“You will be if you don’t hurry up,” snapped Peter, swinging himself straight from the ground to his saddle. “Up you get, both of you.”
Unthinking, he put spurs to Little Willie; set off at a hand-canter; turned in his saddle; saw the Colonel’s groom struggling with the big chestnut. The old ostler had caught his right leg against the unaccustomed rifle-bucket; couldn’t get it across the saddle of his own horse. Jelks was in the act of mounting. Peter wrenched his horse’s head round; galloped back; threw the man somehow into his seat. Another shell whistled over, plopped harmless into the ground. The Colonel’s chestnut reared.
“For God’s sake get a move on,” roared P.J., and slashed the groom’s mount over the croup with his heavy riding-stick. The old man and his two horses shot forward down the track; Peter and Jelks followed at a gallop.
They came unscathed to the road; slowed to a trot, Peter taking the lead. No more shells followed: the road was deserted. They crossed the railway, swung left, arrived suddenly in an empty square. Above them rose the skeleton of a church tower. Peter pulled up; took out his map; flashed torch at it. The grooms joined him.
“You can’t stop here, sir.” A sentry popped up amazingly from nowhere.
“Why not?”
“Road’s being shelled every two minutes. One’s just about. . . .” The whizz-bang gave no warning. Even as Peter flung up his arm to cover his face, he saw it hit the ground ten yards in front, detonate blue in the dust. Little Willie reared straight up; Peter flung himself forward on the horse’s neck; gave him his head. He came down again; stood shivering.
“Anybody hurt?” asked P.J.
“No, sir.”
“Then come on.”