Chapter Forty Nine.
“It was a mistake—a mistake,” said my father, excitedly; “but I might have made it if I had been in the hurry and excitement there. Resting here I had plenty of time to think.”
At that moment the firing began to be fiercer, and my father groaned aloud.
“Oh, it is pitiable!” he said, “obliged to lie by here, and not able to help. Here, George, go to the front; don’t get into danger. Keep well under cover. I want you to take pity on me, my boy. Do you hear?”
“Yes, father; but I don’t understand.”
“Can’t you see my position? I am helpless, and my friends and companions are fighting for our lives. I want you to keep running to and fro so as to let me know what is going on, and—mind this—keep nothing back.”
“Nothing, father?” I said.
“Nothing.”
I hesitated a few moments, and then with the reality of the horror impressed more and more by the shouting, yelling, and rapid firing going on, I told him about Morgan and the other men, even to finding the opened keg and loose powder.