The shrilling of a boatswain's pipe followed, and the hoarse bawl, "All first cutters away," started George to action.
"Now for another swim," he said, as he passed the battle-ship's mighty stern. "The shore of Staten Island must be off there to the left."
He hove both coats into the water, and, taking Mr. Hewes's epistle in his teeth, lowered himself after them. He hated to sacrifice the spy-glass, but overboard it went with the rest.
He had taken but a few dozen strokes when the thrumming of oars sounded plainly, and he rolled over on his back to listen—the oars stopped.
"Cutter there!" came from the deck of the seventy-four. "Have you found that boat?"
"Ay, ay, sir," the cutter hailed in return. "There's nothing in it but a hat."
George smiled and struck out again. "That shore's a long ways off," he thought, after he had swum for some time steadily, and as he made this remark to himself his knee struck something hard; he dropped his feet to sound, and found that the water scarcely reached his waist.
Tired and faint, he waded up to a shelving beach and fell forward in the sand. But he could not stay there long, for he knew that Staten Island was overrun with English soldiers. He must find some place to hide.
The fog had lessened, but it was growing dark. A ship's bell struck the hour, and the sound was taken up by a hundred others in a chorus of clanging and ding-donging out in the mist.
George walked up the beach. The water's edge was littered with débris from the fleet—baskets and empty boxes, crates, and drift-wood of all sorts. Something caught his eye, and he stooped and picked up a stout-handled boat-hook.