“Yes, they could, Strake,” cried Syd, excitedly. “Once they were on the rock they could climb up, and—yes, they’d come over by the flagstaff.”
“I tell yer the young swab dreamt it.”
“Ahoy! help!”
Bang! bang! Bang! bang!—Pistol-shots from high up by the flagstaff; and as the men seized their cutlasses and pistols, and, with Syd and Roylance at their head, advanced up the gap to meet this treacherous attack from the rear, there was the clash of steel, the sounds of struggling, then a momentary silence, followed by a few sharp orders, and the rattling noise of stones told that a strong party of men were coming down the rough path from the flagstaff.
“Forward, my lads!” cried Roy lance; “we may beat them back.”
The men gave a cheer, and advanced quickly, the excitement of all taking them from the battery, which was left defenceless.
As they advanced, the old feeling of terror that he had always felt when about to engage in a school-fight was for a few moments in Sydney’s breast; then the eager excitement carried all away, and, sword in hand, he ran on with his men.
Directly after there was the shock and confusion of the two parties meeting, with stray shots, the clatter of sword against sword, with sparks flying in the darkness, and the shouts and cheers of contending men.
What he did Syd never knew, for everything was centred in the one idea that he was leading his father’s men, and that he must try and be brave. And if being brave meant rushing on with them right at the descending Frenchmen, he was brave enough.
So vigorous was the rush, and so desperate were the little English party at being surprised in so sudden a fashion, that the first group of the enemy were driven backward toward the path by which they had climbed down. But more and more were hurrying from above to their help, the officers threw themselves to the front, and the flight was stayed, while quite a series of single combats began to take place.