“Yes,” said Pen; “but I believe they are waiting till it’s dark and we sha’n’t be able to see to shoot.”
“Why, the cowards!” cried Punch angrily. “The cowardly, mean beggars! Perhaps you are right; but, I say, comrade, they wouldn’t stop till it’s dark if they knew that we had only got one cartridge apiece, and that we were so stupid and giddy that I am sure I couldn’t hit. Why, last time when they came on they seemed to me to be swimming round and round.”
“Yes, it was horrible,” said Pen thoughtfully, as he tried to recollect the varied incidents of the last charge, and gave up in despair. “I wish it was all over, Punch!”
“Well, don’t be in such a hurry about that,” said the boy. “I wish the fighting was over, but to wish it was all over sounds ugly. You see, they must be precious savage with us for shooting as we have, and if they charge home, as you call it, and find that we haven’t got a shot, I want to know what we are going to do then.”
“I don’t feel as if it matters now,” said Pen despondently.
“Oh, don’t you! But I do, comrade. It’s bad enough to be wounded and a prisoner; that’s all in the regular work; but these Frenchies must be horribly wild now, and when we can’t help ourselves it seems to me that we sha’n’t be safe. You are tired, and your wound bothers you, and no wonder. It’s that makes you talk so grumpy. But it seems to me as if it does matter. Course soldiers have to take their chance, even if they are only buglers, and I took mine, and got it. Now my wound’s better, I don’t feel like giving up. I feel as if I hadn’t half had my innings. I haven’t even got to be what you are—full private. But, I say, it ain’t getting dark yet, is it?”
“No, Punch. But I feel so giddy I can hardly see.”
“Look out, then!” cried the boy excitedly. “Here they come; and you are all wrong.”
For the boy had caught sight of another rush being made, with the enemy scattered wildly; and catching up his musket, Punch fired, while it was as if mechanically and hardly knowing what he was about that Pen raised his piece and followed his companion’s example.
What ensued seemed to be part of a nightmare-like dream, during which Pen once more followed his comrade’s example; and, grasping his musket by the heated barrel he clubbed it and struck out wildly for a few minutes before he felt that he was borne down, trampled upon, and then lay half-conscious of what was going on.