A man came running from the south gate shouting, “The Dagoes. The Dagoes.” He was bleeding from his mouth. He was gasping his life out as he ran. “Dagoes,” he gurgled. “Dagoes, you.” He stood for a moment, swaying, pointing half round the compass behind him.
“Right, son,” said Tucket. “Take a rest. You’re hit. Lie down.”
The man stared at him stupidly, groping with his hands. “Take. These feathers. Off my teeth,” he gasped, and sank forward gently from his knees, dead.
Tucket kicked Pain savagely.
“Wha’s a marrer? Wharrer hell’s the marrer?” said Pain, struggling to his feet.
“We’re attacked,” said Margaret, shaking him. “Get your men. Lord, man, get your men to the south gate.”
“Hands off, you damcarajo,” he answered angrily. “Why the hell couldn’t you look out? Hadn’t you sense enough to set a sentry? I’m awake. You Port Mahon fiddler. What in hell are you looking at me for? Get the men.”
The guns of the Broken Heart opened fire in succession, blowing white rings over the trucks. Heavy musket-fire was breaking out at the south gate. Some of the rat-catchers ran towards it.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” said Margaret. “You drunken little boor. See what you’ve done. You and your gang of thieves. Look at your work. Look at it. Answer me again and I’ll run you through.”
“Lord’s sake,” Tucket cried. “They’re on to us. Here they are. Cuidado, sons.”