Jack soon explained to the sergeant of the 23rd what had happened, and the little Welshman’s face grew red.
‘Py St David!’ he said, ‘Englishmans, are we going to stand this? The Royal Welsh Fusiliers will soon put this to rights, I shall tell you;’ and he said a few rapid words in Welsh to his men, when those of the 23rd who were his countrymen gave a loud yell.
‘Ye needna mak’ sic a screech,’ said a brawny Scotch artilleryman; ‘but if ye’ll gi’e me a drink and show me whaur these reevin’ deevils ha’ hidden theirsels, Andrew M’Farlane’ll see whether their heids are harder than his fists;’ and he clenched a hand that would have felled an ox.
‘England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales,’ cried Jack delightedly; ‘horse, foot, and artillery. It’s a regular union army, and if we can’t bring a troop of marauding cut-throats to book we’ve no right to call ourselves British soldiers.’
Jack told the old Bulgarian what they intended doing, and he fell on his knees in gratitude. The new-comers were given drink and food, and then, under the leadership of the little Welsh sergeant, and guided by the Bulgarian, began their march.
The wood in which the marauders had taken refuge was of great extent and very dense, and the little party extended themselves and proceeded to beat for their game. They soon found traces, and these they followed; but it was getting dusk before they came in sight of some score of ruffians lying sprawling about, mostly asleep, while two men stood as sentries over the three prisoners.
The Welsh sergeant no sooner saw his enemy than he gave a wild yell and dashed upon them, sword-bayonet in hand. A couple of shots whistled above the heads of the little party who went in after the sergeant. The Bashi-Bazouks sprang to their feet, and seizing every description of arms—rifles, pistols, swords, lances, yataghans, and knives—prepared to offer a stout resistance.
The British soldiers closed with them, and soon a very babel of sounds arose—yells, shrieks, the snap of pistols and clash of steel, together with the fighting cries of half-a-dozen nationalities. The British, after their long inactivity, seemed positively to revel in the fight, and M’Farlane, Larry, and the Welsh sergeant laid about them in high glee.
While the British soldiers were fighting, the Bulgarians crept round to a spot where they had seen the prisoners tied to trees, and liberated them. The Bashi-Bazouks, seeing this, and knowing they had nothing to gain by further fighting, soon made a rush for their horses, mounted, and rode off, firing their pistols as they went. A few flesh-wounds was all the damage done to the British, and in high jubilation they returned to the village.
It was far too late to think of returning to camp that night, and so they slept at the grateful Bulgarian’s house. Next morning, after a good meal had been given the soldiers, the elders of the village and the rescued prisoners thanked them very heartily for their services, and then, laden with presents, they started for their camp. This they duly reached without further adventure, and immediately went to their respective regiments to report themselves and account for their absence.