We, Ritchie and I, scaled our first defence and mounted the second, only to see “Birnam wood” advancing, so to speak.
“All hands here, quick?” cried Ritchie.
In a few minutes, nay moments, we were firing at the advancing wood. It was too late. The pile was made and speedily lighted, and the smoke and sparks went rolling over us.
This was their plan, then. We were to be burned out or smoked out, like rats from a hole.
In this battle betwixt civilisation and savagery, the former had hitherto got the advantage. Was all this to be changed? It would seem so.
The natives retreated now. They had but to wait till our position became untenable, and slay us as we sought safety in flight. Flight? Yes, but whither?
The fire began to burn fiercely. In a few moments more the ramparts had caught, and now it was time for action.
We determined to hold our fort as long as possible, then make our last—our final sortie. We tore down the lee side of the inner bulwark, and crouched on the ground close to the rock; and it is well we did, for just then a whole shower of arrows flew over our heads.
“That is good, men,” cried Ritchie. “The arrows come from the direction of the creek. Stand by to rush out when I give the order.”
I missed Jill from my side. The kindly boy, even in the midst of the fire and fighting, had not forgotten the dogs, and had gone to let them loose.