“Form single rank!” commanded Brown.
There was no response. They stood there fixed like a row of chickens staring at a snake!
“Form single rank!”
He leaped at them, and broke the first rule of the service—as a man may when he is man enough, and the alternative would be black shame.
His fist was a hard one and heavy, and they felt the weight of it.
“Form single rank! Take one pace open order! Extend! Now, forward—by the right! Right dress, there!”
He marched in front of them, and they followed him for very shame, now that he had broken their paralysis.
“Halt! Port-arms! Charge bayonets!”
He was peering at something in the dark, something that chuckled and smelled horrible, and sat unusually still for anything that lived.
“Numbers One, Two, Three—left wheel—forward! Halt! Numbers Seven, Eight, Nine—right wheel—forward! Halt!”