We could hold our ground against five times our number—almost any odds—but how about food? Thirst we did not fear. At night we should have relief. Under the cover of night we could approach the pond, one after another.
We had no apprehension from want of water; but how about food? The cones we had gathered were but a bite; there were no more within reach; we must yield to hunger—to famine.
We conversed with one another freely, as if face to face. We canvassed our prospects; they were gloomy enough.
How was the affair to end? How were we to be delivered from our perilous situation? These were the questions that occupied the thoughts of all.
We could think of only one plan that offered a plausible chance of escape; and that was to hold our position until nightfall, make a sally in the darkness, and fight our way through the lines of our foes. It would be running the gauntlet; a few of us would certainly fall—perhaps many—but some would escape. To stay where we were would be to expose our whole party to certain sacrifice. There was no likelihood of our being rescued by others; no one entertained such a hope. As soon as hunger overcame us, we should be massacred to a man.
Rather than patiently abide such a fate, we resolved, while yet strong, to risk all chances, and fight our way through the enemy’s line. Darkness would favour the attempt; and thus resolved, we awaited the going down of the sun.