The men nearest to us uttered a yell, and there was the rush of feet, but my father’s voice rose clear above all.
“Halt!” he cried; and discipline prevailed, as through the smoke I could now see all that was going on; Morgan still in the magazine, and Hannibal standing ready to take the kegs he passed out, while the men, instead of being in line, had crowded together by the entrance.
“How many more, Morgan?” said my father, calmly, as he backed a little toward the fiery opening at the end where I could feel the fierce glow on my back.
“Three more, sir. Shall we leave them and go?”
“Leave them? Come, my men, you can see what you are doing now. Morgan—Hannibal—the next keg.”
It looked to be madness to bring out that keg into a low, earthen-floored room, one end of which was blazing furiously, with great tongues of fire darting toward us. But it was done; for Morgan stooped down and reappeared directly with a keg, which he handed to the great black, who took it quietly as if there was no danger, but only to have it snatched excitedly away by the next man, who passed it along the line.
“Steady, men!” said my father. “Don’t make danger by being excited and dropping one of those barrels.”
Those moments seemed to me to be hours. The heat was terrific, and the back of my neck was scorching as the second and third kegs were handed out.
“Last,” shouted Morgan, with a wild cry of thankfulness.
“Look again,” said my father. “Stand fast all.”