CHAPTER VIII.
“PREPARE FOR CAVALRY!”
The Rattler’s officers had reason to be proud of their little brigade of seamen and marines. In this sudden emergency they were calm, cool, and self-reliant. Their discipline and the celerity of their movements were beyond praise. It was a severe test, and they came out of it with flying colours.
As the enemy’s irregular cavalry came thundering down towards us over the broken ground, we formed square, and, with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets, stood ready to receive them. There was no time to get the baggage-animals and native drivers into the centre of the square, and so they were forced to remain huddled together in the rear—a squad of marines being told off to guard them to the best of their ability.
The horsemen seemed nothing daunted by our steadiness and military formation, but swept on at a gallop. Two of their steeds, however, stumbled badly on the rough ground and threw their riders, after which they rushed away in the direction from which they had come like mad creatures.
I was all excitement at the idea of this unexpected brush with the enemy, and drew my loaded revolver from my belt. Ned Burton was standing up just in front of me in the square, looking the essence of determination and tenacious valour. The outer ranks were kneeling. The rays of the tropical sun flashed on the serried lines of bayonets and glinted on the less polished rifle barrels.
On came the cavalry with desperate bravery. Even on that rocky ground they raised a cloud of dust. The horsemen had slung their carbines and drawn their sabres, the blades of which flashed ominously over their heads like the gleams of sheet lightning.
“Give the swabs a volley,” muttered Ned Burton, “and we’ll empty some of their saddles for ’em.”
At that very moment the order to fire was given.
Little tongues of flame and puffs of grey smoke darted from the muzzles of the rifles defending one side of the square, and the crash of a volley of musketry rang out into the air with almost deafening effect. Amid it all I seemed to hear distinctly the thunder of the chargers’ hoofs.
“Give them another volley!” shouted the gunnery lieutenant; and darting about, hither and thither, amid the blinding, choking smoke, we juniors repeated his order.
It was too late.
They were dashing horsemen these irregular cavaliers of the enemy, for our steady, well-directed fire did not check them or smash up their formation as we had expected. Though many of their saddles had been emptied, a cheer of defiance arose from their ranks as they dashed on into the curtain of smoke which enveloped us, and which the sluggish air seemed powerless to disperse. When they were almost upon us, their wings wheeled to right and left and hurled themselves upon the two side faces of the square, while the centre squadron dashed in upon the ranks where Ned Burton and I were standing awaiting the onset.
“No more cartridges; it’s steel to steel!” said my coxswain grimly, as he gripped his rifle firmly and prepared for the shock.
In another moment it came. Through the slowly-dispersing vaporous smoke I saw the towering forms of the snorting chargers and the fierce-looking, swarthy faces of their riders. Shouts of defiance and rage arose on all sides, together with the angry clash of steel as sabre and bayonet contended for the mastery, though these sounds were almost drowned in the sharp stinging reports of the revolvers brought into use at close quarters by the officers.
One naturally hesitates to speak of one’s own acts on an occasion of this sort for fear of being thought egotistical; but being bound to describe what actually occurred, I cannot avoid stating that I saved my coxswain’s life on the occasion of this cavalry charge, and I am very thankful that I had it in my power to do him that service.
It was a simple matter. Just at the point where Ned was standing and forming part of the hedge of steel, the full brunt of the cavalry charge seemed to fall, and for a few seconds I really almost feared that the face of the square would be driven in. Certainly there was a little disorder for a moment, and a swaying motion in the ranks which told its own tale. However, it was only for a moment; for it is just at these critical times that the tenacity of the British bull-dog comes into play.
Amidst the hurly-burly of the mêlée I caught sight of Ned Burton hard pressed by two horsemen. He seemed to have been brought to his knees almost under the hoofs of one of the horses, while the two horsemen were bending forward in their saddles and aiming terrific blows at his head with their sabres. Ned was endeavouring to the best of his ability to protect himself, but there was no doubt that he was in great jeopardy.
My revolver was fortunately still loaded with three cartridges, and I immediately took steady aim at the horseman nearest to Ned. No bullet ever went truer, for it pierced the man’s heart, and he fell from the saddle without even a groan and lay dead at my coxswain’s feet. His steed, recognizing that there was no longer a restraining hand on the bridle, took to his heels, and, with distended nostrils and wildly tossed mane, galloped away from the battle-field.
Almost at the moment that I had accomplished this feat, the charger of the other horseman was shot dead by one of our seamen, and his rider was thrown to the ground with some violence. I instantly rushed forward, seized the man, and demanded his surrender. Not liking the look of my revolver, the barrel of which was within a couple of inches of his temples, the fellow sullenly acquiesced, and I had him disarmed and sent into the square under an escort. Ned had nearly been crushed by the falling horse, but had fortunately escaped with a few bruises.
The square remained unbroken. On three of its faces the squadrons of horsemen had dashed like little whirlwinds, but in no case had an entrance been forced. A fierce hand-to-hand struggle had taken place for a few moments, but on every side our men were triumphant. The cavalry charge was fairly repulsed, and as the horsemen beat a hasty retreat they were terribly harassed by the withering fire of our riflemen. We had not gone unscathed, however, for one of our sub-lieutenants and a marine had been killed, and we had one man seriously and three slightly wounded. In the volley from their carbines the enemy had wasted their ammunition sadly, for not a single shot took effect, all the casualties having occurred during the hand-to-hand struggle. The enemy, we found, had suffered severely, having lost eleven men killed outright and seven horses, whilst we found upon the field eighteen wounded men, of whom five or six were mortally injured. We had also secured half a dozen prisoners, all of whom were Cuban insurgents. Needless to say, we questioned these fellows closely; but they obstinately kept their lips sealed and would divulge no secrets, though we tried to impress upon them how foolish they were to league themselves with such disreputable scoundrels as the mutineers of the Flying-fish.
The spot where this skirmish took place was not more than four miles distant from the creek where we had landed, although any view of the latter was shut out by an intervening ridge. We could see the distant blue ocean stretching away to the horizon line, and dotted here and there with the sails of passing vessels, but the Rattler and the Flying-fish were invisible.
We at once told off a party to convey the wounded back to the shores of the creek, that they might be taken on board the frigate as quickly as possible. Mr. Triggs was placed in charge of this detachment, which included the prisoners, and had orders to rejoin the main body as expeditiously as he could, so that there might be no delay.
A fatigue party was also told off to bury the dead—a mournful duty which brings forcibly to one’s mind the horrors of warring with one’s fellow-creatures.
Fitzgerald and I felt this most acutely, for we had lost a very dear messmate, and it was part of our sad task to assist to lay him in his narrow grave in this foreign land far from his home and kindred.
“It will break his mother’s heart,” said a mournful voice near us, as we began to fill up the poor fellow’s last resting-place with the sand which we had dug out.
I turned and saw that it was Dr. Grant who had spoken.
“You know her?” I said interrogatively.
The surgeon nodded assent. Then he quoted,—