Under a raking fire from the advancing insurgents, the hill was gained at last. The guns were soon rushed to the summit. As they gained it, to the westward of the town firing began. Another small hill in that direction burst into smoke and flame. The heavy booming of the guns was distinctly borne to their ears.
The other section of the insurgent army was taking up the attack at that point. A short distance from the hill, de Guzman, seeing that it was impossible for him to cut off the government artillery, halted his troops. As a means of harassing the enemy by every means possible, he ordered a raking fire on the gunners, as they began to operate the machine guns. Man after man was mowed down as he worked at the guns. It began to look as if, after all, the Hill of the Ten Saints might become the scene of a disastrous rout. The native troopers, easily influenced by a turn of luck one way or the other, began to waver. Ned could see that it only needed a little more to throw them into a complete panic. Revolver in hand, he rushed up to the gunners, urging them to their work. From the boxes he seized, with his own hands, the long bands of ammunition—six hundred shots to a band—and fed them into the breeches of the guns.
“Now, pull the triggers,” he shouted.
From one or two of the guns a raking fire opened, but even as it started it was stopped by de Guzman’s sharpshooters.
“We’ve got to dislodge those fellows from that position!” exclaimed Ned to the native commander. The other nodded.
“But our guns, senor. We must protect them. If the insurgents seize them, we should be powerless.”
“You leave me the artillery to look after,” exclaimed the boy excitedly, “and take your infantry round on de Guzman’s flank. That will give me a chance to get this battery in shape.”
The officer nodded. He saw and understood Ned’s strategy. It was, in fact, the one chance they had of holding the position.
“They’re throwing up trenches!” exclaimed Herc suddenly, pointing down the road.