The long
line of Marlborough's horse fronted the Gheet at no great distance
away, the field-pieces were in position, the infantry and reserves
somewhat to the rear. Beyond the stream, with the advantage of rising
ground, were planted the French guns, supported by a powerful host.
Away! The cavalry dashed onwards at a terrific pace. A sharp rattle of
musketry rang out, and in a moment a sprinkling of the advancing
troopers fell from their saddles. George Fairburn was already warming
to the work, and he sat his steed firmly. Then a ball struck the
gallant animal, and in an instant the rider was flung over its head.
The young cornet narrowly escaped being trampled to pieces by his
comrades as they swept by in full career. Up he sprang, however, a
trifle stunned for the moment, but otherwise no worse. Quickly
recovering his sword, which had flown from his grasp, he darted after
his more fortunate companions, and arrived breathless on the scene.
A fierce struggle for the passage of the river was going on, and
desperate fighting was taking place in the very bed of the stream, a
trifle lower down its course. For a time George endeavoured in vain to
find a way through the struggling mass of men and horses to the brink
of the Gheet; the press and the confusion were too great.
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