Chapter Fifty.
“Morgan,” I whispered, and he started and looked at me wildly, the morning dawn showing his face smeared with blood, and blackened with the grime of powder.
“Yes, my lad,” he said, sadly; “I thought it was all over, and as soon as they were well at their work I meant to fire it.”
I could not speak, and I knew it would be useless, so I shrank away, and crept back past scores of despairing faces, to where my father lay eagerly waiting for news.
As I went I saw that the officers were giving orders for restoring portions of our torn down defences, and that the day had given the men fresh energy, for they were working eagerly with their loaded pieces laid ready, while food and drink were being rapidly passed along the front.
“Only a temporary check, I’m afraid,” said my father, as I described everything. “Brave fellows! What a defence! But you have waited too long,” he said. “Where is that man?”
“Hannibal?” I exclaimed; “I had forgotten him.” For he had evidently glided away in the dark; but almost as I spoke he came up.
“Boat ready, Mass’ George,” he said. “Pomp swam out and got him. Waiting to take Mass’ George and capen.”
A warning cry just then rang out, and my father caught my arm. “Go and see,” he whispered; “don’t keep me waiting so long.”