“They may catch sight of you, my lads,” he said, “and turn you into marks.”
“Are you going to stop them now, captain?” said Bigley, following. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m ready to do anything, my lad,” said my father sadly; “but what can half a dozen injured men, whose wounds are getting stiff, do against half a hundred sound?”
Bigley sighed.
“Couldn’t we sit up here in the rocks and pick them all off with the carbines, sir?” he said suddenly.
“Yes, my lad, perhaps we could shoot down a few if we had the carbines, which we have not. No: we can do nothing but sit down and wait till we get well, comforting ourselves with the thought that we have done our best.”
We were watching the French sailors now, not a man showing the slightest inclination to retreat farther, but standing like beaten dogs growling and ready to rush at their assailants if they could get the chance. Swords had been sheathed, but only while pistols were recharged; and then, as soon as these weapons were placed ready in belts, the cutlasses were drawn again; and just as they had obeyed the order to retreat, the men would have followed my father back, wounded as they were, to another attack.
Down below the Frenchmen were as busy as bees. We could hear the crackle and snap of wood as they seemed to be tearing it out of the counting-house; and then it was evident what they had been doing, for a torch danced here and there, and stopped in one place and seemed to double in size, to quadruple, and at last there was a leaping flame running up and a pile of wood began to blaze.
“There go years of labour!” said my father, speaking unconsciously so that the men could hear. “One night to ruin everything!”
“Nay, captain, such of us as is left ’ll soon build un up again,” said the foreman. “Women and children’s safe, and there’s stuff enough in the hillside to pay for all they’ve done.”