How our men cheered, as they dashed on to the work of death! A true British cheer. The king heard it and trembled.
For a time it was a hand-to-hand tussle. But look yonder, in a more open space the captain himself has fallen, and three armed savages are on him instantly; two have spears—one is about to dash Flint's brains out with the butt-end of a beggarly Brummagen gun, when in the nick of time Creggan, who is near at hand, fires, and the fellow, with arms aloft, falls dead. Then, cutlass in hand, our hero rushes at the other two, as did the wild cat at his neck on that starlit night long ago, when he was returning home with dear Matty by his side. He has cut one across the neck with terrible effect, but the very strength and impulse of the blow, somehow, makes poor Creggan stumble and fall.
Next moment savage No. 3 has a spear very near to his chest indeed.
Yes; but the captain has now sprung up,—he was merely stunned,—the spear is splintered with the first blow, the second cleaves the savage's skull through to the eyes.
"God bless you, boy," cried Flint, "for your timely aid! I'll not forget it."
And blood-dripping hands are shaken there and then.
But how goes the battle?
Ah! right bravely. You can tell that by the royal cheers of Jack and Joe.
The foe reels backwards, wavers, flies. No use for blue-jacket or marine to follow. These fiends run swift as deer!
But shells and war-rockets do dread work now, and sadly thin the ranks of those shrieking fiends.