"Forward! forward! We want every man!"

Aware that these panic rumours are not
always well founded, we made our way through
the retiring groups, and, getting clear of the
village, had the battle before us. Bezzecca,
about a mile distant, was in possession of the
enemy, who was apparently extending his
front, so as to occupy the wooded heights that
skirt the valley, while two guns on his right
commanded the road. The rifle and musketry
fire was well sustained, and in every direction
our troops were retiring. Among the red-frocks,
there was a greater alacrity in this movement
than it was pleasant to see; and when our one
gun, on the left, hastily limbered up and trotted
from its position, while the general's carriage
was seen coming swiftly back from the
neighbourhood of Bezzecca, the panic was not
without excuse.

Garibaldi drew up at the entrance of the
village, close to where we stood. He was
accompanied by two officers. He was slightly flushed,
and the lion face lacked something of its usual
serenity as he glanced at the skulkers pouring by.

"Sound! sound!" he said to the buglers.
"Send this canaglia to their duty." (The stern
contempt with which he rolled out the
"canaglia" is indescribable.)

For the first time, the presence of the chief
seemed to have lost its spell. It was clearly
possible to be a coward under his very eye.
The officers, to a man, did their duty. The
Guides (whom we had regarded as a rather
fresh and pampered body, with a propensity for
charging everybody but the foe) galloped about
in the fire, and were indefatigable in their efforts
to rally the men.

"Avanti! Avanti! Coraggio!" they shouted.
"Garibaldi is on the road!"

"Avanti!" was echoed by a despairing
captain near me, whose little group of red-shirts
was rapidly diminishing. "Avanti, ragazzi!
Avanti! Per Dio—sacr-r-ramento!"

And on all sides the bugles never ceased
sounding the advance.

At this time a regular panic took place in
the village; a rush was made for the rearward
village, Tiarno di Sopra, in which our carriage
and effects were involved; and I missed my
companion, the West-end journal, until he emerged
in safety, at the close of the action, from the
rear of a six-gun battery, which, hurried up to
the front, began at this moment to do us good
service.

By Garibaldi's orders, two companies of the
volunteer Bersaglieri—a picked corps—began to
ascend the heights on our left, and soon their
long grey line was seen creeping steadily along
the sinuous track towards the crests that overlook
Bezzecca. To support them, some red-
shirts were hastily assembled, and, as soon as
they could be convinced that the grey
Bersaglieri were indeed "i nostri," our own men,
prepared to follow.

A leader was wanted, and the general called
for a volunteer. A young officer ran up to his
carriage.

"Bravo, bravo, Plantulli!" said Garibaldi,
as they hastened away. The general gave the
card and pencil, with which he had been writing
orders, to his servant on the box, and lay back
in the carriage, as if to wait events. He wore
to-day, in place of his round black hat, a
bright scarlet smoking-cap, embroidered with
gold, and it became him well.

Meanwhile, the six-gun battery, under Major
Dogliotti, had taken up a position on a grassy
slope to the right of the village, and, firing
diagonally across the valley, opened a terrible
fire upon Bezzecca, setting it on fire, and
completely arresting the advance of the enemy on
that side. The scene at this time was extremely
beautiful among the smooth lawn-like slopes
and cultivated fields of the vale of Ledro; the
smoke of the burning village, the roar of
shells, the rushing, shouting, bugling, and
the throngs of wounded making painful progress
to the rear, presenting a strange contrast to
the pastoral quiet and beauty that reigned
beyond the narrowing limits of the strife. A
bright mountain stream sparkled through the
valley, and, although the approach to it was by
a slip of white road still crossed by the enemy's
rifle-fire, over which no one seemed disposed to
pass "except on business"—it was impossible
to resist the temptation to drink. Several
poor wounded fellows were slaking their thirst
there, to one of whom (shot through the thigh,
and bleeding freely) my brandy-flask imparted a
little strength.

By this time, affairs had assumed a different
aspect. The steady advance of the Bersaglieri,
and the splendid practice of Dogliotti's battery
(regulars), cleared the left of the valley, and
allowed some reinforcements to be passed across
to the right. A rush was then made with the
bayonet on the village. It was carried, and the
battle ended.

The nature of the ground concealed some of
the distressing sights that usually attend such
a contest. The Austrians carried off all their
dead and wounded, but left thirty prisoners
in our hands. Forty or fifty Italian dead lay
on or near the road, and many more were hidden
by the thick brushwood, in which, while
skirmishing, they had sought cover. I passed a
fine artilleryman lying feet upward on a grassy
slope his head completely gone. Three young
volunteers lay dead at the angle of a wall—
where they had, perhaps, sought refuge from
the shell, which had nevertheless found them.
The wounded lay thick about the village. Our
loss, as near as could be guessed, was about a
hundred and twenty slain, four hundred and
seventy wounded, and two hundred prisoners.
The brave artillery suffered some loss. Out of
the detachment of sixty which have hitherto
accompanied Garibaldi, five have been killed,
and twenty-five wounded.

The loss in officers was disproportionately
great; not only had they been compelled to
expose themselves to unusual danger, but the too
marked distinction of dress had pointed them
out to the sharp eyes of the trained Bohemian