His wet fingers sought mine.
"I shall nefer be safe no more," he whispered.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I don't know. I shall nefer set foot on shore no more. I don't live long now, Mr. Cardigan."
He was trembling from head to foot as I laid my hand on his shoulder.
The boatmen had dropped their oars and taken to their poles once more; the tall reeds rustled as our scow drove its square nose into the shallows and grounded with a grating jar. Startled curlews, round about us, uttered their querulous cries.
"There's a road swings northwest through the marshes," said Mount, wading out into the water and leading his horse up through the rushes. "Follow me, lad. I should know this country from Cobble Hill to Canada."
Foxcroft had mounted; Jack climbed stiffly into his saddle; I threw Warlock around in the reeds, prepared to set foot to stirrup, when Shemuel seized my arm convulsively. A patrol of British light horse, riding in single file, came picking their way down the shore in the moonlight.
Mount and Foxcroft saw them and drew bridles; I slung my legs across Warlock, just as they hailed us.
"Get up behind! Quick!" I whispered to Shemuel, watching the horsemen riding towards Mount, who was ahead of Foxcroft.