"See him—see him!" shouted Mr. Cuffee, who ran by at this moment. "See him fizzle, gemmen! Marse Blazey blaze—him blaze—him blaze like dat in hell!"
He rushed screaming past with the other black men, whose rags, gleaming teeth and ferocious faces, suggested the demon throng proper to Mr. Blazey's future environment.
"You will pick a quarrel, drunk or sober," said Stark, "though of late you've sunk to be not worth kicking. As you like—but even at the risk of more nonsense from you, I'd wish to explain that I'm no Englishman, though it happens I'm not mad. Consider how this nation stands. Hardly has it concluded peace with us than comes the news that Bonaparte has left Elba, and is now in Europe at the head of three hundred thousand men."
"Don't I know it? Doesn't every cur among them turn pale and look over his shoulder like a frightened woman when you cry 'Boney is coming'?"
"They are busy and rather preoccupied. I had speech with Short yesterday."
"What do I care with whom you had speech? I'm here for nearly six thousand free men, who are shut up and still treated as prisoners. Let them see to that. We want our liberty, and we'll take it before many days are done. What do you suppose we are made of?"
"The Lord knows," said Stark. "You are men no more, but a horde of savage and silly monkeys. How can they get ships to convey six thousand of us to America in a week? You, at least, who pretend to some knowledge of warfare and seamanship, should have patience and do your small part to help the British Government, not hinder it."
"I'm not an Englishman."
"I wish you were. Unfortunately the fact remains that you're an American; but your country's not likely to be proud of you if ever this chapter in your career is written."
At this moment, as the ashes of Blazey sank into one glowing mass, and the bonfire slowly died, the Americans burst into a mournful dirge that had been written by Ira Anson the day before, and committed to memory by a hundred men.