The battle done, my father toured the killing ground
on horseback, with a man he loved devotedly:
a hussar, great in stature, greater still in gallantry.
The night was falling and the dead lay all around.

From out the gloom, a feeble cry came to their ears.
A Spaniard of the routed army, broken, bleeding,
dragged himself along the road, gasping for breath and pleading,
‘Give us a drink! A drink, for pity’s sake, good sirs!’

My father saw his enemy’s gaunt face: a mask
of agony and fear of death; and he was moved.
‘Give him a drop of rum,’ he bade the servant that he loved
and unhooked from his saddle his own drinking flask.

The hussar bent down to the dying man, a Moor,
who shouted, ‘Bastards, go to hell! We’re even now!’
He aimed the pistol he was clutching at my father’s brow
and fired. The distant mountains echoed to the roar.

And echoed to the roar. The roar. The aim was wild.
The bullet, which had whistled past my father’s head
had blown his hat clean off and shied his horse. My father said,
‘Give this poor wounded soul a drink, hussar,’ and smiled.