Stan Lynn Part 47

"Look here," said the lad suddenly; "I think I could hit that man from here."

"Of course you could, sir," cried his lieutenant eagerly. "I saw how you were firing at first and never seemed to miss. Will you have a try?"

Stan made no reply, but stood fingering his rifle for a few moments before, to the great delight of the party of defenders, he sank down on one knee, resting the barrel of his piece upon a bale, and then waited and watched the Chinaman who was haranguing his men wildly as he stood just at the edge of the wharf, now and then raising his arms as he pointed again and again at the great store.

As he finished there was a tremendous shout, and every man of the crowd of listeners began to wave his spear or sword.

Just then the crowd opened out as if to form in two parties for a rush at the warehouse, leaving their leader standing out quite clear, his tall, commanding figure looking huge in the sunshine.

"Here they come! Look out!" arose from within, and the whole body were in motion, when--

_Crack_!

The sharp report of Stan's rifle was heard, followed by the floating up of a puff of grey smoke, and the sound seemed to act like magic, for the attacking party stood fast, staring in amazement at their chief, whose legs suddenly doubled up beneath him, and he fell back into the arms of two men who rushed forward to his help.

"Good shot!" cried several of the defenders.

"A dead man," said Stan's lieutenant.

"I was afraid I could not do it," said Stan, smiling; "but he's not a dead man, for I only fired at his legs. Look! they're carrying him on board the junk."

It was as the lad said: several of the men from the crowd went back to help, while the rest stood fast watching and waiting as if, losing their heads, they had suddenly been struck with a feeling of indecision. All the wild, savage desire for destruction had been discharged like so much electricity at the touch of a rod, and a feeling of hopefulness sprang up amongst the defenders as they could see that the whole of the attacking party were now gathered into groups talking eagerly, so that there was a low, buzzing hum instead of the chorus of savage yells and threats.

"Where's Wing?" said Stan suddenly, as a thought struck him respecting taking advantage of the lull. "I know: he is with Mr Blunt. One of you go and tell him to send the servants with anything he can get together in the way of food. Another of you bring a bucket of drinking-water up here."

The orders were carried out, and with watchful eyes and rifles ready to hand, the whole party partook of the rough refreshments pa.s.sed round, the water proving, in their excited state, the princ.i.p.al object to which they directed their attention.

Wing limped up to Stan as soon as he had performed his task, to announce that Mr Blunt had gone "fas' 'sleep. Velly weak; can'tee sit up.

Dlinkee big lot wateh."

Stan longed to go and see his chief, but duty kept him there watching the actions of the men still crowding the wharf, till some one in authority began to shout, when his followers crept up together as if for a fresh attack.

This brought the refreshing to a hasty end, every man hurrying at once to his post, but only to set up a subdued cheer, for, to Stan's intense delight, the next order seemed to be one for making the fighting-men separate into half-a-dozen different parties, as if drilled to certain movements; but it only proved to be for forming up in the divisions belonging to each junk, on to which they now began to file, either direct from the wharf or across the nearest vessels to their own.

"They've had enough of it, sir," said one of the clerks excitedly.

"Hadn't we better give them a cheer and a few parting shots?"

"No," said Stan thoughtfully; "it would only be wasting ammunition. I can't quite believe in their giving up so easily."

"Easily!" said another to one of his companions. "Not much of that.

Look at the dead and wounded."

There was no need to draw attention to the poor wretches lying about, for their horrible presence was a burden to every one in the warehouse.

Many were lying dead where they had received the fatal bullets, but many more lay where they had crawled painfully so as to get into shelter, evidently in the full expectation that if they did not get under cover they would be made the mark for fresh bullets. And oddly enough, as it seemed to the defender the cover most affected was the tea-chest wall, where those who crawled up lay close, with only a leg or arm visible to the watchers at the windows. They were, of course, so near that their groans came floating in through the openings, and now that they were _hors de combat_ Stan became exercised in his mind as to whether he ought not to take some steps to give the poor wretches water, and he suggested it to his lieutenant.

"Yes," said the latter, "I've been thinking something of the kind, sir; but it would be terribly risky work. They are savages to a man, and as likely as not they would turn upon the hand that came to their help.

You see, they're sure to have their knives and swords with them, and some of them their rifles. There, for instance," he continued, pointing through the window where they stood to the stock of a _jingal_ whose barrel was out of sight, being close under the wall where its owner lay.

"Yes, I'm afraid it would be risky; but if I went with a bucket of water and a tin dipper they never could be such wretches as to turn upon me."

"My dear sir," was the reply, "if one didn't another would. But you couldn't possibly do it."

"I could, and I should feel plenty of confidence in their seeing what I meant."

"Then your confidence would be misplaced, sir," said the man decisively.

"They'd all think you had gone out to poison them, and would turn upon you at once."

"Oh, impossible!" cried Stan. "They'd be bound to see."

"They'd see, sir," said the man firmly, "but they wouldn't understand.

Men who go about getting their living by slaughtering their fellow-creatures can't grasp the meaning of an act of self-denial.

Besides, you couldn't go."

"I could: why not?"

"Because you are captain, and can't leave your men."

Stan made an impatient gesture.

"But I could, sir," continued Lawrence quietly; "and if you order me I'll go."

Stan looked at him sharply.

"I mean it, sir," said the man, with a peculiar smile; "but all the same I hope you will not send me."

"I can't," said Stan. "How can I send you where I hold back from going myself?"

At that moment the man stretched out his hand sharply and caught the lad by the arm.

"What's that for?" said Stan sharply.

"Look in that first junk."

"Yes; I'm looking. They're getting ready to hoist sail and go--No! I see now. They're afraid to come to close quarters. They're loading that gun."

"That's right; and the crews of the other junks are at the same game."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"ONE CARTRIDGE LEFT."

There was no doubt about the matter, for as they were speaking a tiny curl of smoke began to rise from the middle of the group of busy men on the nearest junk, and Stan's voice rose, sounding hoa.r.s.e and deep:

"Begin firing again, slow and careful shots, at the men carrying the matches. Stop; I'll begin."

He took aim across the bale of silk behind which he was kneeling, and-- though he did not see it, others did plainly--the linstock flew up, jerked from the holder's hand, described a curve, and fell overboard to be extinguished.