“Think!” cried the Sergeant scornfully. “Think, sir? Why, we’ve got at ’em at last with the bay’net. They’ve been playing at shooting behind a stone and firing at a target—targets being us—till we’ve been sick of it, and then up on horse and gallop away; but we’ve got at ’em at last with the bay’net, and there’s no need to think.”
“But,” I cried excitedly, as I strained my ears to listen, “they’re coming back.”
“Eh?” cried the Sergeant. “Here, files two and four support one and three. Hold your fire till they’re close in, and then receive ’em on your bay’nets.”
The two men who were chafing our deadened ankles sprang to their places, while my brother reached out of the side of the wagon and dragged in two rifles, evidently their own, and Denham and I cocked the revolvers we had thrust back into our breasts.
“That’s good business, gentlemen,” said the Sergeant grimly. “I like to see reinforcements when one’s in a tight place.”
He patted Bob on the shoulder as my brother took his place beside the two soldiers at the front of the wagon, my father going to the back.
“You can shoot, then, my lad?”
“Oh yes,” said Bob quietly. “My father taught me five years ago.”
“That’s right,” said the Sergeant, and he set the lantern on one side and covered it closely with one of the rugs. “Now, silence. We don’t want to invite attack. Here they come! They’re mounted men, and they may sweep past. Hear that bugle?” he said to me.
“Yes,” I replied, almost below my breath.