Four times like a living sea they flung themselves against it, and four times by sheets of lead and iron they were hurled back from the reddened bayonet's point, while some remained in the open, firing from behind the bloody piles of their own dead, which lay in awful lines or swathes of black bodies with white shields, a hundred yards apart, in rear of each other.
At last the survivors gave way, and all fled in confusion.
'Forward, the Mounted Infantry!' cried Lord Chelmsford.
And these, under Captain Barrow and Hammersley, sprang with alacrity to their saddles, slinging their rifles as they filed out of the laager.
'Front form squadron!' was now the order, and the sections of fours swept round into line.
'Come on, my lads!' cried Hammersley, as he unsheathed his sword and dug the spurs into his horse; 'forward—trot, gallop! By Jove! an hour of this work
'"Is worth an age without a name!"'
And away went the Mounted Infantry over the terrible swathes at a swinging pace.
Like most of the few officers of that peculiar and extemporised force, Vivian Hammersley had been accustomed to cross country and ride to hounds, and to deem that the greatest outdoor pleasure in life.
Tattoo, Florian's horse, fortunately for him in the work he had to do that evening, proved to be a tried Cape shooting-horse, accustomed to halt the moment his rein is dropped, and to stand like a rock when his rider fires. An experienced shooting-horse requires no sign from his master when required to stand, and on hearing a sound or stir in the bush is alert as a dog scenting danger or game.