The cavalry gave them a tremendous cheer. But the light infantry made no sound; the joyous light of battle was in their eyes, their blood was aroused. They were going to close with the enemy, they would soon be at grips with him, it was enough. As they neared the river the guns of the greater part of three field-batteries, a battery manned by sailors, the light guns of the lesser redoubt, and the fourteen guns of the great redoubt, opened with shot and shell upon them. Sixteen battalions of infantry in front and four on each flank poured in a terrific musketry-fire, and a perfect inferno of iron whizzed around them. ‘God help them!’ cried Jack, his heart wrung at the sight; ‘mortal men can never face such a fury of destruction.’ Brandon, fired by the sight, turned to Jack and quoted: ‘He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours. * * * * * He that outlives this day and comes safe home Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named.’ The advancing regiments reached the river, into which they boldly plunged. Some were only up to their knees; some sank at once to their armpits; some had to abandon their arms and swim for their lives; while others, alas! sank, and were seen no more. The surface of the water was literally lashed into foam by the iron and leaden hail that swept into it; but with a rush the British were across and sheltered for a moment by the steep banks from the murderous fire of the Russians. Then, headed by their officers, they scrambled up the incline. All formation was lost, and the men of the different regiments got mixed together as they charged up the slope towards the batteries. As they crowned the ridge, a mob of desperate, fearless men, showers of grape and canister mowed its way through them, literally cutting lanes in the crowded masses, while the infantry on their flanks poured in volleys at point-blank range. Still they advanced, every foot of the way being marked with slain or wounded men. The gallant Fusiliers, 7th and 23rd, smitten sorely, reeled like drunken men; but still they went on, led by the gallant Lacy Yea. The General had but one idea--to lead his division right up to the fiery jaws of the guns belching death and destruction around. He was well in front, a conspicuous figure in his cocked hat and mounted on his gray Arab, waving his sword and encouraging his men. Ah! he’s down; his horse is killed! In a moment he is again on his feet, waving his sword and crying, ‘I’m all right, 23rd! Be sure I’ll remember this day!’