“There, Master Bigley,” said my father dryly. “That’s what I call being ready for action.” Bigley nodded.
“If those boxes were put away unopened, the chances are a hundred to one that on the occasion of their being wanted the chisel and hammer would not be in their places. Now, then, we’ll undo that other box.”
I could not help seeing, or thinking I saw, a peculiar meaning in my father’s way of saying all this, but Bigley did not understand it I felt, and we set to at once over the other chest, dragging it into the middle of the room and prising off the lid, for this one was only nailed.
It was not so heavy either, but as we had made up our minds that it contained the uniforms, we were not surprised.
The lid was more tightly nailed down than seemed to be necessary; but we had it off at last, and then drew out a dozen parcels, which, on being opened, proved to be white buckskin belts for the waist, with a frog or pouch to hold and support the cutlasses, and a cross belt of a broader kind, to which was attached a cartouche-box, ready to hold the ball-cartridge when required.
Another row of nails was driven in for the belts, which were hung in pairs, and then we drew out a couple more boxes of cartridges, and that was all.
“Why, what’s the matter, Sep?” said my father, smiling at my disappointed countenance.
“I was wondering where the uniforms were,” I said.
“Uniforms, boy?” said my father. “When my two hundred and fifty lads attacked the Spanish frigate and took her, they wore no uniforms. Every man stripped to his shirt and trousers, put a handkerchief round his waist, threw away his hat, rolled up his sleeves, and tucked up his trousers. They fought the Spaniard bare-armed, bare-headed, bare-footed; and if we have to fight, we can do the same, and drive off our enemies too.”
“The French, father?” I said, feeling quite abashed.