Colonel Preston appeared, and the messenger called upon us to surrender.
“And if we do not?” said the colonel.
“The gate will be stormed at once, and very little mercy shown,” said the man, speaking dictatorially now, as if he had caught the manner of his Spanish companions.
“Very well,” said the colonel. “You can storm, and we’ll defend the place.”
The envoys went back with our defiance, and there was a short consultation, followed by a rapid advance, a halt about fifty yards away, and then a volley was fired by about fifty men, who uttered a shout, and made a rush for the gate.
I heard the word “Fire.” There was a scattering answer to the Spaniards’ volley; but instead of its proving harmless, about a dozen men fell, and began to crawl or limp back, after rising, to the rear.
This checked the advance by quite half, and only half of these came on much farther, the rest dropping back rapidly till of the brave force who attacked, only one ran right up to the gate, and he, a handsome-looking young officer, struck it fiercely with his sword, shouted something in Spanish, and then began to go back, but keeping his face to us defiantly all the time.
A dozen pieces were raised to fire at him, but the colonel struck them up, and showed himself above the gate, to raise his hat to the young officer, who, half laughingly, half bitterly, returned the salute.
Morgan told me afterwards what Colonel Preston said: that if there had been fifty men like this one the stockade could not have been held.
But there were not, for when the wounded Spaniards had been carried down to the boats, and a line was formed for a fresh attack, a loud murmur arose; and, as plainly as if I had heard every word, I made out that the men would not advance, and that the officer threatened to go alone.