They came thronging up the steps, not more than two score, I imagined, in spite of the noise they had made. But two score of such famished, desperate men, God grant I may never again see!
John divided the food as well as he could among them; they fell to it like wild beasts. Meat, cooked or raw, loaves, vegetables, meal; all came alike, and were clutched, gnawed, and scrambled for, in the fierce selfishness of hunger. Afterwards there was a call for drink.
"Water, Jael; bring them water."
"Beer!" shouted some.
"Water," repeated John. "Nothing but water. I'll have no drunkards rioting at my master's door."
And, either by chance or design, he let them hear the click of his pistol. But it was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightier weapon still—the best weapon a man can use—his own firm indomitable will.
At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. John told them so; and they believed him. Little enough, indeed, was sufficient for some of them; wasted with long famine, they turned sick and faint, and dropped down even with bread in their mouths, unable to swallow it. Others gorged themselves to the full, and then lay along the steps, supine as satisfied brutes. Only a few sat and ate like rational human beings; and there was but one, the little, shrill-voiced man, who asked me if he might "tak a bit o' bread to the old wench at home?"
John, hearing, turned, and for the first time noticed me.
"Phineas, it was very wrong of you; but there is no danger now."
No, there was none—not even for Abel Fletcher's son. I stood safe by John's side, very happy, very proud.