Then suddenly, about a week later, without warning, the revolutionary fighting broke out again. It appeared that Bernardo and his rascals had landed farther down the coast, and had, by making a detour, reached their stronghold in the hills back of the town. There they made ready for a new attack.
It was made shortly after sunrise one morning following a night march, and at once the alarm was signaled out to the battleship. For some marines had been left on shore to act as guards and sentries, and their commander quickly sent word for reinforcements.
Once again was the call to arms sounded on the Georgetown. Again did the men take to the boats with their rifles and field pieces. Again came that rush on shore and once more the streets of Pectelo echoed to the sounds of fighting, and the rattle of rapid-firers.
But the second effort of the revolutionists was as but a flash in the pan compared to their first attempts, though there was severe fighting in one or two places, and many were killed and wounded, a number of the force of the Georgetown meeting death. But it could not be helped.
Frank and Ned were again permitted to have their share in the hot and exciting work, and this time Frank received a wound in the leg which made it necessary for him to go to the rear.
“I’ll go with you,” offered Ned, as his brother was picked up.
“No, you won’t!” cried Frank. “You stick it out! Maybe you’ll have a chance at Bernardo. I hear he’s on the job again.”
The plucky lad waved his hand at his brother as they bore Frank back to the landing stage to send him aboard the ship where he could have better treatment than in the city hospital.
“Why, the Georgetown is coming closer in shore!” Frank cried, as he looked across the bay and noticed that the vessel was at a new anchorage.
“Yes,” said one of the petty officers, “the old man is going to shell the revolutionary headquarters again, and he’s going to make a good job of it this time. So he put in closer to shore for the work.”