He was in for it now.  Go back he could not, and he followed the tall Royal ahead, whose heels scraped against his breast buttons, and once or twice bruised him in the face; followed up, wondering what face of death would meet him at the top, where men were yelling and jabbering in three languages—­French, English, and that tongue which belongs equally to men and brutes at close quarters and killing.

Something came sliding down the ladder.  The man in front of Nat ducked his head; Nat ducked too; but the body slid sideways before it reached them and dropped plumb—­the inert lump which had been Dave McInnes.  His shako, spinning straight down the ladder, struck Nat on the shoulder and leaped off it down into darkness.

He saw other men drop; he saw Teddy Butson parallel with him on the far ladder, and mounting with him step for step—­now earlier, now later, but level with him most of the time.  They would meet at the embrasure; find together whatever waited for them there.  Nat was sobbing by this time—­sweat and tears together running down the caked blood on his cheek—­but he did not know it.

He had almost reached the top when a sudden pressure above forced his feet off the rung and his body over the ladder’s side; and there he dangled, hooked by his armpit.  Someone grabbed his leg, and, pulling him into place, thrust him up over the shoulders of the tall Royal in front.  He saw the leader on the middle ladder go down under a clubbed blow which burst through his japanned shako-cover, and then a hand came down to help him.

“Spuds, O Spuds!”

It was Teddy reaching down from the coping to help him, and he paid for it with his life.  The two wriggled into the embrasure together, Nat’s head and shoulders under Teddy’s right arm.  Nat did not see the bayonet thrust given, but heard a low grunt, as he and his friend’s corpse toppled over the coping together and into Badajos.

He rose on his knees, caught a man by the leg, flung him, and as the fellow clutched his musket, wrenched the bayonet from it and plunged it into his body.  While the Frenchman heaved, he pulled out the weapon for another stab, dropped sprawling on his enemy’s chest, and the first wave of the storming party broke over him, beating the breath out of him, and passed on.

Yet he managed to wriggle his body from under this rush of feet, and, by-and-bye, to raise himself, still grasping the sidearm.  Men of the 4th were pouring thick and fast through the embrasure, and turning to the right in pursuit of the enemy now running along the curve of the ramparts.  A few only pressed straight forward to silence the musketry jetting and crackling from the upper windows of two houses facing on the fortifications.

Nat staggered down after them, but turned as soon as he gained the roadway, and, passing to the right, plunged down a black side street.  An insane notion possessed him of taking the two houses in the rear, and as he went he shouted to the 4th to follow him.  No one paid him the smallest attention, and presently he was alone in the darkness, rolling like a drunkard, shaken by his sobs, but still shouting and brandishing his sidearm.  He clattered against a high blank wall.