THE BROWN MEN AT BAY----FOR HOW LONG?
If Sergeant Hal, or any other soldier in that detachment of sixty men,
had felt any nervousness before the fight started, everyone of them had
forgotten it by this time.
So far, not a man had they lost, and none had been even lightly hit. The
bravery of soldiers is usually founded on their confidence in their
officers. Every man in the detachment now knew that Lieutenant Richard
Prescott was an officer who would do all that lay before him to do, yet
an officer who would not needlessly sacrifice the life or safety of any
man in his command. That discovery by the men goes far to make an
officer capable. Let the men once think their commander careless about
slaughter, and they will not respond as quickly.
"Men," presently spoke the young officer, as coolly and slowly as though
he were explaining a manoeuvre in his once favorite game of football,
"we have now to reach the house yonder, and there's a likelihood of our
being fired upon when we move forward. When I give the order you'll run
slowly, at the gait set by Sergeant Overton, who will be ahead of you.
If you hear the command to lie down, drop in your tracks. But let no
man lie down until he hears the word. We may have to employ half a dozen
rushes in reaching the house. Rise! Sergeant Overton to the front.
Forward! Charge!"
Steadily and gallantly the little line swept forward. Hal Overton, who
knew the pace exactly, went forward at a trot that did not vary by as
much as a step to the minute.
In the distance half a dozen rifles popped out singly. Some of the
bullets whistled by, others struck the ground near them, ploughing up
the dirt.
If any soldier looked for Lieutenant Prescott to order them down, he was
in error. Another hundred yards they covered. Then a volley rang out
from the men hidden in the grove, and Private Danes dropped, though
without a cry.
"Lie down!" shouted Prescott steadily, though he remained with his field
glass to his eyes, searching the grove. "Sergeant Overton, see how badly
Danes is hurt."
Hal strode over to where the wounded man lay.
"Oh, it ain't nothing, Sarge," growled Private Danes disgustedly. "Just
enough to give me a toothache in the hip."
Yet the poor fellow pointed to a bloodstained spot right over the center
of the hip bone. Danes's left leg would never again be sound enough to
march with his comrades. Perhaps the man realized it, but he was a
soldier, and therefore made no fuss.
"You'll have to lie quiet, Danes," returned Sergeant Hal. "We'll get you
out of this."
Just then Private Kelly raised his head for a look at the adjacent
grove.
As he did so a shot rang out over in the grove and Kelly uttered an
exclamation of disgust.
"Hit, Kelly?" queried Sergeant Hal, stepping over to him.
Private Kelly spat out two loose front teeth and some blood.
"Ye see what happened, Sarge," retorted Kelly. "It's a good thing the
fellow drew a bead on me profile. But I ain't kicking at getting a
dentist's services for nothing. No, that ain't my kick."
"What is wrong, then?" laughed Hal.
"Why, that blamed bullet was hot, and the Moro made me swallow it! It
was so hot that it burned all the way down! Got any ice, Sarge?"
A burst came from a dozen distant rifles at once. Bullets tore through
the air around Lieutenant Prescott as he stood, still with his field
glass to his eyes. Looking around, however, he saw Hal standing, and
commanded severely:
"If you're through with your work, Sergeant Overton, lie down. Ready,
men, for just one volley. Load; aim--at the front timber line of that
grove. Fire!"
Hardly had the crashing volley ripped out when again the young officer's
voice was heard:
"Rise, forward, charge!"
This time the line moved with a yell, the two men who carried Danes
yelling as loudly as the rest.
"Halt! Lie down!"
They were within two hundred yards of the Seaforth house now. The front
door of that building had been thrown open, though no one appeared as
yet in the doorway.
It began to look as though the Moros had withdrawn, or else were waiting
for something, for no shots came from the enemy.
Again, at command, the detachment rose and rushed forward, this time
without cheering.
"Lie down!"
Uncle Sam's men dropped in their tracks, close to the house.
Now, Seaforth, the planter, appeared in the doorway.
"Captain, I hope I needn't tell you that you and your men are welcome,"
came Seaforth's greeting. He was hardly a middle-aged man, but three
years of planter's life in Mindanao had brought deep gray streaks into
his hair.
"I've a wounded man to bring inside," announced young Prescott.
"Bring him right in, sir; we'll make him as comfortable as we can."
Private Danes fainted while being lifted and carried into the house. He
was soon after revived, however. The two men who had brought him in now
used a first-aid package in dressing the wound, after they had washed
it.
In the meantime Lieutenant Prescott discovered that none of the whites
in the house had been hit, though one of the loyal Moro defenders of the
house had been killed and two others wounded.
Then the lieutenant told of Edwards's death. A young woman in the room
promptly fainted.
"That's Miss Daly, the school teacher," explained Mr. Seaforth. "She and
Edwards were engaged to be married."
Outside more shots sounded. Lieutenant Prescott ran to the door.
Sergeant Hal, however, had detailed twenty of his men to answer the
fire, whenever they saw anything to shoot at, while the others had been
ordered to get to work with their intrenching tools.
This tool, in appearance, is about half way between a bayonet and a
trowel. With it a soldier can lie on the ground, digging and throwing up
dirt before him, while he opens a shallow trench in which to lie and
conceal himself from the enemy's fire.
"Don't waste any ammunition, Sergeant. Have your men shoot to hit,"
directed the officer. "I'm going back into the house, but send for me if
you see any suspicious move on the part of the Moros."
"Yes, sir," and Sergeant Overton turned his face towards the enemy.
Though he made his men remain prostrate on the ground, Hal Overton stood
up. He was using the lieutenant's field glass.
The walls of the planter's house were riddled with bullets, for this
house had not been constructed as a fort. Along the outer walls,
however, bags of earth had been piled in such a way as to afford
comparative safety to the defenders.
"Those of us who weren't fighting," explained Mr. Seaforth, "have been
engaged for hours in digging dirt in the cellar and bringing it up in
the sacks. But it was a fearful morning until you arrived. Now, our only
danger is from a stray bullet. The Moros won't come any closer--they
won't dare to charge the house with such a force of troops here to
defend the place."
[Illustration: Lieutenant Prescott Climbed One of the Wooden Porch
Columns.]
"Not unless the rascals are reinforced," replied Prescott. "There is no
telling how many of the natives are concerned in this uprising.
Hello--pardon me a moment."
Through the open doorway Prescott had caught sight of something moving
down the highway. He ran speedily outside, got his glasses from Sergeant
Hal and returned to the porch, where he climbed one of the wooden
columns. Now he brought the glass to his eyes.
"What do you see?" asked Mr. Seaforth.
"I see," chuckled the lieutenant quietly, "that it was well for us that
we left the road and came through the forest. Yonder are at least two
hundred Moros marching along. There, they are debouching into the forest
and will soon be added to the attacking party here. Those fellows went
down the road to ambush us on the way, for they received a signal that
we were on the road. We fooled them, but we shall have to reckon with
them here, and within fifteen minutes. Mr. Seaforth, send all your
people down into the cellar of the house. There they will be safe. This
is a job for the Army alone!"
"But----"
"I am in command here, sir, and I direct you to send all of your own
people to the cellar at once. That will free our minds of any dread for
the safety of your people, and will leave us open to handle the problem
that is coming to us."
Then, quite regardless of the fine mark that he presented to possible
sharpshooters over in the grove, Lieutenant Prescott stepped outside.
"Sergeant Overton!"
"Sir?"
Hal stepped beside his officer. Thereupon the enemy's riflemen took
heart and drove in a score of bullets. Lieutenant Prescott's hat was
shot from his head. Two bullets passed through the edge of the
sergeant's right trousers' leg, one hole showing just above the other.
The back of Hal's left hand was grazed just enough to show the blood.
The stick that the lieutenant carried was cut in two by a bullet and
half of the stick carried away from him.
"Sergeant," chuckled the lieutenant, "you've heard the expression,
'observed of all observers.' Now you know just how it feels."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, we've got to be quick, Sergeant. We must throw our men all around
the house, and dig trenches as fast as we can. Unless I miss my guess,
the enemy will--well, what?"
"The Moros will try to overwhelm us with a reckless charge, sir,"
answered the young sergeant.