Greene just smiled.
“Have you seen Lieutenant Kelly or Captain Kautz?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
As the steamer moved away from the shelter of land it was lifted by swells that swept in from the open sea. The little ship rolled and tossed and smacked the waves, sending up sheets of spray and wetting the men who were wedged along the rails. It seemed to Tim she was carrying too many men.
“If we make it to Charleston I’ll be surprised.”
Greene smiled shyly. “Let’s mutiny,” he said, “and sail to Boston on the afternoon tide.”
Suddenly there was a commotion near them at the rail and one of the prisoners jumped over the side. Tim saw the flash of a shirt then he saw a boy swimming and drifting swiftly astern. He said, “What chance does he think he has?”
A guard dashed out of the wheelhouse onto the shuddering deck. He raised his rifle and fired. Greene gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in a helpless fury as he watched the head of the struggling boy. “For the love of mercy, why don’t they give him a chance?”
Two shots followed the first, but the boy’s head still bobbed above the water. The fourth shot hit its mark. One of the swimmer’s hands thrashed weakly for a moment and he dipped below the surface, leaving a slick of blood to mark the place where he had disappeared.
Greene’s face was pale. He quivered with rage and fear. He stared transfixed and then, with a convulsive shudder, leaned over the rail and was sick. Tim put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked across the water at the stretch of beach that led to the mouth of the creek and the freedom of the Yankee lines.