Boats of the fishermen were drawn along the white road of shore, and these the Dutchmen requisitioned for crossing. They worked warily, fearful of seeing the flash of torches along the path beneath the cliff. The river brimmed and the stream flung down with a ceaseless undertone.
"What have we here?" snorted Von Donck, while he groped under the gloomy wall.
A number of dry logs, crossed and pinned together by wooden wedges, lay upon the gravel spit, piled with dry grass and resinous boughs interlaced. Beside were lengths of pine to act as rollers for launching. The mass of inflammable material rose high. Torches were pressed between two stones beside the logs.
"'Tis but the raft made to give signal to the Iroquois tribes," explained the lieutenant.
"To the water with it," cried a voice.
"Peace, fool. The French have sentries posted."
"Fire it," snorted Von Donck. "Let not so much good work be spent in vain. Will float it upon the French man-o'-war for a parting message."
Eager hands set in place the rollers, and soon the unwieldy mass grumbled riverwards. It nosed into the water and settled with a splash, riding deep because the logs had weight. Flint and steel struck, a shower of sparks rained upon the catch-fire, the torches were ignited. At a word the grass flared, and the raft, released, struck upon a rock, turned slowly, and raced down stream, a red and yellow sheet of fire under a whirling canopy of smoke, straight for the lantern which marked the presence of the man-of-war.
"To the boats!" whispered Van Vuren.
A cry was raised above, and soon the answering voices resembled a chorus of daws frightened round a dark steeple by the shadow of a bird of prey. While the Dutch were floundering in mid-stream a brass gun thundered. The column of fire swept on, illuminating the seamed wall, and throwing into black contrast the trees on the opposite shore.