It was a moment of gloomy necessity, that which assembled the chief defenders of the fortress to a sort of war-council. They could only deliberate—to fight was out of the question. Their enemy now was one which they could not oppose.
The citizens showed no front for assault or aim, while the flames, rushing from point to point, and seizing upon numerous places at once, continued to advance, with a degree of celerity which left it impossible, in the dry condition of its timber, that the Block-House could possibly, for any length of time, escape.
Upon the building itself the citizens could not fix the fire at first.
But two ends of it were directly accessible to them, and these were without any entrance, had been pierced with holes for musketry, and were well watched by the vigilant eyes within. The two sides were enclosed by the line of strong palings and posts, and had no need of other guardianship.
But while Lieutenant Garnet, Bob Bertram, and others were using their utmost endeavours to storm the strong Block-house, Master Tim, as usual, was skulking out of danger among the crowd or non-fighters, and seemed more inclined to let others share the dangers while he did the talking.
For Master Tim, as we have seen all through this story, could be very eloquent at times, and speak grandly about war and glory, and all such like topics; but if he could help it, he would not on any account run his own head into danger.
The good citizens, seeing that he wore Ned Warbeck’s livery, expected him to distinguish himself after the manner Wildfire Ned had done, before their own eyes; but, instead of that, Master Tim drank deeply of old ale, and, standing on a door-step, out of danger, began to harangue the idle multitude something in this style:—
“And why, my friends, are we here assembled?” was his sagacious inquiry, looking round as he spoke upon his inattentive audience.
A forced smile on the faces of several, but not a word, attested their several estimates of the speaker.
He proceeded.