"All right," he said cheerfully, in answer to my question. "We couldn't see 'em, but we emptied a good deal of lead out there, and I think from the way they yelled we must have hit two or three." "Keep it up!" I cried. "We'll drive them off easily," and with a word of encouragement to the negroes, I returned to my post. As I neared the door, I saw two figures in white working over the guns. It was Dorothy and her mother, helping the negroes reload. I sent them back to the stair with affected sternness, but I got a second hand-clasp from Dorothy as she passed me.
Then came another long period of waiting, which racked the nerves until the silence grew well-nigh insupportable. The darkness without was absolute, and there was not a sound to disturb the stillness. The minutes passed, and I was just beginning to hope that the Indians had already got enough, when I caught the faint shuffle of moccasined feet on the porch, and again the door was struck a terrific blow, which made it groan on its hinges. I fired out into the darkness as fast as I could lay down one gun and pick up another, and again the uproar ceased as suddenly as it had begun. As I turned away a moment from the loophole, I saw that Pomp had sunk down to the floor, his hands to his head.
"What is it, Pomp?" I cried, as I bent over him, but there was no need for him to answer, even had he been able. A bullet, entering the loop-hole through which he was firing, had struck his left eye and entered the head. The other negro and myself laid him to one side against the wall, and when I went to him ten minutes later to see if there was anything I could do, he was dead. I turned away to the women to say some words of cheer and comfort to them, when a call from Brightson startled me.
"What has happened?" I asked, as I reached his side, and for answer he pointed out through the loophole.
"They have fired the nigger quarters and outbuildings," he said grimly.
"They'll probably try to fire the house next."
Even as we looked, the flames rose high above the roofs of the cabins and bathed the clearing in red radiance. In and out among the buildings we could see the Indians scampering, a hundred of them at least. Suddenly there was a chorus of yells, and two Indians appeared, rolling a cask before them into the belt of light.
"They've found a keg of rum which was in my quarters," remarked
Brightson; "now they'll get crazy drunk. Our task has just begun,
Captain Stewart."
I realized that he spoke the truth. Sober, an Indian will not stand up long in open fight, but drunk, he is a devil incarnate,—a fiend who will dare anything. I watched them as they knocked in the head of the cask and scooped up the raw spirits within. Then one of them began a melancholy melody, which rose and fell in measured cadence, the other warriors gradually joining in and stamping the ground with their feet. Every minute one would run to the cask for another draught of the rum, and gradually their yells grew louder, their excitement more intense, as they rushed back and forth brandishing their weapons.
"They will soon be on us again," said Brightson in a low tone, but round and round they kept dancing, their leader in front in all his war trappings, the others almost naked, and for the most part painted black. No wonder I had been unable to see them in the darkness.
"They are going to attack us again, Tom, are they not?" asked a low voice at my elbow.