The sun is high when he awakes. Parting the wild foliage, he looks across and up the stream at the scene of his exploit. The dock is plainly to be seen, but the Albemarle has disappeared. Looking intently, he sees two masts rising from the water near the pier, and is thus assured that the career of the rebel ship is ended.
Ha! What causes that rustling of the foliage to his right? Is it an animal, or is it an enemy in search of him?
Almost naked, and altogether defenceless, he watches breathlessly.
He promises himself that he will never be taken alive. Better to die than to endure the tortures of a Southern prison. The bushes part a little further, and a man’s sun-browned face and brawny bare shoulders and tattooed arms come into view.
“Jack!” says the Lieutenant, in a loud, glad whisper.
“Lieutenant!” responds the seaman, in a tone of equal surprise and gladness.
All day the officer and his companion, the only survivors of the expedition, work their way painfully through the swamp, and just as the sun is sinking they drag their bare, bleeding feet and cruelly lacerated bodies out on the bank of the river opposite the Union fleet.
All hands have been called to “make sunset,” and the men are silently standing by the signal halyards and boat-falls waiting for the word of command, when the quartermaster on the bridge of the flag-ship quickly levels his telescope at the shore, then hurriedly approaches and addresses the officer of the deck, who stands beside the Captain. The latter takes the glass from the seaman, peers through it for an instant, wheels sharply around, and speaks to the Lieutenant.
“Away, first cutter!” roars the latter.
The boatswain’s mate blows a shrill pipe, and repeats the order.