A Few Dashing Fellows Sprang In, But Their
Cartridges And Rifles Dragged Them To The Bottom.
One or two may
even have struggled through to the further side, but on this there
is a conflict of evidence.
It may be, though it seems incredible,
that the river had been partly dammed to deepen the Drift, or, as
is more probable, that in the rapid advance and attack the position
of the Drift was lost. However this may be, the troops could find
no ford, and they lay down, as had been done in so many previous
actions, unwilling to retreat and unable to advance, with the same
merciless pelting from front and flank. In every fold and behind
every anthill the Irishmen lay thick and waited for better times.
There are many instances of their cheery and uncomplaining humour.
Colonel Brooke, of the Connaughts, fell at the head of his men.
Private Livingstone helped to carry him into safety, and then, his
task done, he confessed to having 'a bit of a rap meself,' and sank
fainting with a bullet through his throat. Another sat with a
bullet through both legs. 'Bring me a tin whistle and I'll blow ye
any tune ye like,' he cried, mindful of the Dargai piper. Another
with his arm hanging by a tendon puffed morosely at his short black
pipe. Every now and then, in face of the impossible, the fiery
Celtic valour flamed furiously upwards. 'Fix bayonets, men, and let
us make a name for ourselves,' cried a colour sergeant, and he
never spoke again.
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