Middy and Ensign

by George Manville Fenn

He could see clearly enough all that was going on, and feel bitterly every phase of ill fortune in the fight, while he regretted the powerless state in which he lay as he saw some companion worsted by the enemy.

“If I could only think what it was Mr Roberts told me to do, I might do it now,” he muttered, “and that would help the poor lads.”

His head was growing clearer, though, and he became more and more excited as he saw sailors, marines, and officers driven back, step by step, along the deck, with the prospect before them of being slain to a man, and the steamer taken.

That idea was horrible to Dick, and he thought of the captain, officers, and men away in the jungle, and what would be their feelings when they returned.

“If I could only help!” thought Dick. “Bravo, lad! Why he fights like a man,” he muttered; “and there’s that Mr Ali using his gun wonderfully, and him only a nigger; while I lie here with my orders on me, and do nothing to help my mates. Oh, if I only had strength,” he groaned.

Still the fight went on, and to his horror Lieutenant Johnson saw that another prahu and a naga or dragon-boat were coming up to the attack, while in place of being able to repel them with a few shots from his guns, he and his men were hemmed-in by quite a mob of yelling Malays, every one of whom was thirsting for the Englishmen’s blood.

All at once, in the thick of the fight, and just as he was panting, and too helpless to deliver another stroke, Bob Roberts recalled for a moment the orders he had given old Dick. But he felt that it was too late now, and stung by the disgrace of their position, he tried to reload his revolver, wondering whether Lieutenant Johnson would execute his threat of blowing up the ship.

Had the lieutenant been ever so disposed, though, he could not have accomplished his design, for a living wall of Malays was between him and the way down to the magazine, and he was weak and spent with his efforts, to such an extent that he could hardly raise his sword.

“It is all over,” he thought to himself, “but we’ll die fighting like Englishmen. Oh, my poor lads,” he groaned, “my poor lads!” And he wondered whether he could have done anything else to lead them to victory instead of this bitter defeat.

It did indeed seem to be all over, for the fresh boats had reached the steamer, and their men were swarming over the side, when suddenly the remembrance of his orders flashed across old Dick’s clouded brain, bringing with it renewed strength, for the faintness seemed to be driven away.