Chapter 17

There, through smoke of onset rifted, Soldiers who disdained to yield Had for weal or woe uplifted England's own broad battle-shield. Right across the path of pillage Was that iron rampart thrust, While beneath it town and village Safely hid in settled trust.

Frail and open seemed that shelter And unguarded to the foes, Helpless, as the fiery welter Rocked it in volcanic throes; But there was defence to bind it With the force of Destiny, And an Empire stood behind it Armed in awful majesty.

And no fortress ever moulded Girt securer chosen space, Than those unseen walls which folded In their fear that lonely place. On its Outposts far the scourges Fell with wrath and crimson rain, But the fierce assaulting surges Beat and beat in thunder vain.

II.--LADYSMITH BESIEGED.

There they kept the old flag flying Day by day and prayed relief, Weary, wounded, doomed, and dying-- Gallant men and noble chief By the leaden tempest stricken, Grandly stood or grandly fell-- Peril had but power to quicken Faith that owned such holy spell.

Not alone the foe without them Menaced them with fire and shot, Sickness creeping round about them, Fever, dysentery, and rot, Struck the rider and the stallion, Making merry as at feast On the pick of each battalion-- Ruthless, smiting man and beast.

None were spared and nothing holy, For the fever claimed the best, Now the high and now the lowly, Now the baby at the breast, All obeyed its mandate, drooping In the fulness of their power, Old and young before it stooping, Bud and blossom, fruit and flower.

Hunger blanched their dauntless faces, Furrowed with the lines of lack, But with stern and stubborn paces Still they drove the spoiler back. Round them drew the iron tether Tighter, but they kept their troth, All for England's sake together-- Soldier and civilian both.

Death and ruin knock and enter, Hearts may break and homesteads burn, Yet from that lone faithful centre Flashed red vengeance in return; Guardian guns thence hurled defiance From the brave who lightly took All their blows in brave reliance, Which no tempest ever shook.

Hand to hand they strove and wrestled Stoutly for that pearl of pride, Where mid flame and woe it nestled Down with danger at its side. Yet like boys released from class time, Though the blast destroying blew, There they played and found a pastime While the Flag unconquered flew.

III.--LADYSMITH RELIEVED.

Then, when all seemed lost but glory With the lustre which it gave, And Relief an idle story Murmured by a sealed grave; While with pallid lips they reckoned Darkly the enduring days Famished, lo! Deliverance beckoned Surely after long delays.

Wave on wave of martial beauty, Dashed upon those deadly rocks At the simple call of duty, And were broken by the shocks. Yet that chivalry of splendour, Though baptized in blood and fire, Had no thought of mean surrender Never breathed the word retire.

Still they weighed the dreadful chances, Still they gathered up their strength, By invincible advances Steeled to win the prize at length. Fate-like their resolve to sever Those gaunt bonds of grim despair, And within the breach for ever England's honour to repair.

Came relief at last, endeavour, Stern, magnificent, and true, Hoping on and fighting ever, Forced its gory passage through. All the rage of pent-up forces, All the passion seeking vent Out of vast and solemn sources, Here renewed their sacrament;

In the rapture of a greeting For which thousands fought and bled, With the saved and saviours meeting Over our Imperial dead. Witnesses unseen but tested Lived again as grander men, And their awful shadow rested With a benediction then;

One who with his wondrous talent Conquered more than even the sword, And among the gay and gallant By his pen was crownéd lord. There they lie in silence lowly Which no battle now can wake, And the ground is ever holy For our English heroes' sake.

THE SIX-INCH GUN.

(From the Christmas number of the _Bombshell_, published in Ladysmith during the siege.)

There is a famous hill looks down, Five miles away, on Ladysmith town, With a long flat ridge that meets the sky Almost a thousand feet on high. And on the ridge there is mounted one Long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

And down in the street a bugle is blown, When the cloud of smoke on the sky is thrown, For it's sixty seconds before the roar Reverberates o'er, and a second more Till the shell comes down with a whiz and stun From that long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

And men and women walk up and down The long, hot streets of Ladysmith town, And the housewives walk in the usual round, And the children play till the warning sound-- Then into their holes they scurry and run From the whistling shell of the six-inch gun.

For the shells they weigh a hundred pound, Bursting wherever they strike the ground, While the strong concussion shakes the air And shatters the window-panes everywhere. And we may laugh, but there's little of fun In the bursting shell from a six-inch gun.

Oh! 'twas whistle and jest with the carbineers gay As they cleaned their steeds at break of day, But like a thunderclap there fell In the midst of the horses and men a shell, And the sight we saw was a fearful one After that shell from the six-inch gun.

Though the foe may beset us on every side, We'll furnish some cheer in this Christmastide; We will laugh and be gay, but a tear will be shed And a thought be given to the gallant dead, Cut off in the midst of their life and fun By the long-range, terrible six-inch gun.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

Here's to the Isle of the Shamrock, Here's a good English hurrah, Luck to the Kelt upon kopje or veldt, Erin Mavourneen gobragh. The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One where the bayonets bristle, One when there's duty to seek. Each has a need of each other, Linked on the shore and the wave, All for the sake of one Mother-- Honour the Brave.

Here's to the boys of the Shamrock, Here's to the gallant and gay, Bearing the flag upon donga or crag, Blithely as children at play. The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One though the bullets may whistle, One in a red grave's repose. Each has a need of his fellows, Sharing the glory or grave, Each the same destiny mellows-- Honour the Brave.

Here's to the girls of the shamrock, Here's to the glamour and grace, Laughing on all, in hovel and hall, Ever from Erin's young face! The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One in the face of a missile, One when the batteries speak. Each of himself is delighted To succour the serf or the slave, And who can deny them united?-- Honour the Brave.

Here's to the wit of the Shamrock, Here's to the favoured and free, Giving us store of that magical lore Learnt but at Nature's own knee! The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One when fame writes her epistle, One where dread dangers enclose. Each for the others asks only, Ever to succour and save, Each without all must be lonely-- Honour the Brave.

Here's to the day of the Shamrock, Here's to the emblem of youth; Wear it we will on our bosoms and still Deeper in heart and in truth! The shamrock, the rose, and the thistle, The shamrock, the rose, and the leek, One where grim batteries bristle, One when there's pleasure to seek. Each on each other relying, Trusts, nor for better would rave, Each for all, living and dying-- Honour the Brave.

Here's to the reign of the shamrock, Here's to the welfare of all, Bearing its light through the feast and the fight, Ever at liberty's call. The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle, The shamrock, the leek, and the rose, One where the death-arrows whistle, One where hilarity flows. Each from the bog or the heather Gives all a brother may crave, Ploughland and city together-- Honour the Brave.

THE HERO OF OMDURMAN.

MAJOR-GENERAL H.A. MACDONALD, C.B., D.S.O. [_Told in the Ranks_.]

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

There were lots of lies and tattle In dispatches and on wire, But 'twas Mac who saved the battle When the word came to retire. "I'll no do it"--he cried, ready For what peril lay in store, With his ranks like steel and steady-- "And I'll see them hanged before! O, we maun jist fight!" And bolder Slewed his front the Dervish way, Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder, White and black that bloody day.

Then a hell of fire, and sputtered Iron blast and leaden hail, While the Maxims stormed and stuttered And our rifles did not fail. For the destiny of nations With an agony intense, And our Empire's own foundations Hung a minute in suspense. But old Mac was cool as ever, And his words like leaping flame Flashed in confident endeavour To avert that evil shame.

Swung his lines on hinges, rolling Right and left like very doom, Till our fate nigh past controlling Brake in glory out of gloom. While upon those awful stages Throbbed a world's great piston beat, And the moments seemed as ages Rung from death and red defeat. Ah, we lived, indeed, and no man Recked of wound or any ill, As we grimly faced the foeman-- If we died, to conquer still.

And it felt as though the burden Of all England gave us might, Laid on each, who asked no guerdon But against those odds to fight. Let the lucky get high stations And the honour which he won, Mac desires no decorations But the gallant service done. For the rankers bear the losses And the brunt of every toil, While they earn for others "crosses" And the splendour and the spoil.

BOOT AND SADDLE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

A TRUE INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN (1893).

Mashangombi's was the rat-hole, Which we had to draw ere day, Heedless whether this or that hole-- If we only found a way; Up among the iron furrows Of the rocks, where hid in burrows Safe the rats in shelter lay. No misgiving, not a fear-- Nor was I the last astraddle Nor the hindmost in the rear When the bugle sounded clear-- "Boot and saddle!"

Right away went men and horses, Both as eager for the fun; Through the drifts and dried-up courses, Where like mad the waters run After storms or through the winters, Mashing all they meet to splinters-- Ready, hand and sword and gun. Every eye was keen to mark, And the tongue alone seemed idle Every ear alert to hark As we scanned each crevice dark-- Bit and bridle!

Here and there the startled chirrup Of strange creatures, as we go, Standing sometimes in the stirrup, Just to get a bigger show; Till we gain our point, the entry-- There the pass, no sign of sentry, Not a sound above, below! Clear the coast, the savage gave Never hint to south or norward; Was he napping in his cave, With that quiet like the grave?-- Steady, forward!

Further in; the rats were sleeping; We would grimly smoke them out, With a dose of lead for keeping And a fence of flame about; They might wake perhaps from shelter, At our bullets' ghastly pelter, To the brief and bloody rout!-- But, next moment, we were wrapt Down to saddle girth and leather In the fire of foes unmapt; _We_ were turned, and fairly trapt-- "Keep together!"

On they poured in thousands, hurling Steel that stabbed and belching ball From a host of rifles, curling Serpent-wise around us all. Front and flank and rear, they tumbled Nearer, darker, as we fumbled-- Till we heard the Captain's call, "Each man for himself, and back!" So we rushed those rocky mazes, With that torrent grim and black Dealing ruin in our track-- Death and blazes!

Ah, that bullet! How it shattered Vein and tissue to the bone; Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered, Helpless on a bed of stone! While the mare which oft had eaten From my hand, caressed, unbeaten, Left her master doomed, alone. Limply then I lay in dread, Racked with torture, sick and under-- Hearing, as through vapours red And with reeling heart and head, Hoofs of thunder!

Was I dreaming? By the boulder Where I huddled as I fell, Stood the steed beside my shoulder Faithful, fain to serve me well. Whinnying softly, then, to screen me From the foe, she knelt between me And that circling human hell. Tenderly she touched my face With the nose that knew my petting, Ripe for the last glorious race And her comrade's own embrace-- Unforgetting!

O her haunches heaved and quivered With the passion freely brought For the life to be delivered, Though she first with demons fought; While her large eyes gleamed and glistened And her ears down-pointing listened, Waiting for the answer sought. Till a sudden wave of might Set me once again astraddle On the seat of saving flight, Plucked from very jaws of night-- Boot and saddle!

THE MIDNIGHT CHARGE.

BY CLEMENT SCOTT.

Pass the word to the boys to-night!--lying about midst dying and dead!-- Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men at your horses' head! Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles your pistols thrust; Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy bite the dust! What did they call us, boys, at home?--"Feather-bed soldiers!"-- faith, it's true! "Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a grand review!" Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff! Where in the world, I should like to know, When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier sorry to go? Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry! there and then; No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die like Englishmen! So pass the word! in the sultry night, Stand to your saddles! make ready to fight!

We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching for miles away; We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with our swords to-day! Our horses look with piteous eyes--they have little to eat, and nothing to do; And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly blue. But it's over now, so the Colonel says: he is ready to start, we are ready to go: And the cavalry boys will be led by men--Ewart! and Russell! and Drury-Lowe! Just once again let me stroke the mane--let me kiss the neck and feel the breath Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the battle--to life or death! "Give us a grip of your fist, old man!" let us all keep close when the charge begins! God is watching o'er those at home! God have mercy on all our sins! So pass the word in the dark, and then, When the bugle sounds, let us mount like men!

Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the desert, across the sand-- Guided alone by the stars of Heaven! a speechless host! a ghostly band! No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could hear no sound But the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys!" and the horses' hoofs on the sandy ground. "What were we thinking of then?" Look here! if this is the last true word I speak, I felt a lump in my throat--just here--and a tear came trickling down my cheek. If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But a man is a man though he gives his life For his country's, cause, as a soldier should--he has still got a heart for his child and wife! But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking of home and the boys--and then The silence broke! and, a bugle blew! then a voice rang cheerily, "Charge, my men!" So pass the word in the thick of the fight, For England's honour and England's right!

What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I can scarcely tell, For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind of hell! I should like you to see the officers lead--forgetting their swagger and Bond Street air-- Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo and troopers dare! With a rush we are in it, and hard at work--there's scarcely a minute to think or pause-- For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour and country's cause! Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red or Horse Guards blue, They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers showed us at Waterloo! It isn't for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they wrong or right; We've to keep the oath that we gave our QUEEN! and when we are in it--we've got to fight! So pass the word, without any noise, Bravo, Cavalry! Well done, boys!

Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairly won. A message has come from the EMPRESS-QUEEN--just what we wanted-- a brief "Well done!" The sword and stirrup are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels are empty quite, And the poor old charger's piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the desperate fight. There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is scarred and red; There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the "pal" who's dead! I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but the world at large-- It knows so well when duty's done!--it will think sometimes of our cavalry charge! Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken an oath! and then, In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers like Englishmen! So pass this blessing the lips between-- 'Tis the soldier's oath--GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

MAFEKING.

"_ADSUM!_"

BY REV. A. FREWEN AYLWARD.

At the evening roll call at the "Charterhouse" School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying "Adsum--I'm here!"

Oft as the shades of evening fell, In the school-boy days of old,-- The form work done, or the game played well,-- Clanging aloft the old school bell Uttered its summons bold; And a bright lad answered the roll call clear, "Adsum,--I'm here!"

A foe-girt town and a captain true Out on the Afric plain;-- High overhead his Queen's flag flew, But foes were many and friends but few; Who shall guard that flag from stain? And calm 'mid confusion a voice rang clear, "Adsum,--I'm here!"

The slow weeks passed, and no succour came, Famine and death were rife; Yet still that banner of deathless fame, Floated, unsullied by fear or shame, Over the scene of strife; And the voice,--though weaker--was full of cheer, "Adsum,--I'm here!"

Heaven send, that when many a heart's dismayed, In dark days yet in store,-- Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed, The country call for a strong man's aid As she never called before,-- A voice like his may make answer clear, Banishing panic, and calming fear, "Adsum,--I'm here!"

THE FIGHT AT RORKE'S DRIFT

(January 23, 1879.)

BY EMILY PFEIFFER.

It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done, And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun; Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with blood the story Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e'en of glory.

Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died; But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to ride A race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo, To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the foe.

That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile land Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command; An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won, But in it all that men could do those British lads had done.

And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host, They found our gallant English boys' 'pale faces' at their post; But paler faces were behind, within the barricade-- The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers aid.