Free Death on the Ice by Robert Ryan

uniforms. ‘He says if you surrender you will be released and all your private property bar weapons guaranteed.’
    Oates looked at Docherty, who shook his head. They had all heard tales of Boer perfidy with prisoners, even summary executions. ‘Tell him to fuck off and stick it up his arse. Sir.’
    ‘I’ll rephrase if you don’t mind, staff corporal.’ Oates took a sip of water and cleared his throat. Then he stood up, exposing himself to the fire of the gunmen who lay in the scrub no more than a hundred yards away. Foolhardy, but it gave him a chance to spot their positions. ‘Please tell the colonel, thank you for the kind offer. But we came here to fight. Not surrender.’
    ‘Respectfully,’ the lad replied, ‘you are outnumbered.’
    ‘Respectfully, only by Boers.’ That gained him a guffaw from some of the men and a scowl from the farmer’s son. ‘So, please, tell Colonel Fouche to continue.’
    With that he flopped back into the gulley, just in time to glimpse the bent figure trying to outflank them. He was a good two hundred yards along the river but Oates squeezed off four shots, causing him to scamper back the way he had come. The parapet of the riverbank above his head, meanwhile, began to spit dirt as hefty .303 rounds hit home.
    ‘Well done, sir,’ said Docherty.
    Oates raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t so sure it was the wise thing to do. But surrender had no appeal.
    The fusillade lasted less than ten minutes and the Boers went back to pot-shots. They managed to take down a horse that had struggled to its feet, despite the best efforts of its rider. It whined pitifully and its cavalryman put a mercy bullet through its skull. The others looked away as he cradled the head of the dead animal before returning to his position.
    Oates told the men roughly where he had seen the gunmen and the British fired at their positions on an irregular basis. By midday, though, the first of Oates’s troopers had run out of ammunition.
    ‘Leave your water,’ he told Wilder, the bullet-less trooper. ‘And your carbine. Horse?’
    Wilder pointed across to the site of the ambush, where the scout and several animals lay baking in the sun. ‘Shot from under me.’
    ‘Well, keep your head well down, run back to town along the river bed as fast as you can. Report to the colonel and tell them our situation. Take this.’ He handed the lad his revolver. If the Boers got close enough for Oates to have to use it, he was done for anyway, but it might help Wilder if he ran into any stray commandoes.
    ‘And ask them where the fuck are they,’ Docherty chipped in.
    ‘Tell Colonel Herbert,’ Oates corrected, ‘if it isn’t too much trouble, we’d quite like a relief party.’
    Wilder sprinted off, covering the ground like a primate, on all fours. He made it without mishap to the far bend where the course of the river kinked and, with a fast backward glance, he was gone. Oates listened carefully for the sound of sniper fire but, apart from two shots from their own tormentors, there was nothing.
    Another of the group fired his last round an hour later, and Oates repeated the exercise, sending him along the river to gee-up Herbert. Docherty took a bullet to the shoulder shortly afterwards. Oates inspected it and found it a clean puncture, although clearly it hurt like a demon, because Docherty trotted out a stream of profanities escalating in intensity and explicitness till he slumped back against the bank. Only then did he allow Oates to stuff a makeshift bandage inside his tunic.
    ‘Sir. Down to the last two rounds.’ It was Peyton, a corporal.
    ‘Off you go.’
    Peyton looked offended. ‘What if they charge the position, sir?’
    ‘Well, at least you won’t be here to see it. Bugger off. None of us is much use without ammunition.’
    Soon after Peyton’s departure, there came an explosion of distant rifle fire, borne on the hot breeze blowing from the West. That could, thought Oates, be a rescue party fighting