The task Louis had cut out for himself was no easy one. The swamps were treacherous and soon he found himself up to his knees in muck and water. He could scarcely move, and coming to a slight elevation threw himself down, panting for breath. He was near the main stream and now something caught his eye which gave him a new idea. The something was a flat-bottom boat, resting half in and half out of the water, the oars sticking over the bow. Instantly his mind was made up. He would take to the boat and row, or rather guide himself, down the Chickahominy until an assured place of safety was gained. A few steps forward, and he had just begun to shove upon the bow of the craft, when a slight movement at the bottom caused him to start. A man lay there, his forehead tied up with a bandage. The man was a Confederate captain. “Who’s that?” asked the man, in rather a weak voice. “A soldier,” answered Louis, and added quickly: “Are you alone here, captain?” “Yes, worse luck. Where is my command? I was struck by a glancing bullet and knocked out.” “I don’t know where your command is, captain. Can you get up? This is a bad resting-place.” “Can I get up? Why--Heavens! a Union soldier, and I thought you a friend! What does this mean?” “Keep still, captain,” answered Louis, and then as the wounded officer made a movement as if to draw his pistol, the youth leaned over him and snatched it from his belt. “Hi! give me my pistol!” came in a weak but fierce tone. The Confederate officer tried to rise, but Louis shoved him back. “Keep still now. As you discovered, I am a Union soldier, and I have no desire to be made a prisoner.” “What do you intend to do?” “Take this boat and row down the stream.” “I don’t want to go down the stream.” “In this case I am afraid you’ll have to go, captain. Lie still while I shove off.” “But, see here--” “Silence, if you value your life!” and Louis leveled the pistol at the man’s head. The threat had the desired effect. The Confederate captain fell back, and Louis shoved the boat into the stream. The youth soon found rowing out of the question and merely guided the craft as it drifted swiftly along the swollen river. Half a mile had been covered and Louis was guiding the boat around a bend when the sounds of voices in a thicket ahead reached his ears. To slow up was impossible and he therefore guided the craft to the opposite shore from whence the voices came. “Halt! In the boat, halt!” rang out the cry. “Who goes there?” and Louis saw the glint of a rifle barrel thrust through the leaves not twenty feet from him. “It’s a Yank, sure ez you’re born,” came in another, but lower, voice. “Plug him, Bart, afore he gits the chance to git away!” CHAPTER XXXI BETWEEN THE LINES