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.
"Gallop!"
The limbers bumped and jolted and the short-handled whips cracked
like the sound of pistol-practise. Blind, unreconnoitered, grim--
like a black thunderbolt loosed into the blackness--the two guns shot
along a hollow, thundered up a ridge and burst into the fire-light
up above the mutineers, in the last place where any one expected them.
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