An involuntary cheer of encouragement rang out from those in the boats.
“Good boys—good boys!” yelled the captain. “That’s true British, Briscoe. There, I forgive ’em all for that. Oh, if they only had something in their fists they’d drive the beggars back to the woods. Pick him up, boys, a leg or a wing apiece, and run again. Oh, Lor’ a’ mercy, gentlemen, can’t one of you shoot?”
For in those exciting moments the Indians, who had come bounding forward with a triumphant yell on seeing the white man fall, hesitated and stopped in fear and surprise when they saw that their flying enemies had halted and dashed back to rescue their messmate.
This, however, was only a momentary pause, for, recovering themselves, they yelled again and rushed forward.
It was the opportunity wanted, and almost together three guns flashed out their contents, sending a little storm of buckshot amongst the runners, who turned on the instant and began to retreat towards the woods.
“Missed!” cried the captain.
“Hit!” cried Briscoe.
“No: there’s not a man gone down,” cried the captain.
“But plenty of hits,” said Briscoe, setting the example of reloading. “Look at them rubbing their coppery hides. The shots wouldn’t penetrate at this distance.”
“Never mind: it’s stopped them, anyhow,” growled the captain. “Bravo! Good boys!” he cried, as he saw his mutinous lads carefully raise their companion, while two of the party armed themselves with big pieces of stone and formed themselves into a rearguard, backing slowly, their faces to the hesitating enemy.