The incensed Confederates hastily manned boats and pushed
out into the stream. In a few minutes they had captured most
of the swimming crew. One sank and was drowned. One reached
the shore. The gallant commander of the launch they failed
to find. They called his name,--they had learned it from
their prisoners,--but no answer came, and the darkness
veiled him from view. Had he gone to the bottom? Such most
of the searchers deemed to be his fate.
In a few minutes the light of a blazing fire flashed across
the river from Plymouth wharf. It failed to reveal any
swimming forms. The impression became general that the
daring commander was drowned. After some further search most
of the boats returned, deeming their work at an end.
They had not sought far or fast enough. Cushing had reached
shore--on the Plymouth side--before the fire was kindled. He
was chilled and exhausted, but he dared not stop to rest.
Boats were still patrolling the stream; parties of search
might soon be scouring the river-banks; the moments were
precious, he must hasten on.
He found himself near the walls of a fort. On its parapet,
towering gloomily above him, a sentinel could be seen,
pacing steadily to and fro. The fugitive lay almost under
his eyes. A bushy swamp lay not far beyond, but to reach
its shelter he must cross an open space forty feet wide in
full view of this man.
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