“Shove off,” Phil ordered harshly.
The boats cleared the gangway. The sailors dipped their oar blades, ready to follow the leading boat in which was Phil and the trusty Colt.
“Come back here,” the lieutenant cried, seeing he had gone too far. But Phil’s jaw was set and he turned to him a deaf ear.
“It’s his own fault,” Phil confided to O’Neil at his side. “I didn’t order his men in the boats; they got in without orders, as any decent men would do. What is it, O’Neil, just pure cold feet?” he asked suddenly.
“Partly that, sir,” O’Neil answered, “but Lieutenant Tillotson is not a coward; he’s just overcautious and a bit of a braggart. He didn’t like attacking in the dark.”
The four boats pulled with oars muffled in toward the dim shore. Phil steered his boat for a point behind the long fringe of flashes, where the insurgent firing line was established, creeping ever closer to the handful entrenched behind walls that would soon be too hot to hold them. He had abandoned his first plan and now was landing all of his mixed command to the left of the town. If he could land without discovery, the first the enemy would know of his presence would be the horrifying, crackling report of the machine gun.
“There, steer for that,” Phil breathed as a mound-like hill took shape out of the darkness.
With eyes straining and faculties alert for the first premonition of danger, Phil directed his boat forward. The gunboat had been swallowed up in the night astern. The shore grew more distinct. The church now stood out prominently, silhouetted against the background of flames from the burning convent. Even as he gazed the gun fire from the church seemed to slacken and against the bright glow he could see indistinctly natives swarming toward the burning building. Their number seemed myriad; surely those could not be all riflemen. Then he turned cold as he suddenly grasped the sinister meaning—they were bolo-men. For each rifleman, at least four natives armed with bolos are assigned. They are the guardians of the precious rifle. To obtain an insurgent gun, five men must be slain. These men, armed with weapons in the use of which every native is proficient, were advancing to rush upon the trapped men when the heat of the fire and the smoke had driven them from the shelter of the church’s protecting walls.
So intent had Phil been that the boat, before he realized it, had grounded on the sandy beach and the men had jumped overboard into the shallow water. Once on the beach, he superintended the securing of the boats and then led the way toward the point he had selected for the first position to be occupied. The enemy were only a few hundred yards away, but so intent were they on the accomplishment of their cruel purposes, that the shadowy forms of the men from the sea, stealing quietly through the short grass and against a background of darkness, were not discovered.
Phil’s quick eyes suddenly discovered some one approaching from a direction away from the enemy. He gripped his revolver firmly, not knowing how many more men might be behind the figure discovered. As the Americans approached the newcomer, a native suddenly raised his hand and called loudly: