Then the vessel tacked ship and stood slowly in after the boat, her head sheets slacked off to stop her headway and the black muzzle of a long twelve pounder sticking half a fathom clear of her forecastle rail. We stood in a group on the sand and awaited developments, supposing, of course, that as soon as we were recognized the vessel would proceed on her course in the wake of the frigate. Dunmore we all knew quite well, for he had been several times to the Hall and had often visited Will Byrd's cousin at the magnificent estate at Westover. As the boat load of soldiers neared the shore the schooner luffed again within easy hailing distance, and a man standing by the forecastle gun hailed us. "Throw down your arms, you dogs, or I'll blow you off the ground!" he roared. "The devil!" exclaimed Barron, "I wonder if he means that for us? But our dogs are not armed." "Bang!" went the long twelve pounder in a cloud of smoke, without another moment's warning, and a shot whistled over the small boat and struck the beach a few feet in front and to the right of us. A storm of sand and gravel drove into our midst, staggering and blinding me so that I fell against Will, who in turn fell to the ground, swearing furiously. A small particle had struck him with great violence in the eye, and in his fury at this brutal onslaught he sprang to his feet, grabbed my gun from my hands, before I had recovered sufficiently to stop him, and fired a load of small shot slap into the boat full of men just as its keel touched the sand. A perfect roar of curses followed, as the soldiers received the scattering charge. Then Barron seized Will, and just as several men leaped ashore with their guns raised to shoot, all three of us were struggling on the ground. Sam, left alone to face the loaded muskets, dropped Barron's gun and instantly disappeared with a couple of musket balls snipping through the brushwood after him. The next instant we were surrounded by men and dragged to our feet, while a short, but big-limbed Irish sergeant stood near and gave orders to his crew not to bayonet us. "Who are you, and where's the rest of you?" snapped a grizzled, lean-faced officer, running up with his sword drawn and looking full at Barron. "I am Jameson Barron, Esq., sir," said the Captain, smiling pleasantly, "and as for the rest of me, I believe it is in Richmond. Dr. McGuire cut it off the day after Braddock was killed and put it into a small flask of alcohol." And he held up his left hand from which the last finger was missing. "None of your jokes, sir," snapped the officer. "Where's the rest of your party?" Barron looked about him. "Sam!" he called loudly. "Sam!" "I guess he's taken the track," he continued, quietly, "but must still be within a mile of us. However, before we go too deeply into the case, sir, you will oblige us greatly by stating your authority for firing upon gentlemen who are in no way hostile to His Majesty."