Its strength was little greater than that of a
Prussian brigade on a war footing. Its fate was in its own hands, for
befall it what might it could hope for no timely reinforcement. It was a
mere detachment marching against a nation of fighting men plentifully
supplied with artillery, no longer shooting laboriously with jezails, but
carrying arms of precision equal or little inferior to those in the hands
of our own soldiery. But the men, Europeans and Easterns, hillmen of
Scotland and hillmen of Nepaul, plainmen of Hampshire and plainmen of the
Punjaub, strode along buoyant with confidence and with health, believing
in their leader, in their discipline, in themselves. Of varied race, no
soldier who followed Roberts but came of fighting stock; ever blithely
rejoicing in the combat, one and all burned for the strife now before
them with more than wonted ardour, because of the opportunity it promised
to exact vengeance for a deed of foul treachery.
The soldiers had not long to wait for the first fight of the campaign. On
the afternoon of the 5th Baker's brigade, with most of the cavalry and
artillery, and with the 92d Highlanders belonging to Macpherson's
brigade, camped on the plain to the south of the village of Charasiah,
Macpherson remaining one march in rear to escort the convoy of ammunition
and stores. North of Charasiah rises a semicircular curtain of hills
ascending in three successive tiers, the most distant and loftiest range
closing in the horizon and shutting out the view of Cabul, distant only
about eleven miles.
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