Weary as our walk down to the mouth of the Gap had been, that back seemed far worse, and we reached the fire by the counting-house, which still burned brightly, being fed with more wood, to find my father anxiously awaiting our news.
“Gone!” he said. “Yes, but they may return. Two—no we cannot spare two men, one must go and keep watch to warn us of their return.”
“I’ll go, Captain Duncan,” said Bigley, limping up. “I can’t walk about much, but I can sit down there on the top rocks and watch.”
“Very good, my lad,” said my father, “but take your pistols and fire twice rapidly if boats come in again.”
As Bigley squeezed my hand and started off, my father exclaimed:
“Now I must have a messenger to go to Ripplemouth for Doctor Chowne. What man is not wounded?”
There was a murmur among the group assembled about the fire, a grim blood-smeared powder-blackened set of beings, several of whom had had their hair scorched away by the explosion. There was not a man who was not ready to go, but there was not one who was not wounded.
“I hardly know whom to send,” said my father. “Sep, can you get over there?”
“I’ll try, father,” I replied from where I was sitting down on a piece of rock; but I spoke so faintly that my father came to my side, and caught my cold damp hand, and laid his upon my wet forehead.
“Madness!” he muttered. “Look here, my lads,” he cried, “a couple of the women must be found at once.”