“I know full well how much I suffered while lyin’ in the cabin of the sloop trussed up in the same fashion, an’ then there was no chance for so much sufferin’ because the day was not so hot. I’m never fearin’ but that you lads count on dealin’ justly by him, an’ am certain it’s not in your minds to act the part of brutes.” Only once during the afternoon did any of the enemy come within an hundred feet of where we lay, wet with mud and water and beset by mosquitoes, and then during a bad ten minutes did it appear as if Luther Stedman’s hour of triumph was close at hand. A party of marines lounged aimlessly down the shore until coming to the mouth of the creek, and one proposed to follow up the water-course simply out of idle curiosity. He even advanced a few paces to carry out such attention, and I saw Abraham clutch the rifle we had kept with us all this time, as if determined to sell his life dearly rather than be carried aboard the ship as a prisoner. The fellow did not get very far on his voyage of discovery; at the second step he plunged knee-deep in the mud, whereupon he drew back amid the jeers and laughter of his companions, and the party moved away to where a boat was just being drawn up on the shore. Now and then we munched at the hard biscuit, not because we were hungry, but in order that we might have something with which to occupy the time. I had never believed food would be distasteful, particularly when I had much the same as fasted for eight and forty hours, but on this day I found it impossible to swallow the bread even after chewing it, though it was sweet and palatable. What a blessed relief it was to see the sun sink behind the hills of Staten Island! I had thought the night would never come, and longed for the darkness as a thirsty man does for water, but yet no sooner was the night at hand than my anxiety became all the greater, for Abraham’s journey was yet to be performed--a journey which I feared he would never live to finish. One by one the boats returned to the ship until the shore was deserted. We could hear the cries of the sentries, however, which caused it to seem as if they were close at hand, and the riding lights of the prison ship sent ominous rays across the water. “I reckon it will be safe to crawl out on dry land now, an’ thus have a chance to stretch our legs,” Seth Hartley said when the evening had grown old. “There’s little show of any one comin’ ashore at this hour, an’ even though that should happen, we’ll be hidden by the bushes on the hill.” Abraham and Seth took Luther Stedman up as if his had been a lifeless body, carrying him through the swamp to the higher land beyond, and there we walked about a bit, taking due care, however, not to show ourselves beyond the gloom of the shadows cast by the bushes. Another hour passed in almost perfect silence, and then Sam asked abruptly: “Shall you take the musket, Abe?”