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Updated: May 10, 2025
The troopers quickened, to close their intervals for the column had strung out. Every hand dropped to its carbine butt. "Keep well to the left, against that timber," shouted Scout Gruard. "Bang-g-g!" He had been answered by a volley. There were Indians among the rocks and trees, on the right, within two hundred yards.
There may, indeed, have been northern boys of thirteen who could outthrow the Terror, but not a girl in England could throw a stone straighter or harder than Erebus. They had gone some fifty yards, when from among the bracken on their right a voice cried: "Bang-g-g! Bang-g-g!"
Nobody cared about left-hand Gun Hill; he was only a 47 howitzer; every glass was clamped on the big yellow emplacement. "Right-hand Gun Hill is up, sir." Bang coughs the forward gun below us; bang-g-g coughs the after-gun overhead. Every glass clamped on the emplacement. "What a time they take!" sighs a lieutenant then a leaping cloud a little in front and to the right.
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