“No, massa; all gone,” cried the black; “all run away. Massa let poor black boy come ’long here. Make sailor man shoot Massa Huggin slave-catch-man. Hark! Um come ’long fast. Shoot, shoot!”
“Do you understand what he means, Mr Murray?” said the lieutenant, rather breathlessly.
“Yes, sir. He means let the poor wretches go by us and we hold the path till the enemy comes up, and give them a volley or two to check the advance.”
“Very good tactics if you are right,” said the lieutenant. “At any rate we’ll try it. But what does this mean?”
The light from the fire barely penetrated to where they stood, but there was enough to show that Caesar was in a confused fashion sorting the flying blacks into two parties,—those who were unarmed he hurried down the path in the way of retreat, while those who had maintained enough courage to keep their machetes, he ranged upon either side of the path, while, to Murray’s wonder and surprise, for they had been forgotten for the moment, four of the blacks came forward supporting two of the wounded man-o’-war’s men.
“Oh, my poor lads!” cried the lieutenant eagerly.
“You, Mr Roberts, and you, Seddon. Are you badly hurt?”
“No, sir,” cried the middy cheerily. “Only two Seafowls winged, sir!”
“Nay, sir, not me!” growled the seaman belonging to the second cutter. “I arn’t winged, sir; I’m hind-legged, and I should have had to hop if it warn’t for these niggers here.”
“Mr Murray, I can’t spare you. Tom May, you take Mr Murray’s place and help me cover the retreat with all the men. Mr Murray, do the best you can with the wounded, and then join us here.”