“Steady there!” cried Murray, the next minute, for the effect of the volley had died out, and the enemy advanced again, shouting, and fired once more.
“Fire!” cried the lieutenant, for there was no sign of the retreating blacks in front, and the levelled muskets of the sailors poured out a well-levelled volley, which was received by the slavers with a yell of surprise and the rush of feet in full retreat; and then once more there was silence.
“That has done its work, my lads,” cried the lieutenant, as the men reloaded rapidly, the sound of the thudding ramrods as they were driven down raising a low murmur of excitement through the black fugitives, among whom, as far as could be made out in the darkness, Caesar was busy at work, talking loudly, and ending after dragging and thrusting his compatriots, by getting them well together and then making his way to where the lieutenant and Murray stood some little distance in advance, listening and trying to make out when the planter’s men were coming on again.
“Boys say won’t run away any more, massa,” whispered the black breathlessly.
“Glad to hear it, my friend,” said the officer bitterly.
“Yes, massa; so Caesar. Not frighten now. Ready ’tan’ fast. Ready kill Massa Huggin sailor fellow.”
“But I can’t trust them, Caesar; can you?”
The black was silent for a few moments, and then he said sadly—
“Caesar do um bes’, massa.”
“So you have, my lad. But the next time the enemy come on your men shall try what they can do.”