"Well, we guessed that they were, father," I replied colouring. "It seemed as if there must be cartridges for the pistols."

"Right, my boy," he replied.

"And of course cartridges are not wanted for cutla.s.ses," I continued.

"No," he said laughing; "you load your cutla.s.ses with muscles."

"But they want belts," I ventured to observe.

"To be sure," said my father. "There they are in that box. You shall unpack them when we've undone these. Let me look at that pistol, Uggleston."

Bigley handed him the pistol, and my father drew the ramrod, thrust it down the barrel, and gave it two or three taps to make sure that it was not loaded. Then replacing the ramrod he c.o.c.ked it, held it at arm's length, and drew the trigger.

There was a little scintillation as the flint struck the cover of the pan, and he c.o.c.ked and drew the trigger again, we two watching him with intense interest, and longing to try the pistol ourselves, but not liking to ask permission.

"There, work away!" he said, "save the string, and lay the brown paper in heaps; it may come in useful."

We set to work, while my father took a hammer and some large nails from a drawer, and, standing on a stool, drove the nails in a row along a board at one side of the office, and as we unpacked he took the weapons from us and hung them up, a cutla.s.s between two pistols, arranging the nails so that the arms looked ornamental, while at the same time they were quite ready to hand in case they should be wanted.

It took us some little time, but at last the task was done, and the cartridge chests stowed away in a cupboard, but not till each one had been carefully wrenched open, the copper nails taken out, and the lids replaced loose on the top.

"There, Master Bigley," said my father dryly. "That's what I call being ready for action." Bigley nodded.

"If those boxes were put away unopened, the chances are a hundred to one that on the occasion of their being wanted the chisel and hammer would not be in their places. Now, then, we'll undo that other box."

I could not help seeing, or thinking I saw, a peculiar meaning in my father's way of saying all this, but Bigley did not understand it I felt, and we set to at once over the other chest, dragging it into the middle of the room and prising off the lid, for this one was only nailed.

It was not so heavy either, but as we had made up our minds that it contained the uniforms, we were not surprised.

The lid was more tightly nailed down than seemed to be necessary; but we had it off at last, and then drew out a dozen parcels, which, on being opened, proved to be white buckskin belts for the waist, with a frog or pouch to hold and support the cutla.s.ses, and a cross belt of a broader kind, to which was attached a cartouche-box, ready to hold the ball-cartridge when required.

Another row of nails was driven in for the belts, which were hung in pairs, and then we drew out a couple more boxes of cartridges, and that was all.

"Why, what's the matter, Sep?" said my father, smiling at my disappointed countenance.

"I was wondering where the uniforms were," I said.

"Uniforms, boy?" said my father. "When my two hundred and fifty lads attacked the Spanish frigate and took her, they wore no uniforms. Every man stripped to his shirt and trousers, put a handkerchief round his waist, threw away his hat, rolled up his sleeves, and tucked up his trousers. They fought the Spaniard bare-armed, bare-headed, bare-footed; and if we have to fight, we can do the same, and drive off our enemies too."

"The French, father?" I said, feeling quite abashed.

"Ay, my boy, or anyone else. These uniforms look very attractive, but there's a great deal of vanity in them, and we are too busy to give way to that."

"Yes, father," I said meekly, and as I said it I thought about something else.

"There, you lads can go now. Thank you for helping to arrange my little armoury."

We should both have liked to examine those arms a little more. We should even have liked to try one of the pistols, and shoot at a mark, but this was a regular dismissal, and we went out, going quietly down to the stream, all stained now with the dirty water from the mine, and for some time we preserved silence.

"What are you thinking about, Sep?" said Bigley at last.

"I was thinking how nicely those belts would go with a uniform," I said.

"Were you? How funny!" said Bigley. "That's just what I was thinking."

"What, about a uniform?"

"Yes."

"Blue?"

"No, scarlet."

I went down to the sh.o.r.e with Bigley, and we had a good ramble, after which he fetched the gla.s.s, and we climbed up to the place on the rocks where his father used to station himself to look out--for fish, Bigley said; but my father often said they were very rum fish--and there we swept the horizon to see if we could make out the lugger, but she was not in sight, and after a time we grew tired of this and lay down in the warm sunshine upon the cliff, where Bigley dropped off to sleep.

I did not feel sleepy, though, but full of thought. Above all, I could not help thinking over my father's behaviour that day. It was evident that he feared attack by making such preparations, and no doubt I should soon see him drilling the work-people he had gathered around him, and I dwelt a good deal, being tolerably observant, upon the fact of his letting Bigley see all his preparations. I was asking myself why he had done this, and what reason he had for it, when Bigley woke up and said that it was time to go and get something to eat.

I did not answer and say it was, but a silent monitor gave me a hint that he was quite correct, and so we went to the cottage, and Mother Bonnet gave us quite a feast of bread and b.u.t.ter and fried fish, which form no bad refreshment for two hungry boys.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

DRILLING OUR MEN.

My father's armoury was a good deal talked about, but when regular drilling was commenced at the Gap it excited no surprise. The grey-beards of Ripplemouth talked it over, and said they were glad that Captain Duncan had woke up and was ready to defend the Gap when the French came to our part of the coast, and they said they expected great things of him.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bob Chowne one day, as he came over; "heard the news?"

"No," I said; "have the French come?"

"No, not yet; but the Ripplemouth people are going to ask your father to help them make a fort on the cliff over the harbour, and they're going to get some guns from Bristol."

"What nonsense!" I said. "Here, I'm going over to the Gap; will you come?"

"No, I don't want to come to the old lead pump and see your father's people make the water muddy. What are you going to do?"

"Sword drill."

"Oh! I don't care for sword drill."

"Bigley's coming too," I said; "and we're going through it all."

"It's stupid work standing all in a row swinging your arms about like windmills, chopping nothing, and poking at the air, and pretending that someone's trying to stab you. I wouldn't mind if it was real fighting, but yours is all sham."

"Then we're going to do some pistol-shooting at a mark with ball-cartridge."

"Pooh! It's all fudge!" said Bob yawning. "I wouldn't mind coming if you were going to do something with real guns."