Reluctantly, Shortland gave the order, and the red coats filed out, drawing up in line, behind which he carefully placed himself. The turnkey entered the building alone. He had been an old boatswain in the service, and drawing a silver whistle from his pocket he piped all hands. Then in a stentorian voice he ordered the prisoners into the yard. They all obeyed, crowding out to the number of one thousand or more, and they filed past the soldiers in a compact body. One of the last to leave the building was Harvey Rich. He tottered down, alone, and joined the crowd, that stood packed in a sullen body, crowded within a few paces of the handful of soldiers, who stood with their muskets cocked and ready. Soon the officer returned from his fruitless search.
"The man cannot be found, sir," he said.
Shortland swore viciously.
"Turn them back in the building, then," he roared, "and keep them there without water. That will fetch them to their senses.—Back through that doorway, all of you," pointing with the heavy stick which he always carried, for he was a gouty man.
But the prisoners had heard his threat, and not one of them moved a step. There was a large trough of clear water in the yard, to which they had free access. The weather was warm and clear. Suddenly one of them stepped forward. All eyes turned upon him. It was George Abbott.
"We will not return there, under those conditions," he said loudly. "We will stay here, and die, first, every man Jack of us."
A movement began among the prisoners. They crowded in closer in the narrow space, and a murmur as of a subdued cheer arose among them. Shortland was furious.
"Seize that man," he cried; "seize him! He shall go without bread and water both."
No one moved.
"You cowards," he muttered. "I'll do it myself, then; make way here!"