"Steady, men, steady!"
That call, in the alien voice, echoed above the whistling of the bullets as they found a billet here and there among the ranks; for the men of the 20th, maddened by that fresh murder, now shot wildly at their officers.
"Steady, men! Steady, for God's sake!"
The entreaty was not in vain; they were steady still. Ay, steady, but unarmed! Steady as a rock still, but helpless!
Helpless, unarmed! By all the gods all men worshiped, men could not suffer that for long, when bullets were whistling into their ranks.
So there was a waver at last in the long line. A faint tremble, like the tremble of a curving wave ere it falls. Then, with a confused roar, an aimless sweeping away of all things in its path, it broke as a wave breaks upon a pebbly shore.
"To arms, brothers! Quick! fire! fire!"
Upon whom?[[2]] God knows! Not on their officers, for these were already being hustled to the rear, hustled into safety.
"Quick, brothers, quick! Kill! Kill!"
The cry rose on all sides now, as the wave of revolt surged on. But there was none left to kill; for the work was done in the 20th lines, and no new white faces came to stem the tide. Two thousand and odd Englishmen who might have stemmed it being still on the parade-ground by the church, waiting for orders, for ammunition, for a General, for everything save--thank Heaven!--for courage.