Captain Lane strove hard to be cheerful; but his heart was heavier than lead. Again night came, with the Xenophon anchored off Mud Island. The night was dark, and the wind from shore strong, so that Captain Lane knew she could not enter the harbor.
He was sitting at his fireside, when suddenly from the narrow inlet south of the peninsula there rang out a volley of musketry followed by wild cries and cheers. The volley was followed by heavy firing, and Captain Lane, donning his hat, snatched his sword and ran down to the works, where the drum was beating, and the Marylanders were seizing muskets and falling into line.
"What is it? whom have they attacked?" was the general query asked by all. The pickets were called in and the only sentries were the chain guards just outside the parapet. Suddenly the sound of footsteps came from the darkness, and the sentries knew that two or three men were running toward them. Zeb Cole, a large, powerful Marylander, finding one of them coming directly at him, dropped his musket and, seizing the fellow's throat, hurled him to the ground.
"Halt! ye wanderin' Israelite. Stop an' tell me who you are?"
"Oh, let go me, massa, lem me up!" pleaded the captive, struggling to his feet. "I ain't no Britisher! dar ain't no Angler Saxun blood in dese veins. I is a Yankee nigger, massa, bet I am."
Another man who had come up at a run cried in language in which the Hibernian was plainly distinguishable:
"Hould hard, ye haythin! The redcoats are afther us!"
"Who be ye?" demanded Zeb.
"The advance guard of two hundred Americans comin' to help ye whip the Britisher. Jist as we landed, afther crossing the mouth of the creek, the dirthy spalpeens fired on us; but we drove thim back, and here come our boys at double quick."
Terrence was correct, for Fernando and his riflemen having cut their way through the British, hurried into the fort. Captain Lane was amazed to find their friends led by the young Ohioan, whom he had entertained at his house five years before.