A
fine rain was falling, and rolling clouds hung low over their
heads. The men with unloaded rifles and fixed bayonets stole on
once more, their bodies bent, their eyes peering through the mirk
for the first sign of the enemy--that enemy whose first sign has
usually been a shattering volley. Thorneycroft's men with their
gallant leader had threaded their way up into the advance. Then the
leading files found that they were walking on the level. The crest
had been gained.
With slow steps and bated breath, the open line of skirmishers
stole across it. Was it possible that it had been entirely
abandoned? Suddenly a raucous shout of 'Wie da?' came out of the
darkness, then a shot, then a splutter of musketry and a yell, as
the Fusiliers sprang onwards with their bayonets. The Boer post of
Vryheid burghers clattered and scrambled away into the darkness,
and a cheer that roused both the sleeping armies told that the
surprise had been complete and the position won.
In the grey light of the breaking day the men advanced along the
narrow undulating ridge, the prominent end of which they had
captured.
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