Those with the boat had been too much occupied in their own adventure to heed what had taken place at the landing-stage; and, even had they glanced in that direction, the distance the swift tide had carried them up-stream would have made every movement indistinct.
But busy moments had passed there, for the overseer was a man of action, and prompt to take measures toward saving the life of the drowning man. For a human life was valuable in those early days of the American colonies, especially the life of a strong, healthy slave who could work in the broiling sunshine to win the harvest of the rich, fertile soil.
So, as the boat drifted away, he gave his orders sharply, and the black slaves, who had stood helplessly staring, rushed to the help of their companion, who was hanging by the boat-hook, half in the water, afraid to stir lest the iron should give way and the tide carry him off to where, as he well knew, there were dangers which made his lips turn grey with dread.
The help came just as the poor fellow was ready to lose his hold and slip back into the river, and in another minute he was shivering on the stage.
“Take hold of that boat-hook,” cried the overseer, speaking with his eyes fixed upon one spot, where the water ran eddying and forming tiny whirlpools, and not daring to look round for fear of losing sight of the place where it seemed to him that his white slave had gone down like a stone; and this had kept him from giving much heed to the proceedings in the boat.
One of the men seized the pole and waited for the next order.
“He went down there,” cried the overseer, pointing. “Sound with the pole, and try how deep it is.”
The man obeyed, the pole touching the muddy bottom about four feet below the surface.
“That’s right; jump in,” cried Saunders.
The man started, and then remained motionless, gazing piteously at his companions.