“Give way, stronger and longer,” shouted Arrison, looking over his shoulders for the thirtieth time during the last half hour, “they gain again on us. Give way, or we are lost.”
They had just crossed from one side to another of the river, in order to take the shortest cut up the next reach, and Arrison had confidently expected to see their pursuers follow in his track. But the patriots, by selecting a somewhat different course, had apparently secured more of the current, for they were now rapidly coming up, lessening the distance between the two boats astonishingly.
The refugees, like hounds incited by a fresh blast of the hunter’s horn, sprang anew to their task; and for awhile their boat perceptibly increased her swiftness. But the pursuers, observing how much they had gained by their helmsman’s dexterity, cheered lustily, and stretched to their strong blades, like thorough-breds coming down the last quarter. Gaining steadily now at every stroke, they rapidly approached, huzza following huzza, in the confidence of approaching victory.
Much of this advantage was evidently owing to their helmsman, who, by still continuing his adroit manoeuvres, constantly cut off more or less of the distance, or availed himself of more powerful currents of the tide. He plainly knew the river even better than Arrison.
The countenance of the refugees had been darkening with sullen despair for some time, when at last Arrison’s lieutenant broke the silence, by addressing their leader.
“They gain on us, captain,” he said.
“Yes,” was Arrison’s curt reply.
“That fellow knows how to steer.”
“Yes! curse him.”
Nothing could exceed the intense bitterness with which this was pronounced.