We crept up to a deserted hut, made a great noise breaking our way through a fence behind it, and were bothered by a lot of beastly dogs rushing at us, till I gave one of them a jolly good "welt" in the head with my boot, and they all ran off yelping. We went scrambling over rough ground, and stumbling over what seemed like heaps of broken crockery, and then we came to a ditch. I was so "mad" angry, that I simply slid straight down into it, and had to swim one or two strokes, and nearly got my feet caught up by weeds; but I didn't care in the least, and only worried lest my revolver cartridges were not water-tight.
Two of the men wouldn't face it, and went along the side to find an easier place, and I never saw them again. At the other side there was a high mud wall, and we skirted along it till it came to an end, and then we suddenly turned a corner and came upon four or five men standing watching the flames. They yelled and fled, and we went after them as hard as we could go; but they were running away from the flames, and were not the men we wanted, so I pulled up, and waited till the marines had got their breath. Right away inland we could hear a lot of rifle-firing and then some volleys.
"That's the Gunnery Lootenant an' 'is little lot, sir," one of the men whispered, and I recognized his voice. It was Martin, one of the sentries in the gunroom "flat". We used to plague the life out of him.
We couldn't see the flames now, only a few sparks rushing up, and thought that the fires must be dying down; but I felt certain that we were right behind them, and that those brutes who had made me run must be close to us now.
CLOSE FIGHTING
I don't quite know why—it may have been because we couldn't see the flames, or because I was wet through and cold again, or because we could hear people running about near us in the dark, without being able to see them—but I forgot all about being so brave, and felt frightened, and was jolly glad when I heard the bugle sound the "close". I wasn't certain which way to go, for I funked that ditch, and didn't think we could have found our way back there. Whatever it was, we found ourselves going straight towards the sparks, came up against another wall, turned round the end of it, and then found that that was what had prevented us seeing the flames. They were still making a great light, and in between them and us there was a crowd of Chinamen. We could see their heads showing like black discs, and they were all jabbering together, with their backs to us.
I don't know who started—I didn't—but we all began shouting and charging down at them. They had just time to turn round before we were on top of them. The men let off their rifles, and I pulled the trigger of my revolver, and haven't the least idea whether it went off or not. They must have thought that all the demons in the world were after them, for they opened out and let us through; but directly we had rushed past and came into the light, they saw that we were only five, and came howling after us. Right in front of me a man jumped up with a rifle and let it off almost in my face. He didn't touch me, but probably hit some of his own people, and before he could fire again I had hold of the barrel with one hand, and was banging him in the face with my revolver, though that didn't seem to hurt him. He was just going to pull the rifle out of my hands, when I heard Martin curse and swing his rifle down on his head, and he fell so suddenly that I fell on top of him.
Before I could get up again, someone had thrown himself on top of me, and began clawing hold of my windpipe. I felt my ears beginning to sing; but then he gave a gurgle and a squirm, and his fingers loosened, and as I crawled out I saw Martin trying to pull his bayonet out of him, holding him down with his foot whilst he tugged at the rifle. Before he could get it out, a huge fellow sprang at him with his rifle clubbed. I sang out, and he just managed to turn his head in time, but got an awful blow on his shoulder which knocked him over. The man jumped at him again, but one of the other three marines was on him in a moment, struck at him with his bayonet, and caught him just under the armpit. There was a frightful yell and he fell, and I seized his rifle, pointed it at the crowd, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Hardly knowing what I did, I shot the bolt backwards and forwards and pulled again. The magazine must have been loaded, for it went off then and hit a brute who was running at me, somewhere in the leg. I know that it hit him there, because he stumbled, and sat holding on to it, and I quite well remember thinking that it served him jolly well right. The other three marines were close to me, and Martin scrambled to his feet, trying to twist his bayonet off his rifle to use as a dagger, because one arm was useless. The others were jabbing with their bayonets, springing out, thrusting, and springing back again, and parrying and trying to keep a circle clear. One of them (Tuck) threw up his arms and fell face downwards. I saw his fingers dig into the earth. Then something struck me on the left arm, just as if it had been struck by a wooden hammer, and the Chinaman's rifle fell out of my hands. I stooped down to pick it up, but couldn't—I remember that perfectly.
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