A particularly haggard Frenchman eases himself off his equally battered mount and slowly limps into the Tavern, leaving a trail of blood on the ground from the gaping slash on his left leg.[B)]
"Helga, please be a dear and get me a doctor and a bottle of your finest Armagnac to settle my nerves. I've only just managed to escape the clutches of Sir Muddy, and it was far too close for comfort. Every time I turned around, a fresh horde of screaming Prussian infantry and English cav would materialize out of thin air. Oh, the horror of it all. There must be 10,000 cavalry alone awaiting burial South of Gosseiles. The entire 4e Cav Div was destroyed and the 10eme Dragoon Dv, YG, 8eme Inf and 11 eme Inf can barely muster a corporal's guard between them[V]. There ain't gonna be no re-match, at least not until I've had a chance to heal for a good long while [xx(]."
Mssrs., please raise your glasses to Sir Muddy, the finest officer in His Britannic Majesty's Army. It was a VERY "near run thing" and but for the dogged determination of the French horse, that kept charging and re-forming time after time, and the blessings of Mars, Sir Muddy would have had my sword this time.
Regards and Happy New Year!
Paco
<i>Maréchal</i> M. Francisco Palomo
<i>Prince d'Essling, Grande Duc d'Abrantes et
Comte de Marseille
Commandant - Division de Cavalerie de la Vieille Garde </i>
