Whin Oi say, 'Front rank!' that rank'll diliver it's foire, an'
go on wid its loadin' behind a three, moind! an' so on wid the rare. By
the powers, here the varmints come. Shtiddy min, lishten till me an' be
quoiet--Extind!"
There were some loudly beating hearts at that moment, for the enemy was
in force, and partly armed with guns of some sort. Instead of advancing
across the fields, as the defenders had hoped, they descended to the
creek, in order to find cover from the bushes on its bank, until they
reached the piece of wood. The veteran, telling his command to preserve
its formation, wheeled it to the right, and ordered perfect silence.
Leaving his rifle at his post, he slipped from tree to tree like a cat,
having thrown off his shoes for the purpose. When he returned, the
enemy, moving almost as silently, had entered the bush, but,
anticipating no sentry at that point, had sought no cover. "Shtiddy, now
min," whispered the sarjint-major; "take good aim, Front Rank, Riddy!"
Five guns rolled out a challenge to the invaders, and, before they had
time to seek cover, came, "Rare Rank, Riddy," and his own rifle led the
other four weapons of the second line.
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