Morgan’s buckled telescope was still in his hand, the lens shattered, a smear of blood over its leather sheath. It was a good one—it had cost three guineas. He dropped it to the ground next to an equally buckled man and, trembling uncontrollably, tried to pull the bayonet from his clothes.
The guns thumped and the Russians broke. The pickets and Morgan had done their job—some said they had done it too well. By fighting so stubbornly and so far forward they had prevented their own guns on Home Ridge from getting into action sooner, but really it made little difference. Six Russian battalions had come forward with the guns that Yarrow’s sharp ears had heard under the command of a colonel, but when he fell to a British nine-pounder, all the steam went out of the attack and it collapsed.
So
