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Mass' George: A Boy's Adventures in the Old Savannah, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 45 |
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_ CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. I often sit back in my chair pondering about those old days, and thinking about them in a very different way to that in which I looked upon them then. For to be quite frank, though something in me kept tugging me on, and seeming to say to me, "Be a man; go bravely on and support your poor lame, suffering father, who is going to risk his life to save the poor people around!" there was something else which would keep suggesting that I might be killed, and that I should see the bright sunshine no more; that I was bidding farewell to everything; and I know I felt as if I would have given the world to have heard him say, "Go back. It is too dangerous for you." But he only hesitated a few moments, and then, as I have said, he grasped my shoulder as if glad of my help, and went on into the great dark place. On thinking over these things, I often tell myself that though my father may not have been a hero--and I don't believe much in heroes myself--I know they do brave deeds sometimes; but I have often found that they have what an American friend from the North--Pennsylvania way--called a great deal of human nature in them, and that sometimes when you come to know them, you find that they are very much like looking-glasses. I do not mean because they pander to your vanity and show you your own face, but because they are all bright and shining and surrounded by gold that is not solid, and have a side, generally kept close to the wall, which is all rough wood, paint, and glue. Let me see! Where have I got to? Ah, I remember. I said my father may not have been a hero, but he had a great deal of that sterling stuff in him which you find in really sterling people; and in addition, he performed his brave acts in a quiet, unassuming way, so that often enough they passed unnoticed; and when he had finished, he sank back into his perfectly simple life, and never marched about in metaphorical uniform with a drawn sword, and men before him beating drums, and banging cymbals, and blowing trumpets for the people to see, and hear, and say, "Oh, what a brave man!" Some may think it was not the act of a brave, self-denying man to let his young son go with him into that awful place to try and remove the powder. I am not going to set up as his judge. He thought as a true man thinks, as a soldier, one of the thousands of true men we have had, who, without a word, have set their teeth fast, and marched for their country's sake straight away to where cannons were belching forth their terrible contents, and it has seemed as if the next step they took must be the last. My father no doubt thought that as he was so weak he must have help, and that it would be better for his son to die helping him to save the lives of hundreds, than to hang back at such a time as that, when we marched straight into the steam and smoke of the burning block-house. I can remember now that, although overhead the logs were burning and splitting and hissing in the fierce fire, and I knew that almost at any moment the burning timbers might come crashing down upon us, or the fire reach the little magazine of spare powder, the feeling of cowardice gave place to a strange sensation of exaltation, and I stood by my father, supporting him as he gave his orders firmly, the men responding with a cheer, and groping their way boldly to the corner of the building beyond the roughly-made rooms, where the good-sized place, half cellar, half closet, had been formed. It was quite dark, and the men had to feel their way, while the air we breathed was suffocating, but we had to bear it. My father, Morgan, and I were the first to reach the place, and there and then seized the cumbrous door which was made on a slope, like a shutter, to slide sidewise, while just above was a small opening leading into a rough room beyond, between the magazine and the outer wall, in which was a sort of port-hole well closed and barred. "Shall I get through and open that port, sir?" cried Morgan, his voice sounding muffled and hoarse. "It will give us fresh air and light." "Yes, and perhaps flames and sparks," cried my father. "No, no, down with you and hand out the powder-kegs. Form a line, men, and pass them along to the door." "Hurrah!" came in muffled tones; and directly after, from somewhere below, Morgan's voice cried-- "Ready there! One!" "Ready!--right!" cried a man by me, and a quick rustling sound told that the first powder-keg was being passed along. "Ready!--two!" cried Morgan; and I pictured in my own mind Morgan down in the half cellar, handing out keg after keg, the men working eagerly in the dark, as they passed the kegs along, and a cheer from the outside reaching our ears, as we knew that the dangerous little barrels were being seized and borne to some place of safety. Not that in my own mind I could realise any place of safety in an open enclosure where sparks might be falling from the burning building, and where, if the Indians could only guess what was going on, flaming arrows would soon come raining down. It was a race with death within there, as I well knew; and as I stood fast with my father's hand clutching my shoulder, and counted the kegs that were handed out, my position, seemed to me the most painful of all. If I had been hard at work I should not have felt it so much, but I was forced to be inert, and the sounds I heard as I stood breathing that suffocating air half maddened me. Hissing that grew fiercer and fiercer as the fire licked up the moisture, sharp cracking explosions as the logs split, and must, I knew, be sending off bursts of flame and spark, and above all a deep fluttering roar that grew louder and louder till all at once there was a crash, a low crackling, and then, not two yards away from where I stood, a broad opening all glowing fire. The men nearest to us uttered a yell, and there was the rush of feet, but my father's voice rose clear above all. "Halt!" he cried; and discipline prevailed, as through the smoke I could now see all that was going on; Morgan still in the magazine, and Hannibal standing ready to take the kegs he passed out, while the men, instead of being in line, had crowded together by the entrance. "How many more, Morgan?" said my father, calmly, as he backed a little toward the fiery opening at the end where I could feel the fierce glow on my back. "Three more, sir. Shall we leave them and go?" "Leave them? Come, my men, you can see what you are doing now. Morgan--Hannibal--the next keg." It looked to be madness to bring out that keg into a low, earthen-floored room, one end of which was blazing furiously, with great tongues of fire darting toward us. But it was done; for Morgan stooped down and reappeared directly with a keg, which he handed to the great black, who took it quietly as if there was no danger, but only to have it snatched excitedly away by the next man, who passed it along the line. "Steady, men!" said my father. "Don't make danger by being excited and dropping one of those barrels." Those moments seemed to me to be hours. The heat was terrific, and the back of my neck was scorching as the second and third kegs were handed out. "Last," shouted Morgan, with a wild cry of thankfulness. "Look again," said my father. "Stand fast all." Morgan dropped down again, and as he did so there was another crash behind us, a shower of sparks were literally shot into the place, and one burning ember fell right into the opening of the magazine, to be followed as Morgan leaped out by a quick sputtering noise, and then the smell of powder. There was a rush for the door, and we four were alone. "Only a little loose powder lying about," said Morgan, huskily. "That was the last. Look out, Master George--quick!" The task was done, the place saved from hideous ruin by an explosion; and as the last man rushed from the place, the energy my father had brought to bear was ended, and I had just time, in response to Morgan's warning, to save him from falling as he lurched forward. But there was other help at hand, and we three bore him out fainting just as a burst of flame, sparks, and burning embers filled the place where we had stood a minute before, and we emerged weak and staggering, bearing my father's insensible form out into the bright light shed by the burning building. "Bravely done! Bravely done!" we heard on all sides; and then there was a burst of cheering. But I hardly seemed to hear it, as I was relieved by willing hands from my share in the burden, and I only recollected then finding myself kneeling beside a blanket under the rough canvas of our extemporised tent, waiting until the surgeon had ended, when I panted forth-- "Is--is he very bad?" "Very, my lad," said the surgeon as he rose, "but not bad enough for you to look like that. Come, cheer up; I won't let him die. We can't spare a man like your father." _ |
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