His men jumped up; and as he stood by, watching and thinking how in one year the ferns and wild plants set in the crevices had concealed the mouth of the store, iron bars and shovels were plied, the stones loosened and thrown aside, till at last only one large piece remained, and that had so tightly wedged itself in that it resisted all their efforts to dislodge it.
“Come boys,” Wat Kilby cried, “have you left all your strength in the Indies? Lay to at it with a will. Now, all together—heave ho!”
As he spoke he brought his whole strength to bear upon it, but dropped the bar directly after, and stood shaking his head; for he had never recovered from the terrible burns and injuries he had received at the explosion—injuries that had left him for months a helpless invalid during the early part of the voyage, and a cripple for life.
“Skipper,” he said, “I’m not quite so strong as I was, and my bones don’t seem to be knit together as they were. It’ll take some pounds o’ Mas’ Cobbe’s best to lift that out.”
Gil frowned, for the old man’s speech brought up a host of painful recollections.
“Shall we get up some powder, skipper?” said Wat.
“And fire the barrels that are in the store?” said Gil sternly.
“Nay,” growled the old fellow; “we could hoist out that stone without reaching any that is in yonder: it is too far away.”
“Get it then,” said Gil indifferently; and a couple of men were despatched to the ship, returning after some two or three hours with the keg, which they carried in turn.
Mother Goodhugh had not moved, but lay in a kind of stupor with half-closed eyes, Gil sitting near and dreaming over the past.