Every one’s attention was fully taken up the next moment, for it was evident from the movements on the enemy’s part that they were being divided into three bodies, each under a couple of leaders, who were getting their ragged, half Indian-looking followers into something like military form, prior to bringing them on to the attack in a rush.
Fitz watched all this from behind one of the breastworks he had seen put up by the carpenter, who was going about testing the nailing of the boards, and as he did so giving Don Ramon’s followers a friendly nod from time to time, as much as to say, Only seeing as it had got a good hold, mate,—and then, once more forgetting Poole’s reminder, the boy said excitedly—
“Well, I don’t think much of Don Villarayo’s tactics. He’s exposing his men so that we might shoot half of them down before he got them up to the astack.”
“Oh, they’re no soldiers, nor sailors neither,” replied Poole. “It’s a sort of bounce. He thinks he’s going to frighten us out of the place; and we are not going to be frightened, eh, Chips?”
“We are not, Mr Poole, sir; I’ll answer for that. But I don’t know how Mr Ramon’s chaps will handle their tools.”
“I should say well,” cried Fitz, still warming up with the excitement, and speaking frankly and honestly. “They’ll take the example of you old men-of-war’s men, and fight like fun.”
“Thankye, sir,” said the carpenter, brightening up. “Hear him, Mr Poole? I call that handsome. That’s your sort, sir! There’s nothing like having one of your officers to give you a good word of encouragement before you start, and make the sawdust and shavings fly.”
Just at that minute Don Ramon, who had been hurrying from side to side encouraging his followers, uttered a warning shout which was echoed by an order from the skipper to his men not to waste a single cartridge, and to aim low.
“Bring ’em down, my lads,” he said. “Cripple ’em. We don’t want to kill.”
He had hardly spoken when the nearest body of the enemy uttered a wild yell, which was taken up by the others, and all advanced clear of the bushes at a run, firing wildly and without stopping to re-load, dashing on, long knife in hand.