“This wouldn’t have happened,” says a voice, “if my advice had been taken. I wish the black scoundrels had been shot. Where’s Captain Dyer?”
There was no answer, and a dead chill fell on me as I seemed to realise that things had come now to a bad pass.
“Where’s Sergeant Williams?” said Lieutenant Leigh again; but it seemed to me that he spoke in a husky voice.
“Here!” said some one faintly, and, turning, there was the sergeant seated on the ground, and supporting himself against the breastwork.
“Any one know the other men who went out on this mad sally?” says the lieutenant.
“Where’s Harry Lant?” I says.
There was no answer here either, and this time it was my turn to speak in a queer husky voice as I said again: “Where’s Measles? I mean Sam Bigley.”
“He’s gone too, poor chap,” says some one.
“No, he ain’t gone neither,” says a voice behind me, and, turning, there was Measles tying a handkerchief round his head, muttering the while about some black devil. “I ain’t gone, nor I ain’t much hurt,” he growled; “and if I don’t take it out of some on ’em for this chop o’ the head, it’s a rum un; and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Load!” says Lieutenant Leigh shortly; and we loaded again, and then fired two or three volleys at the niggers as they came up towards the gate once more; when some one calls out: “Ain’t none of us going to make a sally party, and bring in the captain?”