The gallant Irishmen pushed on, flushed with battle and careless for their losses, the four regiments clubbed into one, with all military organisation rapidly disappearing, and nothing left but their gallant spirit and their furious desire to come to hand-grips with the enemy.  Rolling on in a broad wave of shouting angry men, they never winced from the fire until they had swept up to the bank of the river.  Northern Inniskilling and Southern man of Connaught, orange and green, Protestant and Catholic, Celt and Saxon, their only rivalry now was who could shed his blood most freely for the common cause.  How hateful seem those provincial politics and narrow sectarian creeds which can hold such men apart!

The bank of the river had been gained, but where was the ford?  The water swept broad and unruffled in front of them, with no indication of shallows.  A few dashing fellows sprang in, but their cartridges and rifles dragged them to the bottom.  One or two may even have struggled through to the further side, but on this there is a conflict of evidence.  It may be, though it seems incredible, that the river had been partly dammed to deepen the Drift, or, as is more probable, that in the rapid advance and attack the position of the Drift was lost.  However this may be, the troops could find no ford, and they lay down, as had been done in so many previous actions, unwilling to retreat and unable to advance, with the same merciless pelting from front and flank.  In every fold and behind every anthill the Irishmen lay thick and waited for better times.  There are many instances of their cheery and uncomplaining humour.  Colonel Brooke, of the Connaughts, fell at the head of his men.  Private Livingstone helped to carry him into safety, and then, his task done, he confessed to having ‘a bit of a rap meself,’ and sank fainting with a bullet through his throat.  Another sat with a bullet through both legs.  ’Bring me a tin whistle and I’ll blow ye any tune ye like,’ he cried, mindful of the Dargai piper.  Another with his arm hanging by a tendon puffed morosely at his short black pipe.  Every now and then, in face of the impossible, the fiery Celtic valour flamed furiously upwards.  ’Fix bayonets, men, and let us make a name for ourselves,’ cried a colour sergeant, and he never spoke again.  For five hours, under the tropical sun, the grimy parched men held on to the ground they had occupied.  British shells pitched short and fell among them.  A regiment in support fired at them, not knowing that any of the line were so far advanced.  Shot at from the front, the flank, and the rear, the 5th Brigade held grimly on.