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I remember the mêlée swinging backwards and forwards, the groans of the wounded, the shouts of victory and despair, and then Scowl's voice saying: "We have beat them, Baas, but here come the others." The third regiment was on our shattered lines. We closed up, we fought like devils, even the bearer boys rushed into the fray.
I killed a captain with this spear, for as he fell I recognised his face. It was that of one of Cetewayo's companions to whom I had sold some cloth at Nodwengu. The fallen were piled up quite thick around me we were using them as a breastwork, friend and foe together. I saw Scowl's horse rear into the air and fall.
They squealed, they kicked, they bellowed. They charged my friendly rock till I felt it shake. They knocked over Scowl's mimosa thorn, and would have shot him out of his eagle's nest had not its flat top fortunately caught in that of another and less accessible tree. And with them came clouds of pungent smoke, mixed with bits of burning reed and puffs of hot air. It was over at last.
It begins: "To go or not to go; that is the question, Whether 'tis best to trust the inclement sky, That scowl's indignant, or the dreary bay Of Fundy and Cape Sable's rocks and shoals, And seek our new domain in Scotia's wilds, Barren and bare, or stay among the rebels, And by our stay rouse up their keenest rage."
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