Then at last came the order for the advance, the order so eagerly
awaited by Weldon, maddened by his long exposure to the bullets of
his unseen foe. In extended order, the squadrons galloped forward
until their goal was a scant five hundred yards away, when of a
sudden a murderous fire broke out from the rocks in front of them,
emptying many a saddle and dropping many a horse. Under such
conditions, safety lay only in an unswerving charge.
Close on their leaders' heels, the troopers spurred forward and,
revolver in right hand, rifle in left, they charged over the
remaining bit of ground and into the midst of the Boer position.
Briton and Boer met, face to face. Revolvers cracked; Boers dropped.
Mausers crashed; Britons fell. And then, through and over, the
British charge had passed.
Even then Weldon found no place for pause. From behind the Boer
position, a band of their reinforcements came galloping down upon
him. Caught between the two lines, the squadrons wheeled about, fell
again upon the broken enemy, dashed through them and, amid the
leaden hail, retired upon their own guns. And now once more the
gunners could reopen fire, and the shells dropped thick and fast.
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