It was a touching sight, on the morning before the battle, to see the
alacrity with which Jenkins's regiment sprung up at the FIRST reveille
of the bell, and engaged (the honest fellows!) in offices almost
menial for the benefit of their French allies. The Duke himself set the
example, and blacked to a nicety the boots of Henri. At half-past ten,
after coffee, the brilliant warriors of the cavalry were ready; their
clarions rung to horse, their banners were given to the wind, their
shirt-collars were exquisitely starched, and the whole air was scented
with the odors of their pomatums and pocket-handkerchiefs.
Jenkins had the honor of holding the stirrup for Henri. "My faithful
Duke!" said the Prince, pulling him by the shoulder-knot, "thou art
always at THY POST." "Here, as in Wellington Street, sire," said
the hero, blushing. And the Prince made an appropriate speech to his
chivalry, in which allusions to the lilies, Saint Louis, Bayard
and Henri Quatre, were, as may be imagined, not spared. "Ho!
standard-bearer!" the Prince concluded, "fling out my oriflamme. Noble
gents of France, your King is among you to-day!"
Then turning to the Prince of Ballybunion, who had been drinking
whiskey-punch all night with the Princes of Donegal and Connemara,
"Prince," he said, "the Irish Brigade has won every battle in the French
history--we will not deprive you of the honor of winning this.
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