Another low whistle—this time nearer; then the speaking of that instinct that tells us of the presence of human beings in the blackness of the night.
He slowly faced about. There within four feet of him, crouching upon the ground near the water’s edge, was a man with a rifle in his hand. Quick as a flash he threw the muzzle of his revolver in his face—remembering his surroundings, he never fired or uttered a word.
Struggling between a whisper and a low talk, breathless through, fear, came the words of Private Holmes: “For God’s sake, don’t shoot, Lieutenant; it’s me.”
The officer lowered his revolver and beckoned the man to draw nearer.
With his mouth to the Lieutenant’s ear, the soldier told that the men left behind had seen a number of moving figures in the village and trenches, not twenty-five yards away from where they were then crouching; and that he had been sent to warn his officer of his danger.
Here is where it tried the steel of “Carabao Bill.”
The two kept their positions, scarcely daring to breathe lest they be heard. A plan of operations soon formed in the mind of the resourceful young officer. He whispered to Holmes to return and have the Sergeant hold his men in readiness, with magazines filled, for an emergency should he need them.
Before Holmes had covered half the distance between the Lieutenant and the men, there was the sound as the cocking of a rifle; a second later came the flash and sharp report of a Mauser. True to his training, the soldier fell to the ground and lay motionless.
By the light of the flash Van Osdol saw the black face of the Filipino sentry who had fired.
Soon began that mumbling, chattering, rattling noise that an alarmed camp alone produces. The shrill commands of the little officers in frantic endeavor to steady their men, the patter of many shoeless feet, the breaking of rifle-stacks, and the clanking of bayonets and swords, made a medley of camp music that was hideous to hear.