“Lives are of more importance than chattels, man,” said my father, in his sternest and most military way. “Tell your wife she is to stop for nothing, but to come.”
“An’ s’pose she won’t, sir?” said Morgan sharply.
“Carry her,” said my father laconically, as he stepped into our boat and pushed the other off.
“But bring nothing else, sir?” said Morgan, piteously.
“Yes; two guns, and all the ammunition you can carry; but be quick, man, we shall be waiting at the landing-place. The Indians are coming in earnest now. We shall stop till you come, and open fire if it is necessary.” My father capped the gun he had brought from the boat. “Stop. Hand me your gun and pouches.”
Morgan gave a stroke or two with his oar, and brought the boats alongside of each other again, then handed the gun to me.
“Now then,” said my father, “off! Remember, I shall be trying to keep the Indians at bay if they show, and delay on your part may mean the loss of our lives and—your own.”
Morgan gave his head a sharp nod, bent to his oars, and my father turned to me, and cried, as if he were addressing a line of men—
“Load!”