“Bah!” ejaculated the chief officer angrily. “We shall never get out of the smoky maze like this. Now then, all together, my lads, when I give the word; a good hearty shout; but every man make ready, and at the first spear thrown fire in the direction—fire low, mind—Who’s that—Mr Murray?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered the lad, who had suddenly laid a hand upon his officer’s arm. “I fancy I can hear the rustling of steps away to the left, as if the enemy is creeping nearer.”
“Fancy, of course, sir!” snapped out the officer. “Bare-footed savages are not likely to be stealing amongst these red-hot ashes.”
Bang! and directly after bang! bang! The reports of three muskets rang out in a dull half-smothered way, followed by a piercing yell and a distinctly heard rush of feet. Then once more silence, which was broken by a low hail close at hand.
“Who’s that?” cried the lieutenant.
“May it is, sir,” responded that individual. “Here’s one on ’em, sir, as has got it.”
“Who is it?” whispered the lieutenant, accompanying his question with an ejaculation full of vexation.
“Oh, I dunno, your honour—Sambo or Nigger Dick, or Pompey, sir. But he’ll never answer to his name again. Here he is, spear and all.”
“One of the enemy whom you shot down?” said the lieutenant, in a tone full of relief.
“Not me shot him, sir, but one of my messmates.”