'If they do come from behind we'll screen ourselves with smoke. '
Fifteen minutes of furious activity completed the work. At intervals
of ten paces along the river, bed they built flat, topped cairns of
stone that rose above the level of the water. On each was piled a
large heap of grass and wild hemlock branches gathered from where they
overhung the bank of the river.
A little before sunset, in that time of shadows and deceptive light,
with a haze rising in the still, cold air to mask them Leroux charged
his horsemen at the river.
Sean heard a low drumming of hooves as though a train passed in the
distance and started to his feet.
'Here they come!' somebody shouted. 'The bastards are coming from
behind. ' With the low sun at their backs throwing big, distorted
shadows ahead of them, they swept down in a long line from the west.
'Light the fires!' bellowed Sean. They were lying flat on their
horses, five hundred of them coming in at a full gallop and shooting as
they came.
'Maxims!' Sean shouted. 'Get the Maxims across!' The teams dragged
the heavy unwieldy weapons from their emplacements and floundered with
them across the stream. From each of the fires blue smoke spread and
lifted. Men coughed and swore and splashed to their new positions.
From the ridge a Mous covering fire raked the river and then the field,
piece crashed shell after shell amongst them.
'Fire at will!' Sean shouted. 'Hit the bastards. Hit them.
Hit them hard. ' The din was appalling, gunfire and bursting shells,
the hammering beat of the Maxims, shouts of defiance and pain, the
thunder of charging hooves, crackling of the flames. Over it all a
dense fog of smoke and dust.
With elbows on the rough shale of the bank, Sean aimed and fired and a
horse went down, throwing rider and rifle high and clear.
Without taking the butt from his shoulder he worked the bolt and fired
again. Got him! swaying and twisting in the saddle. Drop, you
bastard! That's it, slide forward and fall. Shoot again, and again.
Empty the magazine. Hitting with every shot.
Beside him the mate lot traversed the Maxim in a deliberate hammering
arc. Fumbling, as he reloaded, Sean watched the Maxim scythe its slow
circle of destruction, leaving a shambles of downed horses and
struggling men, before its beat stopped abruptly and the mate lot
crouched over it to fit a fresh belt from the wooden case. A bullet
from the ridge, fired blindly into the smoke, hit him in the back of
the neck and he fell forward, jamming the gun, blood gusting from his
open mouth over the jacketed barrel. His limbs twitched and jerked in
the epilepsy of death.
Sean dropped his rifle and dragged the mate lot off the gun , levered
the first round of the belt into the breech and thrust his thumbs down
on the buttons They were close now. Sean bore down on the firing
handles to raise his fire, aiming at the chests of the horses.
The sailor's blood fried and sizzled on the hot barrel, and the grass
in front of the muzzle flattened and quivered in the continuous
