u more particularly of the next one, that of Malmaison. It was
there, in fact, that we began to make our reputation. This was the
sortie fraught with most real danger to the Germans. They had not then
had time to establish their lines, and if the attack had been
followed up with more men, the French, it is thought, might have taken
Versailles and cut the enemy's line of communication. As it was, the
Prussians had everything packed and horses saddled, ready to leave
Versailles at a moment's notice. Ur. Sarazin, chief surgeon of
Ducrot's corps, had asked us to rendezvous at the Rond Point de
Courbevoie, just behind Mont Valerien, where the French had a battery.
On our way out there that beautiful October afternoon, as we were
driving up the hill from Porte Maillot, the American flag and the
colors of the International ambulance flying over our five wagons, we
were met by the whole provisional government of France. Jules Ferry
hailed us and asked a ride. They were going to see the fight. We
took them all in: we had in our wagon Rochefort, Ferry and Favre; the
others took seats as the wagons came up. We left them on a sort of
platform which had been built for them upon the pedestal of the famous
knee-breeches-and-cocked-hat statue of the First Napoleon, which
was replaced by the Roman-togaed one upon the Column Venodme. The
first-mentioned statue had even then been toppled over and carted
away. We went on to the top of the hill of Courbevoie, whence,
however, we were promptly ordered back. From our station farther in
the rear, lying down in our wagons, we watched the bombs and the smoke
of the musketry rising over the hill. The French were beating the
Prussians back with great slaughter, as we heard from couriers
constantly sent in.

Suddenly, Dr. Sarazin rode into our midst and shouted, "Ambulance
Americaine, en avant!" Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped down
the road, we following at a brisk trot. Halfway to Rueil he drew up
and said, "Pass that windmill, turn to the right, and you will be on
the field." We plunged on through potato-patches and vineyards, our
hearts in our mouths. As we drew past the windmill, which was on
a knoll in the descent from Mont Valerien, we came upon the French
reserves, massed by regiments behind the artillery and mitrailleuses
which lined the crest of the hill we were on. Just behind them
were Trochu and his staff. An aide-de-camp galloped toward us as we
approached, and told us to take