“The last two, Mister Archie!” panted Peter in a low tone. “Let ’em have ’em, sir, and then be ready. I’ve got another rifle and bay’net. Fire, and chuck the Doctor’s gun at them and hooroar! We will die game!”
“Close up!” roared the Major desperately, as he stood sword in hand, ready to give point. “Stand fast, and let the black-hearted cowards spit themselves upon your bayonets.—What’s that?” he cried.
“A fresh body of ’em, sir, coming round to right and left.”
“That you with your bad news, Sergeant?” cried the Major half-laughingly. “Good-bye, my lad! Good man! Brave soldier! But we’ve done our best, and they’ll say it was bravely done at home.—Form square! Rally!” he roared, as he now raised his sword on high.—“Well done, subaltern—and you too, boy,” he added, as right and left, with lowered rifles, Archie and Peter helped to close him in.
Yell, yell, yell, came in a savage roar, as, like a dark wave flashed with scarlet and amber yellow, two lines of spear—armed Malays in admirable military order charged round the two angles of the mess-room right and left; and as the tiny square stood firm, it was to see the new-comers dash wildly past and tear away right before them in a fierce charge upon the advancing enemy, whose attack that had meant the extinction of the brave defenders was now turned into a repetition of the sham-fight’s rout, as they scattered in wild retreat across the parade-ground and made for the jungle.
The defenders stood, with presented blood-stained bayonets, in bewildered silence for a time, and too much astounded to cheer as they watched the smart, bright military charge of the new enemy, for it seemed impossible to believe that these were others than a fresh party who were making some terrible mistake.
They watched then as the fresh, bright line with glittering spears tore on, driving the enemy before them, till the latter began to plunge in amongst the jungle trees, or made for one or other of the paths, when all at once a wild, shrill cry rang out, and, as if by magic, the new, well-drilled force stopped short as though in obedience to the loud, familiar sound of a British bugle. This was answered by two more, one from the path nearest to the river, the other away from the direction of the village campong; and in response to these three calls came as many crashing volleys, while as the smoke arose it was to display a motley crowd of the enemy returning in wild excitement, driven back by the check, to be met in their retreat by the spears of their new foes.
What followed was a short and desperate encounter, in which the retiring foe turned wildly again to reach the shelter of the jungle, but only to meet the quick, scattering fire of the advancing detachments, which, as if from some carefully planned manoeuvre, but which Peter called chance, were now advancing in the nick of time.
The fight was over, for, hemmed in now, Rajah Suleiman’s despairing force threw down their arms in appeal for mercy, crushed, beaten, half-destroyed.