“Sentries on the top coming down, sir,” growled the sergeant; and Dickenson nodded again, turning to watch the two men running actively along and leaping from stone to stone, till they were pretty close to the drawn-up force, when the bugle rang out, the voices of the officers were heard, and the retiring party went off at a good swinging march.
Dickenson watched them for a few minutes without a word, while the sergeant stood with his rifle grounded and his hands resting upon the muzzle, perfectly calm and soldierly, patiently waiting for his orders, just as if he and the sergeant were to follow as a sort of rear-guard instead of to fulfil about as dangerous a task as could fall to the lot of a man, knowing too, as he did, that the enemy had been signalled as advancing—a body of men armed with the most deadly and far-reaching rifles of modern times.
“About time now, sergeant,” said Dickenson coolly.
“Yes, sir; ’bout right now, I should think.”
“I want them to have a fair start first,” continued Dickenson; “and I can’t help feeling a little uneasy about the enemy’s wounded, for there will be an awful explosion.”
“Oh, they’ll be all right, sir. Make ’em jump, perhaps, and think they’re going to be swept away.”
“I wish they were farther off,” said Dickenson; and then he uttered an ejaculation as he started aside, an example followed by the sergeant, who chuckled a little as he exclaimed:
“Wish ’em farther off, sir? So do I.”
For, following directly one after the other, two shots were fired from the shelter where the wounded Boers had been carefully laid in safety, a couple of them having evidently retained their rifles, laying them under cover till they could find an opportunity to use them.
“That’s nice and friendly, James,” said Dickenson coolly. “Forward!—under cover.”