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Somebody fired. A sergeant of the Fusiliers took the
bullet through his hand. Some one else shouted to fix bayonets. The
mules which carried the spare ammunition kicked and reared. There
was no question of treachery, for they were led by our own men, but
to hold two frightened mules, one with either hand, is a feat for a
Hercules. They lashed and tossed and bucked themselves loose, and
an instant afterwards were flying helter skelter through the
column. Nearly all the mules caught the panic. In vain the men held
on to their heads. In the mad rush they were galloped over and
knocked down by the torrent of frightened creatures. In the gloom
of that early hour the men must have thought that they were charged
by cavalry. The column was dashed out of all military order as
effectively as if a regiment of dragoons had ridden over them. When
the cyclone had passed, and the men had with many a muttered curse
gathered themselves into their ranks once more, they realised how
grave was the misfortune which had befallen them.


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