But another cause of alarm is quickly manifest, for he catches the sound of the thud of oars as they pound against the rowlocks, telling him that the enemy have manned a boat and are seeking him. Before he can decide as to the direction in which to swim in order to get out of the track of the on-coming craft, it looms up only a few yards from him. There is only one course to pursue, so, catching a quick breath, he quietly sinks, and the boat passes over the spot where the bubbles on the water mark his disappearance. Until he experiences a sense of suffocation he remains under, swimming off at right angles to the path of his seekers, so that his head may not be in line with the eyes of the rowers when he regains the surface. When he again casts his anxious eyes around, nothing is seen, so he throws himself on his back and floats while recovering his strength, and shortly after strikes out for the opposite bank of the river, which he reaches after a weary trial, then creeps into the underbrush, and sleeps from exhaustion. The sun is high when he awakes. Parting the wild foliage, he looks across and up the stream at the scene of his exploit. The dock is plainly to be seen, but the _Albemarle_ has disappeared. Looking intently, he sees two masts rising from the water near the pier, and is thus assured that the career of the rebel ship is ended. Ha! What causes that rustling of the foliage to his right? Is it an animal, or is it an enemy in search of him? Almost naked, and altogether defenceless, he watches breathlessly. He promises himself that he will never be taken alive. Better to die than to endure the tortures of a Southern prison. The bushes part a little further, and a man’s sun-browned face and brawny bare shoulders and tattooed arms come into view. “Jack!” says the Lieutenant, in a loud, glad whisper. “Lieutenant!” responds the seaman, in a tone of equal surprise and gladness. All day the officer and his companion, the only survivors of the expedition, work their way painfully through the swamp, and just as the sun is sinking they drag their bare, bleeding feet and cruelly lacerated bodies out on the bank of the river opposite the Union fleet. All hands have been called to “make sunset,” and the men are silently standing by the signal halyards and boat-falls waiting for the word of command, when the quartermaster on the bridge of the flag-ship quickly levels his telescope at the shore, then hurriedly approaches and addresses the officer of the deck, who stands beside the Captain. The latter takes the glass from the seaman, peers through it for an instant, wheels sharply around, and speaks to the Lieutenant. “Away, first cutter!” roars the latter. The boatswain’s mate blows a shrill pipe, and repeats the order. “Go down the boat-falls, boys; lively’s the word! Jump into the cutter, Mr. Arnold, and pull into the beach for the men!”