“It reminds me of old times, faith,” whispered Longsword to Ethan, as he sat in the stern with his great brass-hilted blade between his knees.
Captain Jones was right; the first fort was garrisoned by about a half dozen heavy-eyed soldiers. Ethan, Longsword and a few of the more daring seamen scaled the wall and overpowered these without trouble.
“Into the guard house with them,” ordered Ethan, “and fasten them in.”
When the gate was thrown open and Jones and the remainder of the boat’s crew entered, the former said briskly,
“Spike the guns; we may have them roaring about our ears soon if we don’t.”
Longsword drove the plugs of iron into the vents of the cannon with swift and hearty blows.
“Now, Mr. Browne,” continued the captain, “station a few men to guard the approaches from the town. Mr. Carlyle, come with me.”
While Browne, middy, was stationing the men, Ethan hurried away with the captain toward the point where they had landed.
“That is Wallingford’s boat that I see advancing,” said the commander, pointing to a craft slowly emerging from a wall of mist. “And I see no indications from the harbor that he has carried out my orders.”
As a matter of fact there was no blaze among the shipping and Ethan saw that the face of the commander was set and stern. Wallingford’s boat touched and the lieutenant sprang ashore.