"Halt! Who goes there!"
A shot rang out in the stillness of the night; it was answered at once by another closer in. More shots followed, gradually increasing to a fusillade as the scouts and pickets came running back. Men sprang up from the ground, but even as they did so another volley reached them, and three men dropped with a groan and lay still. The alarm sounded clear from the bugle and echoed back from the surrounding hills. A sharp command came from the throat of the sergeant; the company seized the stacked rifles. Captain Groce gave another order; the formation to repel attack was made in an incredibly short space of time. There was no disorder; no confusion. The little officer was as cool as if on dress parade.
"Steady, men! Wait until they're nearer!" They had not long to wait. From all sides a horde of shouting, firing men were rushing on the little square. "Steady, men!" was still his only command.
Then, when it seemed almost a physical impossibility to restrain their itching fingers from pulling the triggers, the longed for word was given.
"Here they are! Now, then, boys, fire!"
Volley after volley rang out. The foremost of the enemy fell at their feet. Hand to hand was the fighting; the bayonets lunged with deadly effect, but seemed powerless to thrust the mass back on itself. Men shot, hacked, stabbed and clubbed each other. It was a whirl of uplifting and descending rifles and bolos.
Fierce oaths vied with the shrieks of the wounded for supremacy. The grunt of men who slaughter; the gasps of the victims when the steel went home were heard on all sides. At times the soldiers could not see on account of the sweat and blood pouring from their faces; the very air was foul from the steam from the living and the dead. They could not breathe; a sort of vertigo overpowered them, and they only kept their feet by grappling with the enemy.
To Bansemer, it seemed that all his life he had been doing nothing but warding off and ring blows. Fighting side by side with Rogers, he saw, with horror, that the soldier's rifle had been torn from his hands, and that he had no weapon to defend himself; but before he could see just how it happened, this individual combat had altered its aspect: Rogers had grabbed a Filipino's gun and was doing the clubbing. With renewed zest Bansemer finished with the bayonet his own assailant, and saw the man fall on top of poor Adams and Relander.
Suddenly there was an exultant yell from the enemy. Instinctively Bansemer knew that one side of the square had given way. Quickly turning, he rushed to give his aid, and just in time caught the arm of a native about to slash him with a huge knife. With the two gripped hands high in the air struggling for mastery, the adversaries became separated a bit from the rest of the chaotic mass of friend and foe, swaying out to one side of the plaza, and under the walls of a convent. Bansemer was facing it; and just at the moment that he felt his strength giving way and could see a grin of triumph on the fiendish face, there carne a flash and a report, and his adversary fell at his feet. Glancing up to ascertain who had fired the shot that had saved his life, he thought he saw a figure disappearing from one of the windows. The incident acted as an inspiration. Gathering together a few men, he reached the Captain's side and communicated his plan. The opportunity was not to be lost. Groce gave an order; Connell repeated it. Then interpreting a temporary lull in the murderous struggle as their vantage, the men with a cheer, and dragging the field piece, broke for the building; and by bayoneting and clubbing the insurgents out of the way accomplished the dash with slight loss. The soldiers hurled themselves against the stoutly barred door; it fell with a crash.