For with a fierce yelling mingled with an imitation of the hearty cheering of a body of seamen, a strong party dashed up to the hastily barricaded entrance, and sent a volley crashing through the panels of the door and the window.
“You were ready for that, my lads?” cried the lieutenant. “No one hurt?”
“Nay, sir; we’re used to that bit o’ business,” growled the big sailor.
“Then give it them back, my lads.”
The words had hardly passed the officer’s lips before a dozen muskets bellowed out their reply, lighting up so many roughly-made portholes, and as the volley was responded to by a fiercer yelling than before, mingled with the hurried footsteps of the repulsed attacking party, Murray turned in the darkness to his leader.
“I can’t understand it, sir,” he said. “I thought Caesar, the black, was retreating with us to the cottage by the lagoon.”
“No, no, my lad; this is the plantation house where we came first. I only wish we could have reached the cottage by the water-side. We should have had help from the captain before now if we could have got there.”
“Then we are right in the middle of the cane fields, sir?”
“Yes, Murray, and very glad I was to come upon it, for it has been strong enough to hold. Here: your black fellow who guided the expedition—where is he?”
“Here somewhere, sir.”