“That’s more than we can tell,” was the reply. “It’s something on the shore, though; something makes them think their gods are angry, for they have stopped fighting, and are offering gifts and dancing dances to one of their spirits. It is a good thing for us, anyway.”
“Put any of the Indians that have been wounded or killed outside, then come back to me,” said Howe, “and I will tell you something.”
After half an hour the man came back, and three others with him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Howe, “it’s an arrow just above my shoulder, I think, but it is broken off.”
The men could feel the end of the arrow, and with great difficulty, and causing him much pain, they drew it out.
“How are our men?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.
“It’s hard to tell exactly, but they’re mostly all wounded more or less, and there are thirteen killed,” was the answer.
“We must not stay here: we cannot tell what those savages will do next; but first, we must hide Governor White’s boxes,” said Howe.
There was a little silence, then one of the men said, “We might as well tell you the worst, you have got to come to it. We’re all sorry, but it can’t be helped. There wasn’t one among ’em like my old woman, ’Ilda, though the ’eathen dogs have done away with every woman and child we ’ad.”