They came to a halt behind us, and laid down their wounded very gently.
"There's no one behind us, I think," "B.-T." shouted to Whitmore. "But just look at that fog! It's hidden the Omaha since we've been up here."
"Where's the Skipper?" I asked him.
"Taking charge of the rearguard. This job isn't exciting enough for him. They'll have all their work cut out to get back to us, and I don't know what will happen if we get many more wounded."
I had to go back to my men then, as I saw the rearguard already on its way, fat little Rashleigh toddling along in front of two companies from the left of the two little hills, and the Maxim section rushing their gun towards us. From the right the rest of the rearguard commenced their retreat, and I saw "Old Lest's" great broad shoulders swaggering back, with Parkinson, as thin as a lamp-post, striding along beside him, and "Blucher" slinking between them.
Contrary to Whitmore's opinion, they had very little trouble in extricating themselves, because the ground was so flat on the other side of those two little hills, that the Chinese had not dared to come to close quarters, and they were more than halfway towards us before the enemy occupied the slopes they had just evacuated, and stayed there, contenting themselves with opening a very heavy but miserably directed fire. They made rotten shooting.
I felt that we had now got over by far the worst part of the show, all except the beastly fog part, which had already hidden the line of the shore a mile away, with its advance guard of feathery mist quickly creeping along the ground towards us.
The Skipper came along grunting and growling, lighting another cigar, and highly pleased with himself and everything else so far; but when he saw the fog he stormed and cursed.
"'Old Lest' won't worry about those chaps behind him. He'll march straight for the shore," he grunted, and sent Parkinson and the gunboat's brigade straight ahead, and ordered my marines and "B.-T.'s" bluejackets to remain in the rear. He took charge of the rearguard himself, but practically gave the job to me. I suppose that he knew that I had conducted many skilful retreats across the exercise ground at Forton Barracks, so would know all about it.
Anyhow, it was a great compliment to me, and old Whitmore was as sick as a cat with a fish bone in its throat, only he tried not to show it.