'Next day, I felt the earth turn over, and looked toward that demilune to see fifty French troopers flying into the air. Maestricht's defenders had exploded a vast countermine beneath the demilune. Dutchmen charged into the gap and engaged the survivors in sword- and bayonet-play. They looked sure to retake the demilune and undo Churchill's and Monmouth's glorious deeds. I was not ten feet from John Churchill when it happened. Without a moment's hesitation he was off and running, sword in hand – it was obvious muskets would be useless. To save time, he ran across the surface – ignoring the trenches – exposing himself to musket-fire from the city's defenders, in full view of all those historians and poets watching through jeweled opera glasses from the windows of their coaches, just outside of artillery range. I stood there in amazement at his stupidity, until I realized that brother Bob was right behind him, matching him step-for-step.'