"'Tis vain to whine so, David Leverett," said Stark angrily. "I'm weary of your eternal grumbling. If you chose fighting for your business in life, you should expect hard knocks. You went to be carpenter in a ship of war, and——"
Here a shout from Burnham interrupted the speaker, for Mr. Cuffee had told his great news to the other officers.
"Yes, Sar—honour bright, Sar. Marse Jones, de turnkey, he tell me. Marse Blazey—him coming to put all right dis berry day, so I done run to tell you."
"Then you can call back your words, carpenter," said Commodore Miller. "There's a God yet—only He takes His own time—not ours."
"Blazey coming!" cried Knapps. "'Tis most too good to be true. Some on you gentlemen had best think what to say to him."
As he spoke, Captain Cottrell, Commandant of the War Prison, appeared and advanced with a guard into the midst of the patrol ground. A trumpeter blew a blast to summon the wandering throngs, and when they had crowded in a dense circle round him, the Commandant raised his voice and made a statement from the midst of the bristling bayonets that hemmed him about.
"I have to inform you, gentlemen, that your Agent, Mr. Blazey, from Plymouth, will visit Prison No. 4 at three o'clock of the afternoon to-day. Here in public he will meet you and hear all your grievances, but there must be no private intercourse."
He departed, and the Americans, with joy upon their faces, raised a cheer—not for Captain Cottrell, but his news. The black men, who were grouped together apart, also lifted a shout of satisfaction.
"One might think that peace was proclaimed rather than that a paid official is merely about to do his duty," said Cecil Stark with bitterness.
But Commodore Miller shook his head.