My father made no reply, but took Morgan’s place.
“Go and take an oar,” he said then. “Help Hannibal; and try and get us to the fort if you can. Yes,” he continued, after shading his eyes with his hand, “the flag is still flying; the Indians cannot be there yet.”
“Boat coming,” cried Pomp; and to our great delight, we saw a well-manned boat shoot out from the shore, and begin to head in our direction.
My father uttered a sigh of relief, and I heard him mutter “Thank God!” as he proceeded to bandage the poor woman’s shoulder as well as he could; and in a momentary glance I saw that an arrow, with the shaft sticking out, broken short off, was still in the wound.
I wondered why my father did not draw it out, but of course said nothing, only sat gazing from the coming boat to the shore, which all seemed peaceful and calm now, there being no sign of Indians or trace of the trouble, save on board our boats.
Just then, as I was reviving more and more, and fully learning the fact that I had received what might have proved a dangerous wound had not the bleeding been stopped, a hail came from the approaching boat, which proved to be Colonel Preston’s.
“Anything the matter? What’s all that firing about?” cried the colonel, as his boat’s way was checked.
“Indians!—attacked!” said my father, speaking excitedly as he waved his hand toward his wounded; and then, “Don’t lose a moment. Help us ashore, and there must not be a soul out of the fort in half an hour’s time.”
There was a disposition in Colonel Preston’s manner to make light of the matter, but the sight of the arrows bristling about the defences checked him; and ordering a couple of men out of his own boat to help row ours, he stayed with us to hear the narrative of our fight.
“They are good marksmen too,” he said; and then, turning to my father, I heard him whisper, “That woman—wound dangerous?”