“There is no question about it,” returned the planter, “if she is given time enough. But the distance to the creek is short; we may reach there. Then, with the help of the Defence, we can fight her off on the return run.”
The Tartar had arrived within hailing distance of the mouth of the creek, when the brig suddenly discharged a lucky shot from a long bow gun that splintered the sloop’s mast and left her lying a helpless hulk upon the waters.
“It’s all over,” said Marion, quietly.
“The boat remains,” said Mr. Deering. “Quick. You have still time to gain the Defence.”
“And you, father?” said Tom.
“I remain with the sloop,” answered the planter.
“But you will be taken prisoner!”
“I will not leave my crew,” said his father, firmly. “There is not room for us all in the single yawl.”
“Then I will remain, also,” said Tom.
“You will join Major Marion in the boat,” commanded the planter, evenly. “Carolina has need of all her youth. It would be a needless sacrifice for you to throw yourself into the hands of her enemies.”