My name is Harry Brooks, and my age on this remembered evening was
fourteen and something over. My father, Major James Brooks, late of
the 4th (King's Own) Regiment, had married twice, and at the time of
his retirement from active service was for the second time a widower.
Blindness--contracted by exposure and long marches over the snows of
Galicia--had put an end to a career by no means undistinguished.
In his last fight, at Corunna, he had not only earned a mention in
despatches from his brigadier-general, Lord William Bentinck, but by
his alertness in handling his half-regiment at a critical moment, and
refusing its right to an outflanking line of French, had been
privileged to win almost the last word of praise uttered by his
idolized commander. My father heard, and faced about, but his eyes
were already failing him; they missed the friendly smile with which
Sir John Moore turned, and cantered off along the brigade, to
encourage the 50th and 42nd regiments, and to receive, a few minutes
later, the fatal cannon-shot.
Every one has heard what miseries the returning transports endured in
the bitter gale of January, 1809. The _Londonderry_, in which my
father sailed, did indeed escape wreck, but at the cost of a week's
beating about the mouth of the Channel.
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