The rest of them were more plucky, and carried on unloading the wagons, but by the time they were empty, and all the ammunition had been carried across to the guns, the fleet had anchored two miles below us and past the town. Almost immediately the troops began coming ashore from the transports, and the insurgent officers worked themselves into a tremendous state of excitement, gesticulating and pointing down to the cruisers, and getting their two guns' crews round the guns. We thought that they would open fire in a minute, so climbed up the slope between them, and lay there to watch what would happen. What did happen was that a shell came along and burst in some trees close by, making a most beastly noise, and when we looked round, both the guns' crews were squirming on their bellies. 'Why the dickens don't you open fire?' we yelled, and Barton and Sarah Jane jumped down and began kicking them. They pulled an officer out from under one of the guns and shook him, singing out, 'Fire! Fire! Bang! Bang!'
'Mucho malo! mucho malo!' was all he could jolly well say, he was shaking all over, and when another shell came lolloping along over our heads, he bolted under the gun again like a rabbit.
'On the word "action," officers hide under their guns,' the 'Angel' laughed.
The troops were simply pouring ashore all this time, and though we couldn't actually see them land, on account of the trees near the sea, we were in an awful funk, because hardly any of Cousin Gerald's men had got back to the town yet.
We tried to make those cowardly brutes fire, but they wouldn't; they were afraid of the ships spotting them, I suppose, or perhaps they were afraid of the guns bursting or doing something like that.
'Come on, you chaps,' the 'Angel' sang out, 'let's show 'em the way. We'll do it ourselves.'
We tumbled down from the slope, threw off our coats, Barton rushed away to the second gun, with Blotchy Smith, Sarah Jane, Young Lawson, and four more, singing out that he bet us a sardine supper in the gun-room that his gun made first hit, and the 'Angel' and I, the Inkslinger and the rest, rolled up our sleeves, pushed the natives out of the way, and fell in behind the gun.
Oh! it was a lark if you like.
The 'Angel' stood on the trail and squinted through the telescopic sight, I lugged open the breech, somebody jammed in a shell, the Inkslinger pushed in a brass cylinder after it, I whanged the breech-block back with a bang, hung on to the firing lanyard, and shouted out 'ready!' whilst the rest of them tried to train the gun, the 'Angel' singing out all the time, 'right,' 'right a little,' 'stop, you idiots,' 'left.'
'Do let me fire the first shot,' the Clerk squeaked.