A SKIRMISH.

Gisborne Times, Volume VII, Issue 334, 6 February 1902, Page 3

A SKIRMISH.

HAND-TO-HAND FIGHTING.

And a great and sudden silence falls on Captain H. and his chattering, cantering command of twenty men when a Mauser shot cracks from the top of an undulation directly ahead of them, like the sound of a breaking stick, then another, a dozen others, and once more the bulleta begin to spit and whizz around them. Boers between them and camp. Now, Captain H., a good deal depends on how that brain and nerve of yours serve you in the next tenth part of a minute. Which is it to be, “ Hands up ! ” or “ Charge ! ” The word is taken out of our mouth, no trumpet ever blared it louder, a splendid word, whether from brass or human throat 1 and with heads down and heels in they charge. It must be a gallant sight to see the grey boar not die but burst his way through those who hem him in ; the fine old Indian hunting-song might have spared a verse for it. With lowered rifles these trapped English boars thunder up the gentle slope, the dust of hundreds of bullets meeting the cloud from their horses’ hoofs in a yellow confusion: they c

lose with the scattered line of Dutchmen at the top —some of whom are mounted, some kneeling, some leaping into the saddle—crash through it, and tear down the other side. A roar arises at that tremendous meeting and parting, a roar of rifles, and blaspheming, cheering voices; some of the Boors upon the ground cock their weapons sidoways and snap at the galloping horsemen ; the latter turn theirs downwards and snap back, holding the heavy arms like pistols. “Thumbs up! thumbs down ! ” death and mercy seem equally balanced in this modern arena. One, two, three Britons are down, falling like avalanches, from which friend and foe alike recoil outwards, jingling, rolling masses of overwhelmed horses and humanity. But some of our wobbling rifles wobble on to a mark, three or four Dutchmen bite the dust with shrill cries (every Boer, whether in pain or pleasure, pipes like a hysterical woman), peering up at the horsemen dashing by with the distressed look of men who know that they have suddenly come to the end of all things—an indescribable and unforgettable look, set apart of all human expressions for violent death.

But now all living Boers aro mounted and galloping with tho troopers in an extraordinary pell-mell of yelling, blundering figures; here an Englishman dashing, forward, lying along his horse’s neck, with Boers all around him, shouting to him to “ Hands up 1 ” here a Boer similarly surrounded. There is no firing for a time, only a whirlwind of speed and shouting. “ There’s the commandant, shoot him ! ” yells - a youthful Boer, pointing to the figure of the officer galloping amidst the melee, whose mourning-bound arm had betrayed him. Someone’s rifle bangs and someone is down, not the officer who fires

right and left with his revolver, glancing rapidly from side to side. Boers hate revolvers, and a circle of thirty yards is soon clear around him. —A Linesman, in Blackwood for December.