orning sunlight Barton's Fusiliers crossed the river, and advanced
to the attack under a screaming canopy of shells. Up they went and up,
darting and crouching, until their gleaming bayonets sparkled upon the
summit. The masterful artillery had done its work, and the first long
step taken in this last stage of the relief of Ladysmith. The loss had
been slight and the advantage enormous. After they had gained the summit
the Fusiliers were stung and stung again by clouds of skirmishers who
clung to the flanks of the hill, but their grip was firm and grew firmer
with every hour.

Of the three Boer hills which had to be taken the nearest (or eastern
one) was now in the hands of the British. The furthest (or western one)
was that on which the Irish Brigade was still crouching, ready at any
moment for a final spring which would take them over the few hundred
yards which separated them from the trenches. Between the two intervened
a central hill, as yet untouched. Could we carry this the whole position
would be ours. Now for the final effort! Turn every gun upon it, the
guns of Monte Christo, the guns of Hlangwane! Turn every rifle upon
it--the rifles of Barton's men, the rifles of Hart's men, the carbines
of the distant cavalry! Scalp its crown with the machine-gun fire! And
now up with you, Lancashire men, Norcott's men! The summit or a glorious
death, for beyond that hill your suffering comrades are awaiting you!
Put every bullet and every man and all of fire and spirit that you are
worth into this last hour; for if you fail now you have failed for ever,
and if you win, then when your hairs are white your blood will still run
warm when you think of that morning's work. The long drama had drawn to
an end, and one short day's work is to show what that end was to be.

But there was never a doubt of it. Hardly for one instant did the
advance waver at any point of its extended line. It was the supreme
instant of the Natal campaign, as, wave after wave, the long lines of
infantry went shimmering up the hill. On the left the Lancasters, the
Lancashire Fusiliers, the South Lancashires, the York and Lancasters,
with a burr of north country oaths, went racing for the summit. Spion
Kop and a thousand comrades were calling for vengeance. 'Remember, men,
the eyes of Lancashire are watching you,' cried the gallant MacCarthy
O'Leary. The old 40th swept on, but his dead body marked the way which
they had taken. On the right the East Surrey