HOW A HERO DIED.

Evening Star, Issue 14574, 24 May 1911, Page 10

HOW A HERO DIED.

An affecting lottor has boon received from a lad, only fourteen years of age, a half-caste, whom Colonel Moll picked up w hen he was engaged on the Congo- I C'amerun delimitation and brought to France, where ho was put to school for a while. The boy, who is named Baptiste, returned with his benefactor to Africa in the summer of 1000, and was with him in the battle in which the colonel lost his life. Baptiste writes;—• Before the fatal hj our e\Vyone is enthusiastic at the thought of gaining the victory. But the Tirailleurs, unfortunately, are not at their posts. Soon it is nine o’clock. From our camp we suddenly hear a dull noise. On the crest of a hill a bit of flag appears. The colonel gives an order: “To your posts; on your knees, and let them come!” The foe was there. “ Fire at wdll!” the colonel now cried. Shots resound, few at first, then more and more frequent. The Massalits continue to advance in a wave, surmounted by a bristle of lances. Horseman arise to loft and right. They are within fifty yards. They come on at the gallop, lancers on each side, and they at once i try to envelop us. The cannon are dis- j charged. One shot, then two, three, four. But to the grim fire cries of j victory are returned. The Massalits bound, along, calling on their god. The dash of the foe breaks our square, and we are obliged to draw back before the ever-invading mass. Lancers came on like a swarm of grasshoppers. The Tirailleurs fled, (but the colonel did not stir. At this moment Tadjadine, the Sultan of Massalit, is master of the field. The foe pursues us. Disorder, unhappily, is in our ranks. Some Tirailleurs go to the right, others to the left. Some resist to the death, others run away. At last, as I do not see my colonel, I go hack with a spahi to look for him. I find him lying flat, with his arms spread out, his lips half open, and his countenance grave. Oh, glorious end for an officer! How different from the other dead, with their features convulsed and their hands clenched! The breast of the colonel had been pierced right through, and a sabre had wounded his neck. As for me, I am not dead, nor even wounded. . . . Tim day after the battle the (load were buried, and it was in beautiful weather that Colonel Moll went to Baltha, where his last home awaited him, to sleep in eternal repose, close to his seven companions who had been killed, like him, for the glory and honor of France. Now I seek only the road to Franco, so that I may be able to rest with my dear adopted relations.—Paris correspondent ‘ Daily Telegraph.’ Women always stidk on a year or two to other women’s ages, and subtract from their own, .jo-make. up-for it—.Marcra relij) ~ ■ '