“Quite, sir,” said Dickenson. “I was only thinking that—”
“Don’t think that, man; obey orders.”
“Right, sir,” said Dickenson stiffly, and he went off to look up Sergeant James. “Hang him!” growled the young officer. “It doesn’t seem to be my work. Making a confounded powder-monkey of a fellow!”
He glanced up, and saw that the men were busy on high with the field-glass, but making no sign. Then he noted that the ambulance, with its escort, was coming on fast; and soon, after a little inquiry, he came upon the sergeant, busy with the men, every one with his rifle slung, linking wagons together with tent-cloth poles and wood boxes and barrels so that the conflagration might be sure to spread when once it was started, to which end the men worked with a will; but they did not hesitate to cram their wallets and pockets with eatables in any form they came across.
“Make a pretty good bonfire when it’s started, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Humph! Yes,” said Dickenson. “But what are those two barrels?”
“Paraffin, sir, for the beggars’ lamps.”
“Well,” said Dickenson grimly, “wouldn’t it help the fire if you opened them, knocked in their heads, and bucketed out the spirit to fling it over the wagon-tilts?”
The men who heard his words gave a cheer, and without orders seized the casks, rolled them right to the end where the fire was to be started, drove in the heads with an axe, and for the next quarter of an hour two of the corporals were busy ladling out the spirit and flinging it all over three of the wagons and everything else inflammable that was near.
“Now pack the paraffin-casks full of that dry grass and hay,” cried Dickenson, who had been superintending. “It will soak up the rest, and you can start the fire with them.”