“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,—
“We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,
And left him to his rest and his renown.”