“A hundred yards away, perhaps. Shot down leading the left company in the charge. I—I was trying to help him along when I went down too.”
“Killed?” said the major.
“No; bullet through the thigh.”
“We must fetch him in. Here; volunteers!”
Lennox leaped on to the wall in the pale grey light of the fast-coming day, and as he stood there, stooping ready to leap down, fully a score of rifles sent forth their deadly pencil-like balls from where to right and left the Boers were crouching.
Down he went, to pitch head first, and a sound like a fierce snarling ran along the sheltered side of the stone wall; but as the men saw him spring to his feet again and begin to run they were silent for a few moments, as if in doubt as to what their young lieutenant meant; for Dickenson sprang on to the wall, trying hard to balance himself on the loose top where bullets kept on spattering, as he roared out, with his voice plainly heard above the rattle of the Boers’ rifles, “Look at the coward! Running away again! Volunteers, come on!”
There was a curious hysterical ring in his loud laugh as, with the bullets whirring and whistling about him and a cross fire concentrated upon where he stood, he too leaped down, to begin running, while a burly-looking sergeant literally rolled over the wall, followed by two more men from the rear company, all plainly seen now dashing towards where Lennox was running here and there among the dead and wounded which dotted the sloping ground, before stopping suddenly to go down on one knee and begin lifting a wounded man upon his shoulder.
“Well,” cried the major, “he’s the queerest coward I ever saw. I wish the colonel was here.”
His words brought forth a tremendous cheer from all who heard them, but the major turned upon the men angrily.
“Shoot, you rascals, shoot!” he cried; “right and left. Keep down the savages’ fire if you can.”