“They’re going to charge us. Up, boys, and come on! We’ll meet them halfway.”
“They’re all gone mad together,” said Bland. “You can’t charge down magazine rifles. It’s impossible.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that if this battle is ever to be finished at all they’ll have to get at each other with their fists. So far weapons have been a total failure.”
Clithering crawled across the room while we were speaking and clutched me by the legs. I do not think it was fear of the bullets which made him crawl. He had been so very sick that he was too weak to walk.
“What’s happening?” he said. “For God’s sake tell me. Are there many killed?”
“No one yet on this side,” I said. “There may be a few soldiers hit, but I don’t suppose you mind about them. There’s just going to be a charge. Get up and you’ll be able to see it.”
Clithering caught the edge of the window-sash and dragged himself to his feet. He was just in time to see Bob’s men rush along the street. They did not charge in any sort of order. They simply spread out and ran as fast as they could, as fast as I ever saw men run. Some of them took their rifles with them. Others, evidently agreeing with me that they would do more destruction with their fists, left their rifles behind. They covered fifty or sixty yards, and were still going fast when they discovered that the soldiers were not waiting for them. Henderson walked alongside the leading men of the column with his ridiculously long sword in his hand. Two mounted officers brought up the rear. Two men, with their rifles sloped over their shoulders, marched briskly across the end of the street. In the middle of the column were eight stretchers carried along. Bob’s men, in spite of their bad shooting, had wounded that number of their enemies. I found out afterwards that they had killed three others outright. The discipline of the British army must be remarkably good. In spite of this heavy loss the soldiers obeyed orders, and steadily refrained from trying to kill Bob’s men. Their final disappearance was a crowning proof of their obedience. I watched this body of infantry march out of sight into the next street. They were not running away. They were not even retreating. They gave me the impression of having stopped the battle in a way that was quite customary because it was time for them to do something else—get some dinner perhaps.
This performance produced, as might be expected, a most disconcerting effect upon Bob’s warriors. They stopped running and stared at their departing foes. Then they turned round and gaped at each other. Then they applied to Bob Power for information. They wanted to know, apparently, whether they had gained a great and glorious victory, or were to regard the departure of the enemy as some subtle kind of strategy. Bob seemed as much puzzled as every one else. Even Bland, in spite of his experience of battles in two great wars, was taken aback.
“Well, I’m damned,” he said.