“Company C?”
“Yes, sir,” and they saluted.
“You made a splendid charge at Wagner. We nearly drove the rebs out that night. There, bring her up. You are detailed by Captain Emilio to convey me to James’ Island, within the Confederate lines. I am going to do a little reconnoitering.”
So they pulled up the anchor, and the towboat turned into the creeks between Morris’ and James’ Island.
Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards before a boat was pushed off hurriedly after them, and a voice called excitedly:
“Stop that boat! Hatchett, Simpson, he’s a rebel prisoner! Stop!”
The two boatmen instantly ceased rowing and looked at McArthur angrily. Not a feature of his face changed. Only his nostrils dilated suggestively, and two little flames of fire shot from his eyes.
“Take up those oars, men,” he said, quietly, pointing his pistol at them. “Row as if all hell were behind you.”
The men hesitated.
McArthur fired at the foremost, intentionally grazing his clothes. At the report of the pistol, they cowered in mortal terror.