A young subaltern of the Guides, Lieutenant G.N.
Hardinge, seeing how matters were trending, rode out to the outlying
picket of the Guides' cavalry, and there took his stand. It was an
anxious moment. Behind him was the hastily arming camp, humming with the
bustle of preparation; and before him, advancing across the stony plain,
moved a line of skirmishers backed up by closed supports, and followed
by great hordes of shouting warriors.
The motionless troop of the Guides stood foremost to meet the shock. On
came the hardy tribesmen swiftly and relentlessly; but still, as he
looked anxiously back, it was plain to the British subaltern that his
comrades were not yet armed to meet the coming storm. "We can only give
them one minute more," he said, and stout and steady came the answer:
"Yes, your Honour, one minute more." And as they spoke each stalwart
trooper gripped his sword still tighter and, shortening his reins, laid
the flat of his thigh hard on his wiry neighing stallion; for as of old,
so now, the war-horse scented the battle from afar.
The time passed very slowly, a minute seeming an eternity to the
impatient soldiers. Fifteen seconds--twenty seconds--thirty
seconds--for--ty-five seconds--six--ty!
"Carry swords," in a serene and conversational voice remarked the young
subaltern; equally smoothly and quietly came the order, "Walk, march."
Then, as the troop moved forward, followed the slightly more animated
command, "Trot"; and as the excitement of coming conflict coursed with
the wild exuberance of youth through the boy's veins, "Gallop! Charge!"
he yelled, and back came an answering shout, "Fear not, Sahib, we are
with you!" And thus was launched on the flood of death a little band of
heroes, that they might save an army.
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