Piggy was on deck.
"Feu, imbecile! par la! dans le brouillard!"
A bullet plopped into the water wide on the boy's right.
"Au bateau!"
Again that scamper of feet: then the rattle of blocks and creak of pulleys. Besides all was swiftness, and fierce silence; and that silence terrified the lad far more than the preceding tumult.
"Depechez vous donc, gredins!"
They were lowering a boat; and he was getting done.
The despatch-bag was heavy between his shoulders. His hold upon himself was relaxing: dissolution was setting in. The firm mind, which at all times and in all places means salvation, was dissipating. He tried not to think. All there was of him he needed for his swimming. Thought was waste; so was fear. And swim he did, and swim, through endless water, with sickening brain and failing arms.
Behind him he heard a splash, as the privateer's boat took the sea.
They'd be coming soon now. He didn't mind much: he was too tired. And they couldn't hurt him: he was too far away.