“Yes, I think so too, Tony; and now, how to get there. We are well to the left of the Russian camp below us. By keeping still more so, we ought to reach that big clump of houses and vineyards you see over there before the morning, and next time the night falls I hope we shall be able to answer an English challenge.”
Had they but known it, Phil and Tony were to meet with more than one adventure before the well-known “Halt! Who goes there?” struck upon their ears, for this was the 23rd of October, and on the 25th that small camp down by the river Tchernaya was to be swollen by the emptying of the one directly below them, and the Russians were to try conclusions with the Allies.
It was destined to be a brilliant spectacle, and brimful of gallant deeds—one more striking than all the rest, and to find a lasting place in the history of our race, a deed of dare-devilry and sheer disregard of life and limb which Phil and Tony were never to forget, and the honour of their having taken part in it will ever be cherished by their descendants.
Having made a thorough survey of the scene below them, Phil and his friend removed the saddles and bridles from their ponies, and replaced the latter with a halter attached to the saddle. Then, finding a stream near at hand, Tony watered them and led them back to the vineyard, where he secured them in a part completely obscured from view. Meanwhile Phil crept out to a shed at the end of the vines, and returned with a large armful of hay. That done they ate some of their bread and meat, and, flinging themselves down in the shadow of the vines, were soon fast asleep.
The sun was low down in the heavens and fast sinking when Phil awoke, and, rubbing his eyes, kicked Tony playfully.
“Up you get, old chap,” he cried cheerfully. “We’ll have a meal, and then make for that clump of trees. Let us have one more good look at it before the night falls. See! by striking a little to the left we shall get into that narrow valley, and by keeping to it shall be going directly for our goal.”
Tony sprang to his feet, and, thrusting his stout stick through his belt, joined Phil in an open spot, from which, unseen, they could look down towards Sebastopol.
A curious figure he was too—more like a scarecrow than a British soldier. A short stubbly beard covered his chin, while a flaming red handkerchief was tied round his head in place of his bearskin, lost long ago now at the Alma. His red tunic was tattered and stained with mud, and his trousers hung in rags round his boots.
As for Phil, he was in no better plight; but still, strange to say, he looked spruce and neat beside his rough companion, the short fair down upon his cheeks scarcely showing, and contrasting most favourably with Tony’s spiky beard.
“Right again, young ’un!” agreed the latter, evidently in the highest spirits. “We’ll lie up over there to-night, and then make a dash for it. That sleep has just put new life into me, and now I’m ready for anything; and I tell yer, Phil, it’s got to be five to one afore I gives in to the Russians. Let’s have a look at this here toothpick;” and he dragged his sword, a heavy cavalry sabre, from its sheath. “Sharp as a razor,” he remarked, with a grim smile, feeling the edge. “All the better. It’s got plenty of weight too, and once I wants to use it, blest if I don’t make it cut clean through the head of one of our Cossack friends.”