The sentinel walks away. Cushing
makes a dash for life. But not half the space is traversed
when his backward glancing eye sees the sentinel about to
turn. Down he goes on his back in the rushes, trusting to
their friendly shelter and the gloom of the night to keep
him from sight.
As he lies there, slowly gaining breath after his excited
effort, four men--two of them officers--pass so close that
they almost tread on his extended form, seeking him, but
failing to see what lies nearly under their feet. They pass
on, talking of the night's startling event. Cushing dares
not rise again. Yet the swamp must be gained, and speedily.
Still flat on his back, he digs his heels into the soft
earth, and pushes himself inch by inch through the rushes,
until, with a warm heart-throb of hope, he feels the welcome
dampness of the swamp.
It proves to be no pleasant refuge. The mire is too deep to
walk in, while above it grow tangled briers and thorny
shrubs, through which he is able to pass only as before, by
lying on his back, and pushing and pulling himself onward.
The hours of the night passed. Day dawned. He had made some
progress, and was now at a safe distance from the fort, but
found himself still in the midst of peril. Near where he lay
a party of soldiers were at work, engaged in planting
obstructions in the river, lest the Union fleet should
follow its daring pioneers to Plymouth, now that the
Albemarle was sunk, and the chief naval defence of the
place gone.
Pages:
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349