“Die!” cried one tall Tagal, as he flashed up before Ben with a bloody bolo. “Die!” he repeated in bad English, and made a lunge at the young captain. But Gilmore had his eye on the man, and the lieutenant’s sword cut the bolo from the rebel’s grasp.
“Good for you!” cried Ben. Then he drew a long breath, to think of the narrow escape he had had. The native, his hand flowing with blood, retreated as suddenly as he had approached.
The tide of the battle was now taking Americans and insurgents toward a cane-brake. The rebels still fought desperately, but they were beginning to lose confidence, for the Americans were pushing them hard.
But now came a cheer from the rear, and Company B rushed up to the aid of Ben’s command. To the young captain’s astonishment, Gilbert was in command, all the upper officers being either killed or wounded.
“Gilbert!” he called, but had no time to say more. But the young Southerner heard and waved the sword he had picked up. Soon the two companies were fighting shoulder to shoulder, and the enemy were driven out into the cane-field, and then into a meadow. Here they tried to make a stand, around an old rice-house, and it took another half hour to dislodge them. But when they did retreat at last, they went in great haste, many leaving their weapons and outfits behind them.
The fighting over, Ben started to find the major. 215 Gilbert accompanied him. Their first hunt for the commander, however, was unsuccessful.
“It’s queer,” was Ben’s comment. “I trust he isn’t dead in the bushes.”
The hunt gradually brought them to a trail through the jungle, and presently Gilbert heard a faint moan for help. Running in the direction, they found a soldier of Company C lying on some moss, his knee shattered from a Mauser bullet.
“Oh, the pain!” groaned the poor fellow. “Help me, won’t you?”