I was lying behind my stump, with my eye fixed on the foot of the pekerangi, when the trampling feet came up to me, and Colonel Butler, with his sword drawn, passed within a yard of me. Behind him came a party of pioneers carrying axes, while a few of them had charge of a long stout pole to the centre of which was attached a long chain. Close up behind these marched, in line, a company of the 57th, the old Diehards, whose fathers had fought at Albuera as these men had fought at Inkermann and through the Mutiny. Oh, but my heart did beat fast at the sight of their gallant Irish faces, for at that time hardly an Englishman was in the regiment, as they swung through our skirmishing line and advanced to the grim and silent pah. On their left marched another company in line, led by another field officer, Colonel Hassard, and in rear came two more companies in support. My work was now over, as the moment the attacking party had passed me they masked the pah from my fore, though my comrades at the extreme flanks were still firing as fast as they could load so as to cover the advance of the forlorn hope. Ye gods, how excited I was, an excitement equally shared by Tim, who howled out: “Oh, begorra, Mr Dick, mayn’t we go wid thim, sor? Say the word, sor, and let’s go.” But it would not do. Discipline in action above all things, and we had to remain spectators. The rear rank of the company had not cleared me more than five yards when a tremendous yell rose from the pah and the simultaneous roar of at least three hundred rifles and guns, while sheets of lead crashed into the advancing companies, or went whistling over our heads, which in a second strewed the ground with dead or wounded men writhing in their agony. For a moment the advance was checked and the line wavered. Good God! surely these old Crimean warriors are not going to flinch! Not much. For like a trumpet-call out rang Colonel Butler’s voice: “Steady, Diehards, go back, or come on. I am going on. Charge!”