The Roar Of The Navy's Four-Point-Sevens, Their Crash, Their Rush As
They Passed, The Shrill Whine Of The
Shrapnel, the barking of the
howitzers, and the mechanical, regular rattle of the quick-firing
Maxims, which sounded like the
Clicking of many mowing-machines on a
hot summer's day, tore the air with such hideous noises that one's
skull ached from the concussion, and one could only be heard by
shouting. But more impressive by far than this hot chorus of mighty
thunder and petty hammering, was the roar of the wind which was
driven down into the valley beneath, and which swept up again in
enormous waves of sound. It roared like a wild hurricane at sea.
The illusion was so complete, that you expected, by looking down, to
see the Tugela lashing at her banks, tossing the spray hundreds of
feet in air, and battling with her sides of rock. It was like the
roar of Niagara in a gale, and yet when you did look below, not a
leaf was stirring, and the Tugela was slipping forward, flat and
sluggish, and in peace.
The long procession of yellow figures was still advancing along the
bottom of the valley, toward the right, when on the crest of the
farthermost hill fourteen of them appeared suddenly, and ran forward
and sprang into the trenches.
Perched against the blue sky on the highest and most distant of the
three hills, they looked terribly lonely and insufficient, and they
ran about, this way and that, as though they were very much surprised
to find themselves where they were.
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