Chapter Ten.
Hard Times.
It was, quite, for the rustling behind seemed to be terribly near, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that the lad felt his arm pressed, and fell into step with his officer, who directly after cried “Haiti” in a low, stern voice, and formed his men in line, before giving the orders: “Make ready! Fire!”
Quite time, for spears and bullets crossed, the former in a curve, the latter direct, and drawing from the enemy yells of mingled defiance, rage and pain.
“That’s give it ’em, sir,” whispered Tom May, who was close to Murray, and he made his rifle hiss as he rammed down a fresh cartridge.
“Any one hurt?” asked the lieutenant, in a low, eager tone.
“I got a spear a-sticking in me, sir,” said one of the men, in the same subdued tone of voice, “but I can’t say as it hurts.”
“Let me see,” said Murray excitedly, and he stepped to where the man was standing tugging at himself instead of following his comrades’ example and reloading.
“Don’t think you can see, sir! it’s so smoky. Would you mind ketching hold here and giving a good pull?”
As the man spoke, the midshipman did as he was requested, so far as to take hold of the shaft of a spear. But there he stopped short, his imagination suggesting consequences to which he gave voice in a strangely unnatural tone.