They halted, they stood their ground a moment against that withering deluge of fire, then they broke, faced about and swept toward the ditch like chaff before a gale.

A full fourth part of their force never reached the top of the lofty embankment; the three-fourths reached it and plunged over--to death by drowning.
Within ten short minutes after we had opened fire, armed resistance was totally annihilated, the campaign was ended, we fifty-four were masters of England.

Twenty-five thousand men lay dead around us.
But how treacherous is fortune! In a little while--say an hour -- happened a thing, by my own fault, which--but I have no heart to write that.

Let the record end here..