And leaving the fire, see they did, at the drift pile, and also along the island edges. They set a stake and watched that; and the water crept higher.
“Either a gorge above has broken, or one has formed just below,” said Washington.
“’Twill take little more rise to flood us off,” remarked Gist. “I say things can’t be worse.”
“If they can’t be worse they’re ripe to mend,” Washington answered steadily. “When we can’t stay on the island we’ll swim ashore, for we’ll have to do something.”
They all watched the stake. After midnight, by the stars, the water stopped, short of the fire, but the drift-wood pile was out of reach, except by wading. And that fear of being swept away by the black flood in the night was terrible—although it did not seem to worry Washington.
The stars slowly paled, and the east grew red. Washington returned from another trip to look at the channel between the island and the shore.
“The ice has packed, Gist!” he almost shouted. “Huzzah! We’ll be able to cross. Thanks for the cold, after all.”
His haggard face beamed.
“Aye,” said Gist. “Then we’ll make over as soon as we can, major, for I don’t like these winter quarters. I’ve frozen all my fingers and some of my toes during the night.”
“They should be tended to, sir.”