He slipped his hand behind him, as if to draw a pistol. Tom was already making the same gesture. Neither of them had a pistol. Tom's had gone to the bottom. It was pure bluff on both sides. And in a moment, seeing this and being Americans, both laughed. But none the less the overseer demanded that they should go to the big house. Tom, protesting, but apparently half-yielding, edged along until he was near the landing-platform. Then, shouting "Come on, boys!" he ran to it, the frightened negroes following at his heels and Towser running ahead. He hustled them into the boat at the eastern end of the pier, jumped in himself, jerked the rope off the wooden peg that insecurely held it, and pushed off. The overseer, angrily protesting, stood a moment watching his prey escape and then galloped like mad for the big house, shouting "Yanks! spies!! thieves!!! Yanks!!!!" He was met halfway by half a dozen men in Confederate gray, roused by his yells. They were officers who had spent the night at the hospitable house, had breakfasted at daybreak, and were just about to mount for their day's march when the overseer gave the alarm. It was lucky for the fugitives that officers do not carry anything bigger than pistols. A fusillade of revolver-bullets all fell short of the fleeing mark. Tom and Morris were pulling an oar apiece—they had found but two in the boat—with a desperate energy. But it was unlucky for the fugitives that they had not thought to steal or to scuttle the other two boats. This was Tom's fault, for he was captain.
"I'll know better next time," said Tom to himself ruefully, as he saw three men spring into each boat for the pursuit. "I'll know better next time—if there ever is a next time."
It did not seem likely that there would be a next time. One of the pursuing boats fell behind, to be sure. In it, too, there were but two oars and the men who plied them could not match the black man and the white boy who rowed for freedom's sake and life's sake. But in the other boat, two strong men each pulled two oars, while the third man crouched in the bow, pistol in hand, calling out steering instructions. This boat gained upon them, bit by bit. The fugitives could hear the lookout call "Port, hard-a-port!" and could almost see the extra weight thrown into the sweep of the starboard oars to send the boat's head the right way. Once the man at the bow took a chance on a long shot. His bullet fell harmlessly two hundred feet astern of Towser who stood in the stern of the fleeing boat, barking savagely. Thrice they turned a sharp bend and were out of sight of their enemy for a moment, but each time there was a shorter interval before the enemy shot into sight behind them. A fourth point lay just ahead. Tom looked back over his shoulder and measured the distance with his eye.
"We can just make that next point," he panted. "Soon as we do, we'll land and run. It's our only chance."
"I kain't run," said Uncle Moses, "but you'se right, Massa Tom. Dey'll catch us ef we keep a-rowin'."
They had almost reached the bend. Another strong pull would have sent them around it. But the pursuers had now so gained upon them that the lookout chanced another shot. By chance or by skill, it was a very good shot. The bullet struck Tom's oar, just above the blade. The blade dropped off as Tom was putting every ounce of his failing strength into a prodigious pull. The handle, released from all pressure, flew through the air and Tom rolled over backwards into Morris's lap. There was a shout of triumph from astern. The rowers bent to their work with a fierce vigor, feeling the victory won. Morris gave one last pull with his one oar and it sent the boat around the bend.
"And dere," as Uncle Moses with widespread arms used to tell the tale thereafter, "and dere wuz Massa Lincum's gunboats, a-crowdin' ob de ribber—'n de Stars-'n-Stripeses, dey jest kivered de sky!"
TOWSER