A hearty cheer was the ready response.
‘Won’t you lead us?’ Herbert said to Farrington, in a strong accent of scorn. ‘It’s your last chance to retrieve your character.’
‘I distinctly forbid you to sally. Not a man shall leave the hospital. Halt! halt! I say.’
The men were like bloodhounds tearing frantically at the leash.
‘It’s your last chance,’ Herbert repeated, as he went close up to Farrington, and whispered. ‘Your last chance, you cowardly cur. Come on, or be shamed for ever; a disgrace to your cloth, your regiment, and a good old name.’
Stung to the quick by these taunts, Ernest hurriedly drew his sword, and placing himself at the head of his men, gave the order to port arms, and prepare to charge. With a loud ‘hurroosh’ the gallant garrison rushed out pell-mell, and fell upon their foe.
The enemy could not face the British bayonet. They broke even before their assailants reached them, and fled in disorder towards the stockade. The garrison pursued them, Mr. Farrington still leading. He was like a jibbing horse, which having long refused to move, at last bolts headlong. Herbert was also well to the front, but he saw the danger of pushing the success too far, and before reaching the stockade he paused and endeavoured to restrain the men. Many halted at his voice and rallied round him, but a few more unmanageable continued to race ahead beyond the stockade as far as the bush. Mr. Farrington, half-mad with excitement, was one of these, and with them he fell into a trap. A number of Ashantis reinforced, probably from behind, had rallied just within the bush and opened a very destructive fire.
Ernest Farrington was the first to fall. Many others were struck down, and the too eager band of pursuers were suddenly effectually checked. But all who could retired in hot haste upon the main body, which under Herbert’s command had made a stand to cover their retreat.
Mr. Farrington was not killed outright. He was evidently badly wounded, but he was able to rise to his feet, and strove feebly to make his way back to the shelter of the stockade, the enemy slowly ‘potting’ at him as he crawled along.
‘We must bring him in,’ cried Herbert, hotly. ‘Come on, Rechab; Farrington or no Farrington—’