“I can’t see them, father.”
A sharp stamp with his foot on the thwart of the boat told of the excitement he felt, and made me realise more than ever the peril we were in.
“Pull, boy—pull!” he said.
I sat down in front of Pomp, laid my gun across the thwarts, and placing my hands on the oars, helped with a good thrust at every tug, sending the boat well along, so that in a couple of minutes more we were at the landing-place, where I leaped out, and secured the boat by passing the rope through a ring-bolt.
“Don’t fasten it tightly,” said my father; “leave it so that you can slip it at a moment’s notice. No, no, boy, sit still ready to row.”
Pomp, who was about to spring out, plumped down again, his brow wrinkled up, and his twinkling dark eyes watching my father, of whom he stood in terrible awe.
“They ought to have been here; they ought to have been here,” said my father, unfastening the other boat, and making a loop of the rope that could be just hung over one of the posts, besides bringing the boat close in.
“I cannot go, George,” he said sharply. “This is our only means of escape, and it would be like throwing it away: they ought to have been here.”
“Pomp hear um come,” cried the boy eagerly; and we both listened, but for a few moments I could make out nothing.
Then as my father was eagerly scanning the edge of the river, gun in hand, on the look-out for the first approach of the Indians, I heard plod—plod—plod—plod, and directly after Morgan came into sight laden with the guns and ammunition, followed by Hannibal with a box on his shoulder; and lastly there was Sarah, red-faced and panting, as she bore a large white bundle that looked like a feather-bed tied up in a sheet.