“We’ll have to go down stream, major,” spoke Gist. “Until we come to an ice jam that will bear us, or can signal from opposite Shanopin’s-town. The Injuns might be able to get a canoe to us. We’ll find food and proper rest, too.”
“No,” said Washington. “The French spies are probably ahead of us. I’ll not risk interference from Shanopin’s-town—I must get to the Governor at all hazard. The less we see of Indians, the better. I have no time to take my ease. Cross here I shall.”
“How so, then?” Gist asked.
“By raft. We’ll make a raft and chance it.”
Christopher Gist exclaimed:
“What! You mean to chance a raft in that ice, major? We’re like to be swamped.”
“It can be done, Gist. It’s got to be done. Let’s set to work.”
“And that’s a job, too,” quoth Gist; “with only my hatchet and our hunting knives to shape the timber. But if you say so, I’m not the man to back out. Grant that the Injuns give us time.”
“To work, then,” bade Washington. “Keep an eye on our back trail and our guns ready. All I ask is time to cross.”
They fell to, the three of them; and a job that was, to make a raft that would hold together and bear three persons. Saplings had to be cut down and trimmed with the one small hatchet; driftwood had to be gathered from along the steep, high banks; and all had to be laid closely and bound by poles fastened with wooden pegs.