The squadrons under the command of the gallant Fraser were ordered to advance, and moved steadily forward at a trot; all eyes were fixed upon them—­the men were apparently steady—­and even the least sanguine could hardly doubt the result of a shock of disciplined cavalry on an irregular body of horse not half their numerical strength.

But when the word to charge was given, an uncontrolled panic seized the troopers; instead of putting their horses into a gallop and dashing forward to certain victory, the pace gradually slackened; in vain did their officers use every effort to urge the men on—­in vain did the spirit-stirring trumpet sound the charge—­the troopers were spell-bound by the demon of fear; the trot became a walk, then a halt; and then, forgetful of their duty, their honor, and their officers, they wheeled about and shamefully fled.

But not for one single instant did Fraser hesitate; with a bitter and well-merited expression of contempt at this unmanly desertion, he briefly said, “We must charge alone,” and dashing spurs into his horse, he rushed to an almost certain fate, followed by Ponsonby, Crispin, Broadfoot, Dr. Lord, and by about a dozen of his men, who all preferred an honourable death to an ignominious life.

The feelings of disgust mingled with intense admiration with which this unparalleled scene was viewed by the infantry can be better imagined than expressed; and those who under similar trying circumstances would have endeavoured to imitate the heroism of their countrymen, could scarce subdue a thrill of horror as this handful of brave soldiers galloped forward.  The intrepid Fraser, mounted upon a large and powerful English horse, literally hewed a lane for himself through the astonished Affghans; and Ponsonby too—­for I am weary of seeking fresh epithets for their unsurpassable conduct—­on a strong Persian mare, for a time bore down all opposition.  Dost Mahommed himself, though in some personal danger from the impetuosity of this desperate charge, could not restrain his admiration.

The event fully proved the danger incurred.  Dr. Lord, Crispin, and Broadfoot upheld the glory of their country to the last, and fell covered with many wounds.  Fraser and Ponsonby were both desperately hacked, and owed their lives to their horses becoming unmanageable, bearing their riders from the midst of the enemy.  The reins of Ponsonby’s bridle were cut, and he himself grievously wounded in the face, while Fraser’s arm was nearly severed in two; neither did their horses escape in the conflict, as both bore deep gashes of the Affgh[=a]n blades.

While the European officers were thus sacrificing themselves in the execution of their duty, the dastard troopers came galloping in amongst the infantry of the advanced guard, some of whom were with difficulty restrained from inflicting on the spot the punishment they so well deserved.