“They must be in a tight hole!” muttered Bellairs. “Answer that, men! All together, now! Let 'em know we're coming.”
The men rose in their stirrups all together, and sent roaring through the blackness the deep-throated “Hip-hip-hur-r-a-a-a-a-a!” that has gladdened more than one beleaguered British force in the course of history. It is quite different from the “Hur-o-a-o-a-u-r-rh” of a forlorn hope, or the high-pitched note of pleasure that signals the end of a review. It means “Hold on, till we get there, boys!” and it carries its meaning, clear and crisp and unmistakable, in its note.
The two beleaguered companies heard it and answered promptly with another cheer.
“By gad, they must be in a hole!” remarked Bellairs.
British soldiers do not cheer like that, all together, unless there is very good reason to feel cheerless. They fight, each man according to his temperament, swearing or laughing, sobbing or singing comic songs, until the case looks grim. Then, though, the same thrill runs through the whole of them, the same fire blazes in their eyes, and the last ditch that they line has been known to be a grave for the enemy.
“Trumpeter! Sound close-order!”
The trumpet rang. The advance-guard drew rein for the section to catch up. The guns drew abreast of one another and the mounted gunners formed in a line, two deep, in front of them. The ammunition-wagon trailed like a tail behind.
“That high ground over there, I think!” suggested O'Rourke.
“Thank you, sir. Section, right! Trot, march! Canter!”
Crash went the guns and the following wagon across the roadside ditch. The tired horses came up to the collar as service-horses always will, generous to the last ounce of strength they have in them.