“We are to move up at once opposite New York and to prepare the ship for running past the batteries up the East River.”
“Hurra! the hotter the better; anything better than stagnation!” I exclaimed.
“Mercer, have you made your will?” asked Kennedy, as the two met each other near us.
“Yes, Kennedy, I have,” answered Mercer gravely. “It may not be to-day or to-morrow that it will come into force, but it may before long, and I wish that those I may not help living may benefit by my death.”
Kennedy had nothing to reply to this; Mercer’s solemn manner silenced him.
“What does Mercer mean? Does he think he is going to be killed?” asked little Harry Sumner, who was standing by.
“It may be the lot of anyone of us, my boy,” said I. “Though I hope the enemy’s shot won’t find you out at all events.”
“I hope not indeed,” replied Harry. “I should like to go home and describe all the places I have seen and the things we have done.”
As I looked at our young pet I felt how hard a thing it was that so small a lad should be exposed to all the vicissitudes of warfare.
Macallan had overheard us. “It’s my opinion that Mercer has seen his wraith,” he remarked sententiously. “There’s a grave, dour look about his pale countenance which a man who is long for this world never wears.”