Chapter Thirty Nine.
Desperate Times.
In my heat and excitement I wondered that my father did not order his little company of men to begin firing at a time when every shot would tell, for there was a feeling of rage within me, roused by the wanton destruction of the cottages and every portion of the works that would burn; but I had not learned all my lessons then, and how a just and brave man, whether soldier or sailor, shrinks from destroying life until absolutely obliged.
My father came upstairs for a minute about the time when I was thinking this the most, and I could see a peculiarly hard stern look in his eyes as the fire flashed through the window upon his face.
“Mind: no firing,” he said, “until they attack, and I give the word.”
I felt afterwards how right he was, but then it seemed almost cowardly.
I soon altered my opinion, for all at once the French leader came up to the door and struck it with the hilt of his sword, as he exclaimed in French:
“Now, Captain Duncan, surrender!”
No reply was given.
“Open this door and pass out the whole of the silver bars you have there,” was the next command, and this time my father answered: