He recoils suddenly from the gun, staring. Is he dreaming? The storming party is not making for that part of the palisade at which the monster has been hurling its iron wrath, but for the strongest section of the pa, at which never a shot has been fired, whence never a spicule of wood has been torn. What can it mean? "Are they all gone mad?" he groans; and a wrathful growl answers him, "Colonel's orders, sir."[63]
Phillpotts scarcely hears. If his men are to be sent to death in that fashion, he is not going to lag behind. On he runs. His men have covered half of the distance; but he is close upon them, and catches back his breath for an encouraging shout, when a line of light sparkles along the ground in front, and from under the pekerangi, or outer fence, a hundred balls of lead, invisible, but whining viciously, speed towards their billets.
The foremost soldiers are down. Some of the sailors go down, too. But Phillpotts is up with them now; no—ahead of them, where he wished to be, and his cheery voice comes to them through the din, "Keep at it, men! Down with those palisades!" And with one long, strong pull the tars bring down full fifty feet of the pekerangi.
Alas! that does but little good; for they are face to face with those mighty tree-trunks, whose fellows not even the great gun has been able to demolish. This fence is set so deeply in the soil that human strength avails not to pull it down. It is loopholed, too, and every aperture spits death at the brave fellows who fall and fall and fall; but will not run.
Ah! What is that? A roar, as of a wild beast springing upon its prey, and a big gun, unsuspected before, belches from an embrasure round shot and chain and scrap iron almost in the faces of the bewildered men. The space between the two fences is a shambles now; but they will not run, and Phillpotts is on his feet still.
They might go now. They have done enough for honour. Why does not the bugler blow the "Retire"? If he does, those stern fighters do not hear it; or, if they hear, they do not heed; for Phillpotts is running along that impassable fence, seeking for a way through.
By Heaven! He has found one! But what a way! The embrasure through which but now a heavy gun poked its ugly muzzle. Hardly large enough for a child to climb through, much less a man. But with a shout to his tars Phillpotts is up and wriggling through, and his cheering men are under him, each striving to be the first up and after his leader.
Phillpotts is almost through, and a dozen muskets are emptied in his face. But such is the perturbation of the Maori at sight of that solitary, well-known figure, threatening now to leap into their midst, and shouting "Follow, lads! Follow!" that every man there misses him. And still he struggles in that narrow way, shouting "Follow!"
A single shot rings out, clearly heard in a momentary cessation of the hideous din. It is fired by a mere boy; but it does its work, and Phillpotts without a cry falls dead, still grasping his sword.
