No quarter will be given. We fire standing, at will;
very few fire kneeling; nobody dreams of shelter. We finally
reach a slight depression in the ground, and there the red
trousers are lying in masses, here and there--dead or wounded.
We club or stab the wounded, for we know that these rascals,
as soon as we are gone by, will fire from behind. We find one
Frenchman lying at full length upon his face, but he is
counterfeiting death. A kick from a robust fusilier gives him
notice that we are there. Turning over he asks for quarter,
but he gets the reply--"Oh! is that the way, blackguard, that
your tools work?" and he is pinned to the ground. On one side
of me I hear curious cracklings. They're the blows which a
soldier of the 154th is vigorously showering upon the bald
pate of a Frenchman with the stock of his gun; he very wisely
chose for this work a French gun, for fear of breaking his
own. Some men of particularly sensitive soul grant the French
wounded the grace to finish them with a bullet, but others
scatter here and there, wherever they can, their clubbings and
stabbings. Our adversaries have fought bravely.
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