In the early part of the fight, and until he was too drunk to move, this preux chevalier dashed about Waterproof, mounted on a small horse, which he urged to the top of his speed.  In one hand he flourished a cane, and in the other a revolver.  He usually allowed the reins to lie on his horse’s neck, except when he wished to change his direction.  With his abdomen protruding over the pommel of the saddle, his stirrups several inches too short, one boot-leg outside his pantaloons and the other inside, a very large hat pressed nearly to his eyes, and a face flushed with excitement and whisky, he was a study John Leech would have prized.  Frequent and copious draughts of the cup which cheers and inebriates placed him hors de combat before the close of the day.

From the crest of the levee, he could at any time discover several lines of battle approaching the town.  Frequently he informed the commandant that the Rebels were about to open upon us with a dozen heavy batteries, which they were planting in position for a long siege.  If the enemy had been in the force that this man claimed, they could not have numbered less than fifty thousand.  When unhorsed for the last time during the day, he insisted that I should listen to the story of his exploits.

“I went,” said he, “to the colonel, this morning, and told him, sir, to give me ten men, and I would go out and feel the enemy’s position.  He gave me the men, and I went.  We found the enemy not less than a thousand strong, sir, behind Mrs. Miller’s gin-house.  They were the advance of the whole Rebel army, sir, and I saw they must be driven back.  We charged, and, after a desperate fight, drove them.  They opposed us, sir, every inch of the way for two miles; but we routed them.  We must have killed at least a hundred of them, sir, and wounded as many more.  They didn’t hurt a man of us; but the bullets flew very thick, sir—­very.  I myself killed twelve of them with my own hand, sir.  This is the way it was, sir.  This revolver, you see, sir, has six barrels.  I emptied it once, sir; I reloaded; I emptied it again, sir.  Two times six are twelve, sir.  I killed twelve of them with my own hand.  Let it be recorded.

“On my way back, sir, I set fire to the gin-house, so that it should no more be a shelter for those infernal Rebels.  You yourself, sir, saw that building in flames, and can testify to the truth of my story.”

In this strain the warrior gave the history of his moments of glory.  The portion I have written was true in some points.  He found three men (instead of a thousand), and pursued them a few hundred yards.  He discharged his revolver at very long range, but I could not learn that his shots were returned.  He fired the gin-house “to cover his retreat,” and gained the fortifications without loss.  I do not know his locality at the present time, but presume he remained, up to the close of the war, where storms of shot and shell continually darkened the air, and where lines of battle were seen on every side.