“Here, what are you up to, darkie?” cried the big sailor. “Them’s friends.”
“Yes, sah,” panted the black. “Caesar know. Make ’em fight.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” growled May, “but I don’t see as you will do any good. They won’t fight, and I don’t know as I want ’em to; but they might let us.”
“Do what you can to clear the way, man.”
There was the sound of more trampling feet, a burst of yells, more firing, and Tom May shouted in protest—
“Beg pardon, sir; what are we to do? Some more of our fellows will be down directly, and we can’t fire a shot for fear of hitting our friends. I never see such friends,” he growled; “they’re worse than enemies.”
“Look out, my lads,” shouted Murray excitedly. “Fire! Here they come! No, no—over their heads,” he cried. “These are more friends.”
In his excitement the middy struck up a couple of presented muskets with the cutlass he handled, his example being followed by the lieutenant, doubtless the saving of Caesar’s life, for the brave black had dashed in amongst his companions, thrusting them to the right and left in amongst the trees, just as several of the sailors fired, fully half of them firing in the air.
Fortunately the reports were as effective as a volley would have been aimed right into the advancing enemy, who pulled up short and then began to retire, giving the poor flying wretches an opportunity to recover themselves a little, and realise that there was some shelter to be obtained behind the sturdy English sailors, who stood firm, while Caesar worked hard at forming them up where they stood, and with such good effect that about forty of them grasped their rough cutlasses more firmly and showed some signs of using them against their foes now that these latter had ceased to advance.
“Well done, my lad,” cried the lieutenant; “if you can find a couple of score like yourself we’ll send these black fiends and their white leaders to the right-about.”