The two heavily charged cannon were planted so as to cover the space in front of the gate, and some loaded muskets were ranged near by ready for use.
"We'll give them one hell of a blast," growled the Captain, "before they overpower us." Beverley made no response in words; but he was preparing a bit of tinder on the end of a stick with which to fire the cannon.

Not far away a little heap of logs was burning in the fort's area.
The British officer, already mentioned as at the head of the line advancing diagonally from the river's bank, halted his men at a distance of three hundred yards from the fort, and seemed to be taking a deliberately careful survey of what was before him.
"Let 'em come a little nearer, Lieutenant," said Helm, his jaw setting itself like a lion's.

"When we shoot we want to hit." He stooped and squinted along his gun.
"When they get to that weedy spot out yonder," he added, "just opposite the little rise in the river bank, we'll turn loose on 'em." Beverley had arranged his primitive match to suit his fancy, and for probably the twentieth time looked critically to the powder in the beveled touch-hole of his old cannon.

He and Helm were facing the enemy, with their backs to the main area of the stockade, when a well known voice attracted their attention to the rear.
"Any room for a feller o' my size in this here crowded place ?" it demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor.

"I'm kind o' outen breath a runnin' to git here." They turned about.