“This is no time for hatred, sir,” said Gray, sternly.
“No,” said Captain Smithers, “it is not. In half an hour we shall be, in all human probability, dead men. Rank will be no more. Gray, I never in my heart doubted your honesty. You are a brave man. Now for duty.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gray, in a deeply moved voice—“for duty.”
Crash!
There was a sharp ragged volley from the enemy at that moment as a body of them advanced, and a shriek of agony from close by, followed by a fall.
“Some poor fellow down,” said the Captain, hoarsely. “Who is it, Sergeant Lund?” he said, taking a dozen strides in the direction of the cry.
“Private Sim, sir. Shot through the heart—dead!”
The captain turned away, and the next minute the fight on all sides was general, the enemy winning their way nearer and nearer, and a couple of prahus sending a shower of ragged bullets from their brass lelahs over the attacking party’s heads.
“Stand firm, my lads; stand firm. Your bayonets, boys!” cried Captain Smithers, as with a desperate rush the Malays dashed forward now to carry the place by assault, and in sufficient numbers to sweep all before them—when boom! boom! boom! boom! came the reports of heavy guns, and the fire from the prahus ceased.
“Hurrah! my lads; steady!” cried Tom Long, waving his sword. “The steamer! the steamer!”