"Mighty good," said Cushing. "Now, old man, tell me how I can get back to the ships."
The negro told him all he could, and with a warm "Good-bye" the fugitive took to the swamp again. On he went, hour by hour, forcing his way through the thick bushes and wading in the deep mud. Thus he went on, mile after mile, until at length, at two o'clock in the afternoon, he found himself on the banks of a narrow creek.
Here he heard voices and drew back. Looking through the bushes he saw a party of seven soldiers just landing from a boat. They tied the boat to the root of a tree and went up a path that led back from the river. Soon they stopped, sat down, and began to eat their dinner. They could see their boat from where they sat, but they were too busy eating to think of that.
Here was Cushing's chance. It was a desperate one, but he was ready to try anything. He lowered himself quietly into the stream, swam across, and untied the boat. Then he noiselessly pushed it out and swam with it down stream. As soon as he was out of sight of the soldiers he climbed in and rowed away as fast as he could. What the soldiers thought and said when they missed their boat nobody knows. He did not see them again.
It was a long journey. The creek was crooked and winding. Night came on before he reached the river. Then he paddled on till midnight. Ten hours of hard toil had passed when he saw the dark hull of a gunboat nearby.
"Ship ahoy!" he cried.
"Who goes there?" called the lookout.
"A friend. Take me up."
A boat was lowered and rowed towards him. The officer in it looked with surprise when he saw a mud-covered man, with scratched and bleeding face.
"Who are you?" he asked.