" The
lieutenant secreted himself as well as he could, and waited.
An hour passed. Then steps and the rustling of the dry
leaves of the corn-stalks were heard. The fugitive peeped
from his ambush. To his joy he saw before him the smiling
face of his dusky messenger.
"What news?" he demanded, stepping joyfully forward.
"Mighty good news, massa," said the negro, with a laugh.
"Dat big iron ship's got a hole in her bottom big 'nough to
drive a wagon in. She's deep in de mud, 'longside de wharf,
an' folks say she'll neber git up ag'in."
"Good! She's done for, then? My work is accomplished?--Now,
old man, tell me how I must go to get back to the ships."
The negro gave what directions he could, and the fugitive
took to the swamp again, after a grateful good-by to his
dusky friend and a warm "God-speed" from the latter. It was
into a thicket of tangled shrubs that Lieutenant Cushing now
plunged, so dense that he could not see ten feet in advance.
But the sun was visible overhead and served him as a guide.
Hour by hour he dragged himself painfully onward. At two
o'clock in the afternoon he found himself on the banks of a
narrow creek, a small affluent of the Roanoke.
He crouched in the bushes on the creek-side, peering warily
before him. Voices reached his ears.
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