The
hand-to-hand conflicts, the duels with bayonets and swords and the clouds
of smoke were probably heroic and picturesque before the age of rapid-fire
guns, modern rifles, and smokeless ammunition, but here the field of
battle resembled a country fox-chase with an exaggerated number of
hunters, more than a representation of a battle of twenty-five years ago.
On the summit of the kopje the burghers were firing leisurely but
accurately. One man aimed steadily at a soldier for fully twenty seconds,
then pressed the trigger, lowered his rifle and watched for the effect of
the shot. Bullets were flying high over him, and the shrapnel of the
enemy's guns exploded far behind him. There seemed to be no great danger,
and he fired again. "I missed that time," he remarked to a burgher who lay
behind another rock several yards distant. His neighbour then fired at the
same soldier, and both cried simultaneously: "He is hit!" The enemy again
disappeared in the little ravine, and the burghers ceased firing. Shells
continued to tear through the air, but none exploded in the vicinity of
the men, and they took advantage of the lull in the battle to light their
pipes. A swarm of yellow locusts passed overhead, and exploding shrapnel
tore them into myriads of pieces, their wings and limbs falling near the
burghers. "I am glad I am not a locust," remarked a burgher farther to the
left of the others, as he dropped a handful of torn fragments of the
insects.
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