We waited five minutes, standing about in scattered group, and listening for some warning from the watch tower. It was the eve of the factor’s wedding—a fact that I recalled with bitter irony as I noted him posted alertly in the pelting snow, musket in hand, expecting shortly to be plunged in the thick of a bloody fray. Far across in the distance a gleam of light twinkled in the window of Flora’s room. What were her thoughts?
A hand tapped me on the shoulder; I turned and saw Christopher Burley.
“It is worse than a London fog, this cold,” he said, with chattering teeth. “I seem to feel it in my bones. How long will we wait, Mr. Carew?”
“That is hard to tell,” I replied. “If you are freezing, go indoors.”
I think he would have taken me at my word, but I had hardly spoken when the brooding silence was shattered by a cry from the watch-tower:
“Look sharp! They are coming on two sides! To the loopholes!”
Here and there a shout was heard, but for the most part the warning was received with a grim calmness that spoke well for the fighting temper of our men. The next instant the air was full of Indian war-whoops—and a more blood-curdling and fearful sound I have yet to hear. Then the savages fired a continuous volley, and the bullets came rattling like sleet against the stockade; some entered at the loopholes, and a cry arose that a half-breed was down.
At the first—such trivial things will a man do at critical times—my attention was taken by Christopher Burley. Elevating his musket in air, he pulled the trigger, and was flat on his back before you could count two. I helped him to rise, and he began to rub his shoulder ruefully.
“It was too heavy a charge,” he said. “Did I kill any one?”
“It’s a mercy you didn’t,” I replied.