After they had gained the summit the
Fusiliers were stung and stung again by clouds of skirmishers who
clung to the flanks of the hill, but their grip was firm and grew
firmer with every hour.
Of the three Boer hills which had to be taken the nearest (or
eastern one) was now in the hands of the British. The furthest (or
western one) was that on which the Irish Brigade was still
crouching, ready at any moment for a final spring which would take
them over the few hundred yards which separated them from the
trenches. Between the two intervened a central hill, as yet
untouched. Could we carry this the whole position would be ours.
Now for the final effort! Turn every gun upon it, the guns of Monte
Christo, the guns of Hlangwane! Turn every rifle upon it--the
rifles of Barton's men, the rifles of Hart's men, the carbines of
the distant cavalry! Scalp its crown with the machine-gun fire! And
now up with you, Lancashire men, Norcott's men! The summit or a
glorious death, for beyond that hill your suffering comrades are
awaiting you! Put every bullet and every man and all of fire and
spirit that you are worth into this last hour; for if you fail now
you have failed for ever, and if you win, then when your hairs are
white your blood will still run warm when you think of that
morning's work.
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