“French marines,” he said quietly. “Well, my lads, they’re outside and we are in. If they leave us alone we will not injure them, if they attack they must take the consequences. It is war time; they have landed, and we are fighting for our homes and all belonging to us. Will you fight?”
There was a low dull growl at this, uttered it seemed by every man present, and as my father’s words had been distinctly heard upstairs, the men with Bigley and me joined in.
“That’s good,” said my father. “I thought so. Now once more trust to your strong aims and cutlasses. A couple of shots and then swords. They don’t want loading again. If they break in we must retreat upstairs. If they prove too much for us and force their way up, we must hold out as long as we can, and then retreat by the north window and back up the west side of the valley among the big stones; but no retreat till I give the word. Now, my lads, do you want anything to make you fight?”
“Only the orders, captain,” said the foreman, “or the French beggars to come on.”
“All in good time. What are they doing?” said my father. “One shot can’t have scared them off. Ah, the cowards! I expected as much.”
For just then a dull light shone in through the window, and made every bar clear. The dull light became brighter, and the Frenchmen set up a cheer.
“They’ve fired the big shed roof, sir,” said the foreman.
“Father,” I cried down the stairs, “they have fired Sanders’s cottage.”
“Curse ’em,” growled the foreman. “I’ll make pork crackling of somebody’s skin for that.”
“Now they’ve gone on to the next cottage,” cried Bigley.