misfortunes than at the period of his most splendid successes; whilst his opponent was but a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging, murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing a half of his army, filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded like the miscreant Turks their neighbors, and carrying into Christian warfare their native heathen habits of rapine, lust, and murder.  Why should the best blood in England and France be shed in order that the Holy Roman and Apostolic master of these ruffians should have his revenge over the Christian king?  And it was to this end we were fighting; for this that every village and family in England was deploring the death of beloved sons and fathers.  We dared not speak to each other, even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful were the gaps left in our army by the cannon of that bloody action.  ’Twas heartrending for an officer who had a heart to look down his line on a parade-day afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of comrades—­humble or of high rank—­that had gathered but yesterday full of courage and cheerfulness round the torn and blackened flags.  Where were our friends?  As the great Duke reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing aides-de-camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank an officer with those eager smiles and bows of which his Grace was always lavish, scarce a huzzah could be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode up and cried—­“D—­n you, why don’t you cheer?” But the men had no heart for that:  not one of them but was thinking, “Where’s my comrade?—­where’s my brother that fought by me, or my dear captain that led me yesterday?” ’Twas the most gloomy pageant I ever looked on; and the “Te Deum” sung by our chaplains, the most woful and dreary satire.

Esmond’s General added one more to the many marks of honor which he had received in the front of a score of battles, and got a wound in the groin, which laid him on his back; and you may be sure he consoled himself by abusing the Commander-in-Chief, as he lay groaning,—­“Corporal John’s as fond of me,” he used to say, “as King David was of General Uriah; and so he always gives me the post of danger.”  He persisted, to his dying day, in believing that the Duke intended he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent him purposely with a small force, hoping that he might be knocked on the head there.  Esmond and Frank Castlewood both escaped without hurt, though the division which our General commanded suffered even more than any other, having to sustain not only the fury of the enemy’s cannonade, which was very hot and well served, but the furious and repeated charges of the famous Maison du Roy, which we had to receive and beat off again and again, with volleys of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of musqueteers and pikemen.  They said the King of England charged us no less than twelve times that day, along with the French Household.  Esmond’s late regiment, General Webb’s own Fusileers, served in the division which their colonel commanded.  The General was thrice in the centre of the square of the Fusileers, calling the fire at the French charges, and, after the action, his Grace the Duke of Berwick sent his compliments to his old regiment and their Colonel for their behavior on the field.