“Ensign,” suggested Robin Dora, in the bow, plaintively, “wad it fash your honor gif I dinged that fist a clout wi’ ae drum-stick? It’s gey close to my shoulther.”
“Be silent,” said Raymond, severely, and Robin Dora subsided, even ceasing to glance over his shoulder at the uncanny hand so close to his arm.
Captain Howard, in the haste of embarkation had taken his place in Raymond’s boat, and his own had fallen under the conduct of the adjutant. It followed like a shadow the craft in the lead, as silent as a shadow, as swift. Captain Howard had not by virtue of his rank assumed command, the crew being already organized. He earnestly desired to provoke no attack from the Indians, but he expected it momently, and fingered his pistols in his belt as he eyed the gathering tribesmen on shore; under these circumstances he was in doubt as to his wisest course; the impunity of the figure clinging to the boat invited recruits, yet to it Raymond gave not a glance. Captain Howard was moved to a comment.
“You give transportation to passengers, Ensign?” he queried.
“It seems so, sir,” Raymond replied, succinctly.
It had evidently been the plan of the Indians to send out swimmers to the boats, and demand and secure the return of the missionary on the pretext that he was torn from them against his own desire, and if the crew dared to refuse, despite the coercion of the rifles of the hundreds on shore, the swimmers were to upset the craft, seize their prey, and make for the main body. The leader had far out-stripped his following, and his zeal had jeopardized the practicability of the feat. He had given the little British force the opportunity to make a great display of coolness and indifference. The contempt with which their demonstration was treated disconcerted the Cherokees, who relished naught so much as the terrors their presence was wont to inspire,—the surprise, the agitation, and commotion that were the sequence of their sudden attacks.
The crowd on shore stood at gaze, watching the unexpected scene—the Indian clinging like a reptile to the boat, while its keel cleft the clear brilliant waters, and the silent crew rowed like men spurting for a prize. Suddenly the Indian, belabored possibly beyond endurance by an eccentric oar, made a movement as though he would spring into the boat. Raymond swiftly leaned forward, and with a courteous manner, as of offering aid, caught the Cherokee’s arm with a grip like steel, and fairly lifted him into the pettiaugre.
The Indian stood for a moment, staring at the calm faces of his enemies. Had he been fifty instead of one the matter might have resulted far more seriously, but his fellows had not followed; their plans had not matured; they stood doubtful, watching the results of his effort and its futility, for he was going straight down the river as a prisoner to Fort Prince George. He looked bewildered, agitated, glanced wildly from one to another, then as if fearing detention leaped high into the air, fell into the water, and struck out for the shore as fast as his limbs might carry him, while the tribesmen on the bank, whom he had expected to lead, burst into derisive cries, and laughter, and gay buffoonery.
It was the turn of the tide; it was the trifle that so often broke the designs of the inconstant Indians. The two officers knew that the game was played out when they heard, far up-stream, so fast was their progress, the shouts of raillery and ridicule as the adventurous wight waded ashore.
“Very well managed, Ensign Raymond,” said Captain Howard, laughing with comfortable reassurance. “It might have been much more serious.”