“How about the commissariat, ammunition, tents, and so forth?” I asked; “we shall require transport animals of some kind.”
“I believe the Spanish Government is going to let us have a lot of mules that are accustomed to that sort of work,” said my coxswain.
“Oh, we shall pig it out somehow, I dare say,” I exclaimed with a laugh, “and it would be rather fun to rough it a bit.”
That evening we occupied the fort in force. The dead had been buried at an early hour in the morning, and so there was little or no trace of the struggle that had taken place so recently, except in the fort itself, where the dismounted and spiked guns told their own tale. In all we numbered one hundred officers and men, well supplied with all that was necessary for a short campaign. At the time of my story, machine-guns had not been invented, and that underhand weapon of warfare, the torpedo, was unknown. A few of the former would have been extremely serviceable to our brigade on this occasion; but still we were extremely well armed in accordance with the ideas of that day, each man being supplied with a breech-loading rifle, a cutlass which could be used as a sword-bayonet if necessary, and a revolver. An ammunition-pouch, a blanket, a water-bottle, and a pair of leggings for each man completed the equipment, nothing being showy, but everything extremely serviceable.
As before, Mr. Thompson was appointed to command the brigade, as he had had a great deal of experience in shore-going expeditions in a previous commission on the west coast of Africa. Two lieutenants, the captain of marines, Dr. Grant, four sub-lieutenants, the gunner, Fitzgerald, and myself made up the list of officers; and about seventy picked blue-jackets and twenty marines composed the rank-and-file. No commanding officer could have wished for finer men. Not only was their physique splendid, but they were tried, trustworthy fellows who had all seen service on previous occasions, and could be relied on to do their duty in the direst emergency.
Tenacious bull-dogs! that’s what they were. It would be impossible to describe them better in a couple of words.
CHAPTER VI.
“COLD PIG” AND “SLING THE MONKEY.”
I was effectually roused from my slumbers on the following morning by the shrill bugle-calls which the drummer seemed to take a delight in blowing as near the gunroom tent as possible. On murderous thoughts intent, and clad in very scanty apparel, Fitzgerald and I made a desperate sortie, one carrying a huge bath-sponge saturated with water, and the other a well-knotted towel.
“What a lark!” exclaimed Fitzgerald, capering about with delight; “cold pig for the drummer, and a lambasting afterwards to warm him up and prevent any possibility of his catching cold whilst so far away from his mammy’s protecting care!”
Dawn had scarcely broken, and it was almost dark outside the tent and rather unpleasantly chilly. The bugle-calls had ceased, but we thought we distinguished the drummer some yards away just upon the point of raising his instrument of torture to his lips again.