Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the «Seafowl» Sloop. Fenn George Manville

above. Now then, Number Two – Fire!”

      There was the sharp report, followed directly by another whishing sound and a thud in the earth.

      “Spear it is,” growled May.

      “Ay, ay,” said another of the party; “and I’ve got it too!”

      “Hush! Silence there!” whispered Murray excitedly. “Not wounded, my lad?”

      “Nay, sir,” came in a subdued voice, “but it would have stuck in my shirt, on’y it was gone to tinder and wouldn’t hold nowt. Here it is, though, sir – nigger’s spear, and they can see us, though we can’t see them.”

      “From which way did it come?”

      “Way we’re going, sir,” said the man, in a muffled voice; and as he spoke once more came the whish of a well-thrown spear, making another of the men wince, and proving plainly from which direction the missile had come.

      The imminence of the fresh danger made the little party forget their sufferings, and with the quickness of highly disciplined men, they were apt to obey the orders whispered sharply by the midshipman. They fell into line, made ready, and at the command given by their officer, six muskets flashed out, sending their bullets whizzing breast high through the smoke, out of which, as if crossing them, came as many spears, this time the deadly missiles being followed by a burst of savage yells.

      “Load!” whispered Murray, as the yells were followed by a silence so strange and nerve-startling that the young officer felt his heart thump heavily against his breast.

      Then, as the whistling of the air arose caused by the driving down of the cartridges, he bethought himself and uttered a hurried question —

      “Any one hurt?”

      “Yes, sir,” came in Tom May’s familiar voice; and the midshipman, new to the heart-stirring horrors of a real engagement, waited anxiously for the man’s next words.

      “None of us, sir,” came after what seemed to be a long pause, “but some o’ them got it bad and made ’em yell and run i’stead o’ keeping on the slink.”

      “Hah!” ejaculated Murray, as he pressed his hand to his painfully throbbing breast. “I thought you meant – ”

      “Our lads, sir? Oh no; we’re all right: the enemy, sir. That volley started ’em. I heard ’em rush off quite plain. Like us to give ’em another?”

      Murray was silent as he stood straining his eyes and ears, to pierce the smoke and hear the whish of another spear.

      “No,” he said, at last, in a low tone full of relief, “waste of powder;” and then he started, and gave vent to a cry of joy. “Hear that, my lads?” For from some distance away to their left came a shout which meant in this peril-fraught position, help and the companionship of friends.

      “Ay, ay, sir,” cried Tom May.

      “Shout, lads – shout!” cried Murray excitedly; and as a hearty Ahoy! rang out the lad winced, for he felt that he had given an order which would show the enemy once more where they were, and he once more strained his senses in the full expectation of the coming of another spear.

      But he gave vent to his pent-up breath with a feeling of intense relief, as instead of the whish of a spear came another hearty “ahoy!” from certainly nearer at hand, followed by the tramp of feet and the crackling sound of charred wood.

      “Where are you?” came directly after, in a well-known voice.

      “Here, sir!” cried Murray. “Forward, my lads!” And the men followed him at the double.

      “This way,” cried the same voice. “That you, Mr Murray?”

      “Yes, sir,” replied the midshipman, halting his men in the smoke, feeling more than seeing that they were close up to their friends.

      “All your men there?”

      “Yes, sir. None hurt,” replied the lad.

      “That’s good! Spears have begun to fly, for the enemy are creeping up through the smoke. You started the huts burning, of course?” he continued, after a pause.

      “Yes, sir; burning everywhere.”

      “Exactly, Mr Murray. I think the work has been thoroughly done, and I am glad you found us, for I am getting to be at fault as to how to reach the shore. There, I can hear nothing of our friends, so you had better lead on. I suppose they have made for the boats.”

      “Lead on, sir?” faltered Murray.

      “Yes, sir,” cried the chief officer petulantly; “and don’t repeat my words in that absurd way. Haven’t we had enough of this stifling smoke?”

      “But I thought you had come to help us, sir.”

      “To help you, sir? Why, weren’t you firing to let us know the way out of this horrible furnace?”

      “No, sir – at the blacks who were hemming us in and throwing their spears. Don’t you know the way down to the boats?”

      “No, my lad,” cried the lieutenant angrily. “Tut, tut, tut! What a mess, to be sure! – Silence there! Listen. – Well,” he continued, after some minutes, during which nothing but an occasional crack from some half-burned bamboo reached their ears. “There, we must give a shout or two. I don’t know, though, Mr Murray; you said that the blacks had begun throwing their spears?”

      “Yes, sir; so did you.”

      “Yes, Mr Murray, and if we begin shouting all together we shall be bringing them again.”

      “That’s what I thought, sir.”

      “Well, what of that, sir?” cried the officer petulantly; and for the moment it seemed to the lad that his superior had caught the captain’s irritating manner. “So would any sensible person. Here, I have it! Pass the word for Mr Dempsey. The boatswain’s whistle will bring the stragglers all together.”

      “But Mr Dempsey is not with us,” suggested Murray.

      “Then where in the name of common sense is he, sir? He had his instructions – strict instructions to keep well in touch with the rest; and now in the emergency, just when he is wanted he is not to be found. Listen, all of you. Can you hear anything?”

      There was plenty to hear, for the half-burned posts of the savage town or the fragments of the forest still kept up a petillation, and flames flashed up here and there and emitted more smoke; but no one ventured to speak.

      “Bah!” ejaculated the chief officer angrily. “We shall never get out of the smoky maze like this. Now then, all together, my lads, when I give the word; a good hearty shout; but every man make ready, and at the first spear thrown fire in the direction – fire low, mind – Who’s that – Mr Murray?”

      “Yes, sir,” whispered the lad, who had suddenly laid a hand upon his officer’s arm. “I fancy I can hear the rustling of steps away to the left, as if the enemy is creeping nearer.”

      “Fancy, of course, sir!” snapped out the officer. “Bare-footed savages are not likely to be stealing amongst these red-hot ashes.”

      Bang! and directly after bang! bang! The reports of three muskets rang out in a dull half-smothered way, followed by a piercing yell and a distinctly heard rush of feet. Then once more silence, which was broken by a low hail close at hand.

      “Who’s that?” cried the lieutenant.

      “May it is, sir,” responded that individual. “Here’s one on ’em, sir, as has got it.”

      “Who is it?” whispered the lieutenant, accompanying his question with an ejaculation full of vexation.

      “Oh, I dunno, your honour – Sambo or Nigger Dick, or Pompey, sir. But he’ll never answer to his name again. Here he is, spear and all.”

      “One of the enemy whom you shot down?” said the lieutenant, in a tone full of relief.

      “Not