I have very little time to write, as the post
leaves this, by steamer, at three o'clock to-day; and I have a great
deal to do during the day. I think it my duty, however, to write, as the
report of the circumstance might get into the papers without mentioning
names, or giving wrong ones, and you might be needlessly alarmed.
To strike at once _in medias res_, this event is no less than the
horrible death of three of our officers in a burning shikargur, or large
thicket, enclosed by the Ameers for the preservation of game. The names
of the poor, unfortunate fellows are Sparky (whom, by-the-bye, you
might have seen at Chatham,) Nixon, and Hibbert. The two first, Lieut.
Sparke, in the Grenadiers, and Nixon, in the Light Company. Hibbert was
assistant-surgeon. They were three of the finest hearted fellows: Nixon,
a long time one of my fellow subs in the Light Company. (I can hardly
write, my hand shakes so.) Poor Hibbert was an exceedingly clever
fellow, and a great traveller, and one of the most beautiful draughtsmen
you could meet with any where. They are all three a terrible loss to our
corps. I will tell you the mournful tale as it happened.
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