They were
held by what they saw. Private Conolly had planted his rifle-stock
downwards in a mimosa bush. From the fixed bayonet there fluttered a
little green flag with the crownless harp. God knows for what black
mutiny, for what signal of revolt, that flag had been treasured up
within the corporal's tunic! Now its green wisp stood amid the rush,
while three proud regimental colours were reeling slowly backwards.
"What for the flag?" yelled the private.
"My heart's blood for it! and mine! and mine!" cried a score of voices.
"God bless it! The flag, boys--the flag!"
C Company were rallying upon it. The stragglers clutched at each
other, and pointed. "Here, McQuire, Flynn, O'Hara," ran the shoutings.
"Close on the flag! Back to the flag!" The three standards reeled
backwards, and the seething square strove for a clearer space where they
could form their shattered ranks; but C Company, grim and
powder-stained, choked with enemies and falling fast, still closed in on
the little rebel ensign that flapped from the mimosa bush.
It was a good half-hour before the square, having disentangled itself
from its difficulties and dressed its ranks, began to slowly move
forwards over the ground, across which in its labour and anguish it had
been driven.
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