“Don’t see much bravery in a hundred men firing at a lot of savages who are running away. They never expected to find us all ready for them in a stout stockade, with every man Jack of us standing to arms, in full fighting rig, and with our war-paint on.”
He said this last meaningly, and I shuddered as I thought of what I had seen.
“Well, I must go back,” I said. “My father is anxious to know.”
“Yes, of course sir. Then you go and tell him what you’ve seen, and that I say I don’t think they mean fighting; but that if they do, it won’t be till after they’ve had a good parly-parly, and asked us first whether we mean to go.”
Just then there was a burst of talking close by us, and a laugh; the officer in command gave an order or two, and a couple of the men leaned over and held out a hand each. Then there was a bit of a scramble, and a curly black head appeared above the gates. The next moment its owner was over, and had dropped down, caught sight of us, and run up.
“Why, Pomp!” I said; “I had forgotten you.”
“What for send Pomp out to boat and no come? Pomp dreffle tire, and come back.”
“I say I had forgotten you.”
“Ah, Pomp no forget Mass’ George,” he replied, reproachfully. “Eh? Lil fire—two lil fire—twent lil fire,” he cried, excitedly. “’Mell um cook suffum. Come ’long, Mass’ George, I dreffle hungly.”
I led the way in and out among the busy groups, where, chattering over the fires they had lit, the blacks were making bread or cooking, and every now and then I had to catch hold of Pomp’s arm and half drag him along, so great was the interest he took in what was going on; for he evidently felt no modesty or shrinking about making his presence known.