The Long Toms Laid At An Angle Of Forty-Five Plumped
Their Huge Shells Into The British Guns At A Range Where The Latter
Would Not Dream Of Unlimbering.
And then gradually the rifle fire
died away also, crackling more faintly as White withdrew to
Ladysmith.
At eleven o'clock Carleton's column recognised that it
had been left to its fate. As early as nine a heliogram had been
sent to them to retire as the opportunity served, but to leave the
hill was certainly to court annihilation.
The men had then been under fire for six hours, and with their
losses mounting and their cartridges dwindling, all hope had faded
from their minds. But still for another hour, and yet another, and
yet another, they held doggedly on. Nine and a half hours they
clung to that pile of stones. The Fusiliers were still exhausted
from the effect of their march from Glencoe and their incessant
work since. Many fell asleep behind the boulders. Some sat doggedly
with their useless rifles and empty pouches beside them. Some
picked cartridges off their dead comrades. What were they fighting
for? It was hopeless, and they knew it. But always there was the
honour of the flag, the glory of the regiment, the hatred of a
proud and brave man to acknowledge defeat. And yet it had to come.
There were some in that force who were ready for the reputation of
the British army, and for the sake of an example of military
virtue, to die stolidly where they stood, or to lead the
'Faugh-a-ballagh' boys, or the gallant 28th, in one last
death-charge with empty rifles against the unseen enemy.
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