Evidently they had decided on making a vigorous direct attack over the
carts. Dividing his troop into two portions, Diggle put himself at the
head of the one, Sunman at the head of the other. Arranged in a
semicircle concentric with the breastwork, at the word of command all the
men with firearms discharged their pieces; then, with shrill cries from
the natives, and a hoarse cheer from the crew of the Good Intent, they
charged in a close line up the slope.
Behind the barricade the men's impatience had only been curbed by the
quiet imperturbable manner of their young leader. But their self
restraint was on the point of breaking down when, short, sharp and clear,
the long-awaited command was given. Their matchlocks flashed; the volley
told with deadly effect at the short range of thirty paces; four or five
men dropped; as many more staggered down the slope; the rest halted
indecisively, in doubt whether to push forward or turn tail.
"Blockheads! cowards!" shouted Diggle in a fury. "Push on, you dogs; we
are four to one!"
He was now a very different Diggle from the man Desmond had known
hitherto. His smile was gone; all languor and indolence was lost; his
eyes flashed, his lips met in a hard cruel line; his voice rang out
strong and metallic. That he was no coward Desmond already knew. He put
himself in the forefront of the line, and, as always happens, a brave
leader never lacks followers.
The whole of the seamen and many of the Bengalis surged forward after
him.
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