“Of course not,” said I. And then:  “I wish I could see Mister Moultrie in his fort, and the fleet.”

“Why, honey, so you kin,” said Breed.

The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the way upstairs, I following expectant, to the attic.  A rickety ladder rose to a kind of tower (cupola, I suppose it would be called), whence the bay spread out before me like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter lacing of the waves.  There, indeed, was the fleet, but far away, like toy ships on the water, and the bit of a fort perched on the sandy edge of an island.  I spent most of that day there, watching anxiously for some movement.  But none came.

That night I was again awakened.  And running into the gallery, I heard quick footsteps in the garden.  Then there was a lantern’s flash, a smothered oath, and all was dark again.  But in the flash I had seen distinctly three figures.  One was Breed, and he held the lantern; another was the master; and the third, a stout one muffled in a cloak, I made no doubt was my jolly friend.  I lay long awake, with a boy’s curiosity, until presently the dawn broke, and I arose and dressed, and began to wander about the house.  No Breed was sweeping the gallery, nor was there any sign of the master.  The house was as still as a tomb, and the echoes of my footsteps rolled through the halls and chambers.  At last, prompted by curiosity and fear, I sought the kitchen, where I had often sat with Breed as he cooked the master’s dinner.  This was at the bottom and end of the house.  The great fire there was cold, and the pots and pans hung neatly on their hooks, untouched that day.  I was running through the wet garden, glad to be out in the light, when a sound stopped me.

It was a dull roar from the direction of the bay.  Almost instantly came another, and another, and then several broke together.  And I knew that the battle had begun.  Forgetting for the moment my loneliness, I ran into the house and up the stairs two at a time, and up the ladder into the cupola, where I flung open the casement and leaned out.

There was the battle indeed,—­a sight so vivid to me after all these years that I can call it again before me when I will.  The toy men-o’-war, with sails set, ranging in front of the fort.  They looked at my distance to be pressed against it.  White puffs, like cotton balls, would dart one after another from a ship’s side, melt into a cloud, float over her spars, and hide her from my view.  And then presently the roar would reach me, and answering puffs along the line of the fort.  And I could see the mortar shells go up and up, leaving a scorched trail behind, curve in a great circle, and fall upon the little garrison.  Mister Moultrie became a real person to me then, a vivid picture in my boyish mind—­a hero beyond all other heroes.