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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"

The ball had pierced the
heart of the parent through the body of her offspring. By this time a
party of Spanish soldiers had surrounded the hut, one of whom, kneeling
before the low door, pointed his musket into it. The Indian, who had seen
his wife and child thus cruelly shot down before his face, now fired his
rifle, and the man feel dead. "Siga mi Querida Bondia--maldito." Then
springing to his feet, and stretching himself to his full height, with his
arms extended towards Heaven, while a strong shiver shook him like an ague
fit, he yelled forth the last words he ever uttered, "Venga la suerte, ya
soi listo," and resumed his squatting position on the ground.
Half a dozen musket balls were now fired at random through the wattles of
the hut, while the Lieutenant, who spoke Spanish well, sung out lustily,
that we were English officers who had been shipwrecked.
"Mentira," growled the officer of the party, "Piratas son ustedes."
"Pirates leagued with Indian bravoes; fire the hut, soldiers, and burn the
scoundrels!"
There was no time to be lost; Mr Splinter made a vigorous attempt to get
out, in which I seconded him with all the strength that remained to me,
but they beat us back again with the butts of their muskets.
"Where are your conunissions, your uniforms, if you be British officers?"
We had neither, and our fate appeared inevitable.
The doorway was filled with brushwood, fire was set to the hut, and we
heard the crackling of the palm thatch, while thick stifling wreaths of
white smoke burst in upon us through the roof.


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