“To get back the guns!” I cried excitedly.
Brace’s hand gripped my arm with all his force.
“Yes,” he cried. “Right. To get back those guns and horses at any cost.”
“Impossible!” muttered the doctor.
“Tell me that, doctor,” cried Brace, “when I am wounded to the death, and you press my hand, tell me you can do no more, and say ‘Good-bye.’ There is no such word as impossible in a British soldier’s thoughts when he has to charge. Duty says forward! and he advances with a cheer. Now, gentlemen, are you with me? I am going to get back those guns. Doctor, you are a non-combatant; I am not speaking to you. Haynes, will you follow me?”
“As long as I can lift an arm.”
“I don’t ask you, Vincent. You are a soldier’s son, and I know that I can depend on you. There, I see my way now. Let us go back to the men.”
We rose and followed him, the doctor whispering sharply, “Am I a non-combatant, Brace? This is a case of emergency, and perhaps I can use a sword as well as I can use a rifle. At any rate, I am going to try.”
“’Tention!” said Brace, in a low quick voice, and the men sprang to their feet and formed in line, their figures looking weird and strange in the darkness. “Can you all hear me?”
The silence which followed his question was proof that his words were heard, and he stepped back a few yards and stood listening intently before returning to face the men.