“What!” cried the captain, “a number of black fellows coming to kill us?”
“Hum. You shoot fast, mumkull black fellow, all go bong.”
Chapter Eight.
“Let me go: I can run fast.”
The minute before, all peace, rest, and the promise of plenty; now, an alarm so full of horror that every one there felt chilled.
A rush was made to the wagons for the guns and ammunition, the ladies were hurried into the little square formed by the vehicles, as the safest place, and the advantage of having an experienced soldier for their leader was shown at once, though all the time the captain was bitterly reproaching himself for not having spent more time in providing for their defence, instead of giving up valuable hours to rest and planning what they should do.
“I ought to have known better, Norman,” he said angrily, as the boy walked by his side to obey his orders, and convey them to one or the other. “Take a lesson from it, my boy, and if ever you march in an enemy’s country, wherever you halt, do as the old Romans did; entrench yourself at once.”
“But we have entrenched ourselves, father,” said the boy, pointing to the boxes, barrels, and cases which had hastily been dragged out of the carts and placed outside to form a protection before the openings beneath the wagons, and also to fire over in case of an attack.