We’ll do nothing but guzzle and sleep, my boys!
And sit on the grass with a Kaffir lass,
Though smutty the wench as a sweep, my boys!
For the Light Brigade
Are the lads for a maid,
Black although she may be.”
“Come, stow that!” interrupted Bill, as the ping of a ball whistled over their heads, followed by the sharp report of a musket; “here’s music for your singing, and dancing too, faith,” he added, as the rear files of the advanced guard came running in; and “Old Swipes” exclaimed, “By Jove! they’re engaged. Attention! steady, men!—close up—close up”—and, throwing out a handful of skirmishers to clear the bush immediately in his front and support his advanced guard, he moved the column forward at “the double,” gained some rising ground, behind which he halted them, and himself ran on to reconnoitre. A sharp fire had by this time commenced on the right, and Charlie’s heart beat painfully whilst he remained inactive, covered by a position from which he could see nothing. It was not, however, for long. The “Light-Bobs” were speedily ordered to advance, and as they gained the crest of the hill a magnificent view of the conflict opened at once upon their eyes.
The Rifles had been beforehand with them, and were already engaged; their dark forms, hurrying to and fro as they ran from covert to covert, were only to be distinguished from the savages by the rapidity with which their thin white lines of smoke emerged from bush and brake, and the regularity with which they forced position after position, compared with the tumultuous gestures and desultory movements of the enemy. Already the Kaffirs were forced across the ford of which we have spoken, and, though they mustered in great numbers on the opposite bank, swarming like bees along the rising ground, they appeared to waver in their manœuvres, and to be inclined to retire. A mounted officer gallops up, and says a few words to the grey-headed captain. The “Light-Bobs” are formed into column of sections, and plunge gallantly into the ford. Charlie’s right-hand man falls pierced by an assagai, and as his head declines beneath the bubbling water, and his blood mingles with the stream, our volunteer feels “the devil” rising rapidly to his heart. Charlie’s teeth are set tight, though he is scarce aware of his own sensations, and the boy is dangerous, with his pale face and flashing eyes.
The “Light-Bobs” deploy into line on the opposite bank, covered by an effective fire from the Rifles, and advance as if they were on parade. “Old Swipes” feels his heart leap for joy. On they march like one man, and the dark masses of the enemy fly before them. “Well done, my lads!” says the old captain, as, from their flank, he marks the regularity of their movement. They are his very children now, and he is not thinking of the little blue-eyed girl far away at home. A belt of mimosas is in their front, and it must be carried with the bayonet! The “Light-Bobs” charge with a wild hurrah; and a withering volley, very creditable to the savages, well-nigh staggers them as they approach. “Old Swipes” runs forward, waving them on, his shako off, and his grey locks streaming in the breeze—down he goes! with a musket-ball crashing through his forehead. Charlie could yell with rage, and a fierce longing for blood. There is a calm, matronly woman tending flowers, some thousand miles off, in a small garden in the north of England, and a little girl sitting wistfully at her lessons by her mother’s side. They are a widow and an orphan—but the handsome lieutenant will get his promotion without purchase; death-vacancies invariably go in the regiment, and even now he takes the command.
“Kettering,” says he, cool and composed, as if he were but giving orders at a common field-day, “take a sub-division and clear that ravine; when you are once across you can turn his flank. Forward, my lads! and if they’ve any nonsense give ’em the bayonet!”