At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 90: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AT A GIRI’S MERCY. 19 along the shore; the rattle of a rifle as he set it down or shifted it from one shoulder to the other ; the sharp challenge to some one passing into camp, or only the tramp, tramp, tramp of the man as he passed to and fro, now into the shadows of the thicket, now out in the red light of the fire. Every sound struck on the ears of the listeners with dread; what if their oars be heard or their boat seen as they glided past, silent, breathless, not daring to move, their eyes searching the darkness around them. Down, down the river, not one of them closing their eyes in sleep in spite of fatigue, for what was fatigue, or what was the loss of sleep compared to the chance they ran of being captured if they left the watch? Then up from the darkness that was slowly break- ing loomed a vessel above their heads. Foran in- stant they thought it was running them down, and then the truth dawned upon them. It was a Con- federate gunboat anchored off shore, and to be cap- tured by them would mean death, or worse. But how were they to pass without discovery? Against the gray line of the breaking day they could make out the moving figures of the watch on deck, and could hear the rattle of chains now and then, or a word of command. To row past them would be impossible, the sound of the oars, muffled though they were, would almost surely be detected; they must trust to the wind and tide to drift them past. So they shipped their oars, and sat waiting with fearful hearts and faces drawn with terror. How slow they went. Sometimes it seemed as though they did not move, as though the great black gunner was standing guard over them, so that they could not go on; but the tide drifted out and the wind Gomicbooks.co m