A FIGHT FOR LIFE.
It was a ticklish moment, but the surgeon was coolness itself.
“Stand steady, Darcy!” he cried to me in resolute tones, as he drew his
sword from its sheath. “Empty your revolver amongst them, my boy, and
be careful to take steady aim.”
I must confess that I felt a little flurried at this moment, though I
tried hard to pull myself together, knowing how much depended upon my
coolness and resolution. This attack by a detachment of the enemy was
so sudden, and was made in such a determined manner, that it is small
wonder that my presence of mind deserted me for a few moments.
Charlie tried in vain to rise, and then sank back in an exhausted state.
“Give me a weapon to defend myself with,” he said hoarsely; “I won’t
be killed without a struggle, weak as I am.”
My friend’s faltering voice and pathetic request helped to recall
my wits, and braced up my nerves like a powerful tonic. I darted to
the dead blue-jacket’s side, and gained possession of his rifle and
cutlass. The latter I handed to Charlie with the remark, “We’ll defend
you, old chap, but you may as well have this bit of steel in your
fist.” Then I glanced hurriedly at our approaching foes. They were
only twenty yards distant. Every moment was precious indeed. There had
been no time for me to obtain cartridges from the dead man’s pouch,
but I now hastily opened the breech of the rifle and discovered, to my
delight, that it was loaded. Without a moment’s hesitation I dropped
on one knee, levelled the piece, and took careful aim at one of the
leading desperadoes.
A jet of flame issued from the muzzle of the rifle as I pressed the
trigger, and then a little puff of sulphurous smoke. At almost the same
moment the man at whom I had aimed sprang several feet from the ground
in a sort of convulsive bound, and then fell heavily to the earth a
lifeless corpse.
Unfortunately the surgeon had no pistols with him.
“Well done, my boy!” he cried, as he saw the effect of my shot; “that’s
reduced the odds against us, at any rate.”
“Do give us a hand, Jack,” cried Charlie, making a fresh but equally
futile attempt to struggle to his feet. “I’m sure I can do something to
help.”
“Just you shut up, Charlie!” I said angrily; “you’re only balking me at
the moment when—”
I broke off short, for a bullet from a pistol whizzed so close to my
head that it almost grazed my temple.
Two of our antagonists, who possessed pistols, had opened fire upon us
at almost point-blank range. It was fortunate for us that they were so
poorly supplied with firearms. Had it been otherwise, our chances of
success would have been slender indeed.
The surgeon stood unscathed, his bright sword-blade flashing in
the sunlight. He was a Scotsman, tall, lithe, muscular, and a very
good fencer. I felt sure that he would make very short work of an
indifferent swordsman, however powerful an individual the latter might
be. For all we knew, however, the unprepossessing men who were bearing
down upon us might be adepts at wielding the cutlasses which they were
waving defiantly in the air as they bounded along.
“Blaze away with your revolver, my lad!” shouted the doctor. “Don’t let
them all come to close quarters.”
I had already taken aim with my Colt, trusting to make another gap
in the little detachment before it rushed in upon us. Sharply the
report rang out, the surgeon gave an exultant shout, and as two
villanous-looking fellows charged in upon us with glaring eyeballs and
features distorted with rage, I caught a hasty glance of the man I had
covered with my pistol writhing on the ground and uttering horrible
imprecations. I afterwards discovered that I had shot him in the right
shoulder, and had thus effectually debarred him from taking part in the
conflict.
The odds were thus made even, but I felt that even man for man we had
our work cut out for us, for both our antagonists, though rather below
middle size, were square-built, powerful-looking fellows. Their brawny,
sunburnt throats and chests were bare, and the rolled-up sleeves of
their loose jackets displayed muscles and sinews of which any athlete
might have been proud.
I had again levelled my revolver, hoping to get in another shot; but
before I could take proper aim or press the trigger, my invaluable
little weapon was struck from my hand by a blow from the cutlass
of the man who had singled me out for attack. Most fortunately my
hand escaped injury, for I was quite sure that my opponent had fully
intended to sever it from my arm at the wrist. Stepping back a pace, I
hurriedly shifted my sword from my left hand to my right, and brought
it to the first guard, keeping my eyes warily fixed upon the dark,
cruel orbs of my savage-looking antagonist. It flashed like lightning
through my brain that, by great good luck, I was not pitted against an
expert swordsman, for I saw him again raise his cutlass in order to
deliver a swashing blow instead of making a straight and direct lunge
at my heart.
“I’ll have him now!” I muttered, feeling all the self-confidence of
a youngster who had not reached his seventeenth year; and with great
promptitude I shortened my sword and drove the sharp point straight
at his breast, just as he had unwarily left it exposed by raising his
brawny arm to cut me down. I _ought_ to have got that point home. By
all the laws of fence my antagonist’s life was at my disposal, and he
should have been stretched upon the sward at my feet; but as ill luck
would have it—we always attribute our misfortunes to ill luck, don’t
we?—I slipped on a patch of wet grass, and fell prostrate at the very
feet of my foe, my nose coming into violent contact with a hard mound
of earth.
Although this _contretemps_ was most unexpected, and the shock
considerable, I had presence of mind enough to keep a firm grip of my
sword. One does not lightly part with a firm and trusty friend.
But oh, how well I remember, even at this distance of time, the awful
thought passing swiftly through my brain, “I’m helplessly in the power
of my antagonist, and he’ll assuredly kill me.”
A boy, however, does not give in while there’s a chance left, slight
and remote as it may be, and even as the thought recorded above flashed
through my mind I struggled to rise. As I turned my head I saw, to my
horror, that my foe, with a cruel and exultant smile on his lips, was
on the point of running me through with a downward stabbing blow. It
was impossible to avoid this thrust in my helpless position, and I
felt an icy feeling of despair at my heart. Then the sharp crack of a
revolver—to my intense astonishment—cleft the air, and the next moment
the fellow who had been so intent upon finishing me off fell across me
with a terrific thud, and I lost consciousness from the violence of the
shock.