“Now, men of Alston’s Horse, there is the enemy before you. Let me see how you can go through them. Charge!”
“Charge!” re-echoed Ernest.
“The last Charge of Alston’s Horse.”
“Charge!” roared Sergeant-Major Jones, brandishing his sword.
Down the slope they go, slowly at first; now they are on the plain, and the pace quickens to a hand-gallop. Ernest feels his great horse gather himself together and spring along beneath him; he hears the hum of astonishment rising from the dense black mass before them as it halts to receive the attack; he glances round, and sees the set faces and determined look upon the features of his men, and his blood boils up with a wild exhilaration, and for awhile he tastes the fierce joy of war.
Quicker still grows the pace; now he can see the white round the dark eyeballs of the Zulus.
“Crash!” They are among them, trampling them down, hewing them down, thrusting, slashing, stabbing, and being stabbed. The air is alive with assegais, and echoes with the savage Zulu war-cries and with the shouts of the gallant troopers, fighting now as troopers have not often fought before. Presently, as in a dream, Ernest sees a huge Zulu seize Alston’s horse by the bridle, jerk it on to its haunches, and raise his assegai. Then the boy Roger, who is by his father’s side, makes a point with his sword, and runs the Zulu through. He falls, but next moment the lad is attacked by more, is assegaied, and falls fighting bravely. Then Alston pulls up, and, turning, shoots with his revolver at the men who have killed his son. Two fall, another runs up, and with a shout drives a great spear right through Alston, so that it stands out a hand-breadth behind his back. On to the body of his son he, too, falls and dies. Next second the Zulu’s head is cleft in twain down to the chin. That was Jeremy’s stroke.
All this time, they are travelling on, leaving a broad red line of dead and dying in their track. Presently it was done; they had passed right through the Impi. But out of sixty-four men they had lost their captain and twenty troopers. As they emerged, Ernest noticed that his sword was dripping blood, and his sword-hand stained red. Yet he could not at the moment remember having killed anybody.