But it was dark, black darkness. Every one was pulling his best now in obedience to the cry “Pull all!” There was no regular swing, but plenty of confusion, while a thrill of excitement half intoxicated the men, as they felt that they had mastered the pressure of the stream, and consequently they pulled away madly, conscious as they were that they were moving up stream and leaving the enemies, who were still firing, though with no effect, behind.
“Starn all, you lubbers!” literally roared Tom May. “D’yer want to scrat me right out of the cutter’s bows?”
“Stroke there!” cried Murray to the man who wielded that blade. “Get your oar over astarn and steer. We’re running into the bank.”
There was a quick movement, the boat rocked, and a scraping sound and a splash told that the order had been obeyed.
“I can’t see, sir,” cried the man, who had begun to steer.
“Do your best, my lad. Pull gently, my lads. We must feel our way. What about you, Tom May? Are you all right?”
“Me, sir? I’m no use to steer,” grumbled the man. “Let me come and take stroke oar; the lubbers pretty well scratted my eyes out.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three shots came quickly now in succession, but the flashes were from fully fifty yards back.
“Keep silence, my lads,” whispered Murray. “They’re firing at the splashes of our oars.”