Bang!
A shot is heard just over the brow of the rise about seven hundred yards off. It rings out on the still morning air with a sharp clearness that is startling, and immediately it is followed by a second. The effect is like magic: loungers sit bolt upright, sleepers wake, those in the water scurry out, and all eyes in camp are turned in the direction of this unlooked-for alarm.
“Kaptyn, Kaptyn—Kyk dar so!” (Captain, Captain—Look there!) cries one of the sergeants, a wiry little Hottentot of some sixty summers. But even before his warning is uttered Claverton’s quick eye has caught the cause of alarm, and more, has mastered the fact that nothing but the utmost coolness and determination will save every soul in that camp from destruction. For the whole ridge is alive with Kafir warriors, swarming over the brow of the hill like a crowd of red ants; on they come, straight for the camp, evidently with the intention of carrying it by a rush. A man is fleeing before them as hard as ever he can run—apparently the sentry who has fired the shot—but he has a small start and they are gaining upon him. Suddenly he falls, then disappears, pierced by a score of assegais, and the crowd pours over him.
“Steady, men—steady!” cries Claverton, his clear voice ringing like a trumpet. “Every man to his place. No one to fire before the word is given.”
And now the state of discipline into which the corps had been brought, bore its fruit, as, quickly and without flurry, each man knew exactly where to find his rifle and ammunition, and found it—for the arms had been placed separately in a circle, not piled—and now, inspired by their leader’s coolness, every man stood armed and ready, only waiting the word of command. Once or twice Claverton detected signs of flurry and scrambling; but a word or two thrown in, and an invincible coolness—which could not have been greater had they been on parade, instead of waiting the furious onslaught of a savage horde, rushing down at a pace which three minutes at the outside would bring right upon them—instantly had the effect of restoring order.
“Steady, men,” cried Claverton again, as the whole force knelt behind the light breastwork of thorn-bushes, which a quarter of an hour’s work had sufficed to throw round the camp when they first halted. “Steady. Don’t put up any sights, and aim low. Now—Fire!”
Truly the attacking force presented a terrific and appalling spectacle. In a semi-circular formation on they came at a run—hundreds and hundreds of fierce savages, their naked bodies gleaming with red ochre, as they poured through the bush like demons, shrilling their wild war-whistles, and snapping their assegais across their knees to shorten them for the charge and the irresistible hand-to-hand encounter which it seemed nothing could stay.
Crash!
A roar of the detonation of many rifles. The smoke clears away, and a confused mass of fallen bodies and red struggling limbs, is descried. Another and another volley; the assailants roll over in heaps, their ranks literally ploughed through by the heavy and terribly destructive Snider bullets—almost explosive in their effects—poured in at such close quarters. The advancing mass halts a moment like a wave suddenly stopped by a breakwater, fairly impeded by the fallen bodies of its slain and the frantic convulsive throes of the stricken.
“That’s right, men!” shouts Claverton. “Give it them again! Hurrah!”