Mr Murray,” said the lieutenant, in a low, eager whisper, and he squeezed his companion’s arm. “But then, you see, we can’t. That’s the worst of being an officer, Murray, with all his responsibilities. If we were to run we should throw our men into confusion by causing a panic. If the officer shows the white feather his men will whisk it out directly, and, what is worse, they will never believe in him again, and that would not do, would it?”
“No, sir,” said Murray quietly; “but I’ve got that tickling sensation in my back badly now.”
“Of course you have, Murray, but not so bad as I have, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said the lad, rather huskily.
“Better not talk, Mr Murray,” said the first lieutenant; “the ashes are getting into your throat.”
“Think it’s that, sir?”
“Some of it, my boy. Well, no: it does not do for officers to be too sure. We’ll say it is, though. Nasty sensation, however, that of feeling your enemies are waiting to hurl a spear through the air with such an aim that it will stick right into your back.”
“Yes, sir; it’s a horrible sensation.”
“But we must put up with it, Murray,” continued the lieutenant, “and be thankful that chance comes to our help.”
“Chance, sir?”
“Yes: the savages may miss us, for we are on the move, and besides, it is very smoky and hard for them to take aim. These blacks have very sharp eyes, but I doubt whether they get more than a shadowy glimpse of us, even at the nearest. You see, we have not had a man hit as far as we know. But speaking seriously, Murray, my lad, I do think that we officers have the worst of it, and the men the best. We have to cover them and lead them, and a good officer would never think of setting his men to do anything we would not do ourselves. There, Mr Murray, I have finished my lecture upon an officer’s duty, and I have only to add that I think you have behaved very well.”
“Thankye, sir,” said Murray drily; “but, begging your pardon, sir, what about you?”
“About me? Oh, I’m old and seasoned, my dear boy. And besides, I don’t think that if we had been hit, a spear would kill.”
“But it would make a very ugly wound, sir.”
“Horrible, my boy, so let’s hope none of our brave fellows will be giving the doctor a job. Now then, quick; double up to the lads, and we’ll halt and fire, for the enemy are getting too close to be pleasant, and it’s time that they had a check.”
Chapter Ten.
Hard Times
It was, quite, for the rustling behind seemed to be terribly near, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that the lad felt his arm pressed, and fell into step with his officer, who directly after cried “Haiti” in a low, stern voice, and formed his men in line, before giving the orders: “Make ready! Fire!”
Quite time, for spears and bullets crossed, the former in a curve, the latter direct, and drawing from the enemy yells of mingled defiance, rage and pain.
“That’s give it ’em, sir,” whispered Tom May, who was close to Murray, and he made his rifle hiss as he rammed down a fresh cartridge.
“Any one hurt?” asked the lieutenant, in a low, eager tone.
“I got a spear a-sticking in me, sir,” said one of the men, in the same subdued tone of voice, “but I can’t say as it hurts.”
“Let me see,” said Murray excitedly, and he stepped to where the man was standing tugging at himself instead of following his comrades’ example and reloading.
“Don’t think you can see, sir! it’s so smoky. Would you mind ketching hold here and giving a good pull?”
As the man spoke, the midshipman did as he was requested, so far as to take hold of the shaft of a spear. But there he stopped short, his imagination suggesting consequences to which he gave voice in a strangely unnatural tone.
“I daren’t draw it out,” he said. “It may be wrong to do so.”
“But I can’t march with a thing like that all wibble wobble at every step, sir.”
“Then you must be helped, my lad,” said Murray hastily. “If I draw it out the wound may burst out bleeding.”
“Think so, sir?”
“Yes. You must be helped back till the doctor has seen to you.”
“Here, what is it?” said a familiar voice out of the gloom.
“Titely has a spear through his shoulder, sir.”
“Tut, tut, tut! Here, let me look.”
“Oh, never mind me, sir,” said the injured man; “it don’t hurt much, on’y feels like a scratch; but it’s orfly in the way.”
“Who’s this?” asked the lieutenant.
“Murray, sir.”
“Let me see. Yes: right through, evidently.”
“He wants it drawn out, sir,” said the midshipman, and he was holding up the spear-shaft where he stood facing the injured man; “but it would be dangerous to meddle with it, wouldn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, certainly,” said the lieutenant. “He must be helped back. What’s that?”
“More spears, sir,” growled Tom May, as there was the whizz and thud of the missiles once more.
“Present! Fire!” said the lieutenant sharply; and a fresh volley was fired, with the result of a rush of feet being plainly heard from the enemy, now in full retreat.
“Keep silence, my lads,” said the lieutenant, who had been waiting till the thudding of the ramrods came to an end and denoted that the little party was once more ready to deliver fire.
Silence ensued, save where Murray stood half supporting the wounded man.
“Here, give it a good pull, Mr Murray, sir,” whispered the man. “I’ll hold a couple o’ plugs ready for you to stop the bleeding.”
“No, no, my man; you must be patient,” whispered Murray sympathetically.
“But I can’t be patient, sir. You don’t know what it means.”
“Does it pain you so much?”
“No, sir; not so werry much. I can bear it well enough, but it makes me feel as if I’d got a skewer through me.”
“Silence there,” said the lieutenant.
“It’s all very fine,” muttered the man; and then, leaning towards Murray, “Say, sir, these here niggers on the coast are cannibals, aren’t they?”
“Yes, some of them, I believe,” whispered back the midshipman.
“Don’t leave me behind, then,” said the man softly, and he uttered a low chuckling
