‘Five hundred...ready.’ To their left, the 93rd had already loaded: now the estimated range was being passed down to the men. Six hundred feather bonnets dipped and fingers tinkered, carefully adjusting the ramped iron sights.
‘That’s bollocks, sir...’ Ormond turned urgently to Morgan.
‘Aye, you’re right. Ignore that, Ninety-Fifth; load in your own time, six hundred, await my order.’ They rammed and fitted their caps mechanically, deftly flicking their sights forward like the veterans they had unconsciously become.
‘Present!’ the Scotsmen flung their rifles into the aim, pulled their butts hard into the shoulder and blinked down their sights.
‘They’ll hit f**k-all like that, sir,’ said Ormond, just as the horsemen broke into a slow canter.
‘Fire!’ Every rifle bucked, kicking up dust a
