Across the stream he
saw men. A minute's observation apprised him of the
situation. The men he saw to be a group of soldiers, seven
in number, who had just landed from a boat in the stream. As
he watched, they tied their boat to the root of a tree, and
then turned into a path that led upward. Reaching a point at
some distance from the river, they stopped, sat down, and
began to eat their dinner.
Here was an opportunity, a desperate one, but Cushing had
grown ready for desperate chances. He had had enough of
wandering through mire and thorns. Without hesitation he
lowered himself noiselessly into the water, swam across the
stream, untied the boat, pushed it cautiously from the bank,
and swam with it down the stream until far enough away to be
out of sight of its recent occupants. Then he climbed into
the boat and paddled away as fast as possible.
There was no sign of pursuit. The soldiers kept
unsuspiciously at their mid-day meal. The swamp-lined
creek-sides served well as a shelter from prying eyes. For
hours Cushing pursued his slow course. The sun sank;
darkness gathered; night came on. At the same time the water
widened around him; he was on the surface of the Roanoke.
Onward he paddled; the night crept on till midnight was
reached; for ten hours he had been at that exhausting toil.
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352