We will not detain the reader with the obstacles which the fugitives met on their way to the boat. To avoid being seen they were forced to skulk along in the shadows; but twice even this failed; though fortunately the knowledge of the pass-word secured their safety. At last they reached the skiff, and were almost instantly sweeping up the river, carrying what was a wholesale breeze, when we consider the size of their craft.
She was, indeed, but a mere cockle-shell, one of those small, decked, gunning skiffs, such as are still used in those waters, intended for only one person, but capable on emergency of carrying two; and she sank under the weight of her passengers, quite to the gunwale. There is, in these light and buoyant craft, which a strong man may easily carry on his shoulder, a small hole cut in the deck, where the sportsman sits, covered with sedge, and so paddles himself unperceived upon the wild fowl. Into this aperture, Uncle Lawrence directed Major Gordon to insert himself, while the old man, sitting flat on the stern, took both the tiller and sheet in his hand.
“Now, all I’ll ask,” said the veteran, “is that you’ll trim boat as I tell you, and that this ‘ere wind will hold all night. There’s one or two reaches, where we’ll have to row, probably.”
“But I must first land and seek my late command,” interposed Major Gordon. “If Count Pulaski has come up, I will then attend you; but if not,” and he sighed audibly, “you will have to proceed alone.”
Uncle Lawrence did not reply immediately. But a little reflection convinced him that his companion had decided aright, and therefore he said nothing to change the Major’s opinion, though his heart ached.
“We had better come to here,” he said, at last. “There’s a road, somewhere near, that’ll take us where we’ll be pretty sure to find the Count, if he’s on the ground.”
CHAPTER XLIII.
PULASKI
The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe. —Joanna Baillie.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate. —Byron.
An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
A wanderer, weary of the way. —Mrs. Osgood.