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With the crashing roar of that second broadside, Colonel Bishop awoke
from stupefaction to a recollection of where his duty lay. In the
town below drums were beating frantically, and a trumpet was bleating,
as if the peril needed further advertising. As commander of the
Barbados Militia, the place of Colonel Bishop was at the head of his
scanty troops, in that fort which the Spanish guns were pounding
into rubble.
Remembering it, he went off at the double, despite his bulk and the
heat, his negroes trotting after him.
Mr. Blood turned to Jeremy Pitt. He laughed grimly. "Now that,"
said he, "is what I call a timely interruption. Though what'll come
of it," he added as an afterthought, "the devil himself knows."
As a third broadside was thundering forth, he picked up the palmetto
leaf and carefully replaced it on the back of his fellow-slave.
And then into the stockade, panting and sweating, came Kent followed
by best part of a score of plantation workers, some of whom were
black and all of whom were in a state of panic.


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