“Yes, shout if yer like,” cried Tony in disgust. “See how we’ll show yer. It don’t take much to put up a flag there on the shore, but wait till it comes to planting it in a fort; we’ll be there with yer, and p’r’aps show yer the way.”
“Come, come,” laughed Phil. “It’s all your jealousy. The French are a brave nation and can fight; though I’m glad to think that we have always beaten them. Ah! there goes another gun, and see, they are disembarking.”
“Yes, so they are; but look away over there,” exclaimed Tony, pointing to the shore, where on an upland plateau, above the lake, some two hundred yards from the sea, stood five shaggy-looking ponies with figures seated on their backs holding long lances in their hands.
“Cossacks!” remarked Phil. “They are watching us. It seems strange that the Russians have made no preparations to oppose our landing, but I suppose they were quite uncertain as to the exact spot we should hit upon.”
Transferring their attention from the figures on the shore to the French fleet, they watched, not without some amount of envy, the rapid disembarkation of the soldiers. But very soon another gun boomed out, and boats dashed from the British men-of-war towards the transports.
“Now our turn has come,” remarked Phil. “Come along, Tony. We’ll get our kit strapped on, and then we shall be ready at any moment.”
“Pass the word along there for Corporal Western,” sounded across the deck at this moment; and, hastily making his canteen fast, Phil shouldered his Minié rifle and stepped up to the adjutant.
“Take two men,” the latter ordered, “and mount guard over the boxes of ammunition. You will land with them and see them safely stacked out of reach of the water, and remain in charge of them till you are relieved.”
“I understand, sir,” said Phil, saluting smartly by bringing his disengaged hand across to his rifle and striding away.
“Tony, I want you,” he said, “and we’ll take Sam Wilson as well. We’re to mount guard over the ammunition.”