A few cuts, kicks, and pulling down, and the job was done too quickly for their wonted ardour, for they actually thrust their bayonets on the body of the dead and wounded strewed about on the ground. A wild "hurrah!" burst out,
The ship that bears me to exile has spread her wings; but Australia, and you my late companions in arms, I cannot leave you without bidding you (it may be my last) farewell. I part from you, perhaps for ever; but wherever fickle fortune may banish me to, your memory will help to beguile the dreary hours of exile; and I hope that a name once so familiar to you, now an outlaw from injustice and tyranny, may be kindly remembered by you. ********** Oh, that a kind fate had laid me low in the midst of you, and given me a final-resting-place, Australia, in thy bosom. But no! Fate denied me a warrior's death, a patriot's grave, and decreed that I should languish in banishment. [Fate? be d——d: the immoderate length of your legs was fatal to your not getting a "warrior's grave."] There was a time when I fought for freedom's cause, under a banner made and wrought by English ladies—[Ah, ah, I thought you would soon bring in the ladies where, please?] "Victoria! thy future is bright—[sweet and smart if Vern be the operator.] I confidently predict a Bunker's Hill, or an Alma —[Great works!] as the issue of your next insurrection. [No more truck with your legs, though: let's see your signature and be off.]
Farewell, Australians!
Yours, truly, and for ever,
Charles Hotham's Footman DE LA VERN.
Hold hard, leave us the address where you got your soap last. I want to shampoo my red hair, so as to make my head worth £500, Yankee speculation I guess.
