that range they did not survive long.
'They're finished!' shouted Leroux, and a thin burst of cheering ran
along the ridge while the Boer fire increased in volume, flailing into
the milling confusion of a broken infantry assault.
'Hit them, Kerels. Keep hitting them!' The following ranks overran
the leaders, then in turn faltered and failed as the Maxim and Mauser
fire churned into them.
Out on the plain a bugle began to lament, and as it mourned, the last
spasmodic forward movement of the assault ceased, and back past the
dead and the wounded streamed the retreat.
A single shell rushed overhead to burst in the valley beyond and
immediately, as if in frustrated fury, the guns lashed the kopje once
more. But in the jump and flash of the shells five hundred Boers
cheered and laughed and waved their rifles at the retreating
infantry.
'What happened on the river?' Leroux called in the tumult, and after a
while the answer came back.
'They did not reach the river. They are broken there also.'
Leroux lifted his hat from his head and wiped the sweat and the dust
from his face. Then he looked at the sunset.
'Almighty God, we give you thanks for this day. We ask your mercy and
guidance in the days that are to come.'
The shellfire lashed the hills like the surf' of a storm, driven sea
until the night came. Then in the darkness they saw the fires of the
British bivouacs spread like a garden of yellow flowers on the plains
around them.
'We must break out tonight.' Leroux looked across the fire at
Zietsmann.
'No.' The old man spoke softly, not looking at him.
'Why?' demanded Leroux.
'We can hold these hills. They cannot drive us from them.
'Ja! We can hold them tomorrow-two days, a week-but then it is
finished. We lost fifty men today from the guns.'
'They lost many hundreds. The Lord smote them and they perished.
' Zietsmann looked up at him now and his voice gathered strength.
-We will stay here and place our trust in the Lord.' There was a
murmur of agreement from those who listened.
'Menheer. ' Leroux covered his eyes for a moment, pressing fingers
into them to still the terrible aching. He was sick from the lyddite,
and tired-tired to the depths of his soul. It would be easier to stay.
There would be no dishonour in it for they had fought like no men
before them. Two more days and then it would be over without
dishonour. He removed his hands from his face. 'Menheer, if we do not
break out tonight we never will. By tomorrow we will not have the
strength.' He stopped for the words came slowly, slurred a little from
a brain dulled by the lyddite and the hammering of big guns. He looked
at his hands and saw the suppurating sores on his wrists. There would
be no dishonour. They would fight this last time and then it would be
finished.
'But it is not a matter of honour,' he mumbled. Then he stood up and
