“He does think of his men, then,” Phil thought contemptuously. The gunboat had now stopped and lay motionless on the quiet sea. Without orders four boats fully manned with ready sailormen were noiselessly lowered from the davits. Stalwart arms lifted the Colt gun and placed it in the bow of a cutter. Phil gave a last careful search through his glass at the shore line, scarce a thousand yards away. He could see the shadowy form of the big white cathedral from which tongues of flame darted incessantly. To the right the long, low convent building was silent. The soldiers had seized the church and inside its shelter they were making their last stand. Phil was assured that they would be safe until their ammunition was exhausted, and his experience had taught him that soldiers in such straits, unless there was an officer to control them, would use up their last cartridge before thinking of the dire consequences. To husband ammunition was not their concern. Even as the lad gazed the enemy’s flashes appeared closer to the cathedral. They were closing in; a final rush might land these savages under the very walls of the church. His hand shook violently and almost a sob escaped him as a bright flame suddenly appeared on the convent roof. “They have set the convent on fire,” Phil exclaimed in an awed whisper. Then he turned fiercely on the army man. “What are your plans now?” he asked almost roughly. Lieutenant Tillotson drew himself up stiffly. “At sunrise all will be clear,” he angrily insisted. “It would be worse than murder to land now; as you said last night,” he added, seemingly grasping at a straw, “we would be between two fires.” Phil gave him an impatient glance. “Come on, Syd!” he exclaimed eagerly, leading the way down from the bridge. O’Neil had his four boats ready at the gangway; two for the soldiers and the others for the men of the gunboat who could be spared from the guns. The lads gripped each other’s hand in silence as Phil stepped on the gangway ladder leading to the boat. The soldiers by one accord had crowded aft, their rifles in hand and cartridge belts bulging with extra ammunition. Some had even filled the inside of their blue flannel shirt with more precious cartridges. “Aren’t we going, sir?” the sergeant asked, gazing through the darkness for his lieutenant. Phil shook his head. He was too angry to speak. Then suddenly without command the soldiers filed, at first hesitatingly, casting anxious glances behind them, into the awaiting boats. “Syd,” Phil said in a low, tense voice, “you know the plan. Keep those cordite shells away from our own men. Get as close in as you can; don’t hesitate to run her ashore if necessary. If I am not mistaken we’ve got these natives in the closest box they’ve ever been in.” The four boats waited in silence at the gangway. Phil had taken his place with O’Neil in the boat carrying the Colt gun.