“Now, Mass’ George, come,” he said.
I grasped his meaning and passed on abreast of him, took a good hold with one hand grasping quite a bunch of twigs, while the boy took the other and reached out toward where Morgan was just able to keep himself afloat, with the others beyond him, and all growing weaker minute by minute.
Pomp got out as far as he could and stretched out his hand, but he was a full yard off still, and in a despairing way I looked at Morgan’s upturned face.
“No catch hold, massa?” cried Pomp; and then he said something in his own tongue, whose effect was to make Hannibal swim rapidly towards him from where he had been supporting my father, he being the only one not entangled by the boughs.
The peril taught the man how to act, and catching his son’s hand, he bridged the space and extended his other hand to Morgan, so that we formed a human chain in the water, dependent upon the strength of my wrist and the bunch of twigs and leaves I held.
“Now, father,” I said; “can you get clear?”
He struggled feebly, and I began to tremble for my hold.
“No,” he said; “my foot is caught in a fork among the boughs, and if you draw, it only tightens it.”
A dead silence ensued. What was to be done? I could not answer the question, and I knew that everything depended upon how long I could hold on. Was all our effort to result in failure after all? It seemed so, and I tried to say something about kicking free, but no words would come, and once more I began to feel a horrible sensation of fear. The difficulty was solved by my father, who roused himself to a final effort just in the height of our despair.
“Get her into the tree,” he said, hoarsely. “Never mind me.”