"Pull your right, George; pull your right," said my father, coolly.

"Now, Pomp, my boy, let me look. Come, be a man."

My father took his hand, and the boy jumped and uttered a cry of pain, but he evidently mastered himself, and rising to his knees, he resigned himself to my father, but doubled his other fist and shook it in the direction of the sh.o.r.e as he shouted fiercely--

"Ah, you wait bit, great big coward--great big ugly Injum tief. You wait bit--Pomp and um fader get hold you, gib you de 'tick. Hab you flog--hab you--Oh! Oh, Ma.s.s' Capen, done, done," he cried piteously, changing his tone and appealing to my father, as he saw him take out and open his great gardening knife, which was as sharp as a razor.

"Be quiet," said my father; "I will not hurt you much."

"No, no," whimpered Pomp. "Ma.s.s' George, ask ma.s.sa not cut arm off.

Cut off lil toe, Ma.s.sa Capen; cut off um foot. What poor lil n.i.g.g.e.r do wif ony one arm?"

"Be quiet, you cowardly little rascal," said my father, smiling, as with one sharp cut he took off the head of the arrow, and then easily drew the shaft back from where it had pa.s.sed right through Pomp's black hand.

As soon as he saw the arrow-head cut off, and understood what my father meant, Pomp knelt there as coolly as could be.

"Hurt much?" said my father, pressing his finger and thumb on the wound at the back and palm of the boy's hand.

"Um tickle, sah: dat all. Pomp tought you cut um arm off. Hi! You dah," he shouted excitedly; "you wait till Pomp get lil bit of rag round um hand, you see how I serb you. Yah! You big coward Injum tief."

My father rapidly drew his handkerchief from his pocket, tore a piece off, divided it in two, and making the two pieces into little pads, applied one each to the back and front of the boy's hand before binding them securely there.

As soon as this was done, Pomp looked up at him with his eyes sparkling and showing his teeth.

"Pomp not mind a bit," he said. "Here, Ma.s.s' George, come here an'

shoot um. Let Pomp hab de oars."

"No," said my father. "Sit down there in the bottom of the boat. Hah!"

He seized his gun and fired; then caught up mine, waited till the smoke had risen a little, and fired again, a shot coming almost at the same moment from the other boat.

It was quite time, for the Indians, encouraged by the cessation of the firing, and seeing that some one was wounded, were coming on well abreast of us. But the first shot warned them, and the two which followed sent them once more back under cover, leaving one of their number, to Pomp's great delight, motionless among the canes.

"Ha, ha!" he laughed; "you cotch it dis time, sah. How you like feel de shot, eh? You no 'tick arrow froo poor lil n.i.g.g.e.r hand again, you no-- Oh, Ma.s.s' George, look dah!"

For the prostrate man suddenly rolled over, half rose, darted amongst the canes, and we could see by his movements that he was rapidly getting ahead. Then another and another darted to him, and to our misery we saw that they were making for a wooded point a couple of hundred yards ahead.

"Mean to take us between two fires," said my father, who was coolly reloading, in spite of the arrows which kept on dropping down in and about the boat as the Indians sent them right up in the air.

"Morgan!" shouted my father.

"Yes, sir."

"Turn your fire in the other direction, and drive those fellows out of that clump of trees on the point."

"Yes, sir."

The next minute there was a sharp report, and then another.

"That's right, boy," said my father to Pomp, who was eagerly watching him reloading, and handing the ammunition. "Why, George--Ah, that arrow was near; did it hurt you?"

"Only scratched me, father," I said, as I winced a little, for one of the Indians' missiles had fallen, ploughed my leg a little, and pinned the fold of my breeches to the thwart on which I sat.

Pomp crept to my side and pulled out the arrow, examining the hole in the thwart, and saying merrily--

"I no 'tink you want lil bit rag round you, sah."

"No, Pomp; go back and help to load."

_Bang_--_bang_! Was heard again from the foremost boat; but arrows came now fast from the wooded point we were approaching.

"How does Morgan manage to load so quickly?" said my father, who kept on talking calmly, as I believe now to encourage us.

"I think Morgan is--I mean I think Sarah is loading for him," I replied, rather confusedly, as the trees and the wooded bank began to grow misty and dim.

"Ah, very likely. Great--"

The one word came in a very different tone of voice, as a wild shriek rang out from the foremost boat, followed by a momentary silence.

"What is it?" said my father, sternly.

His demand was almost accompanied by a couple more shots in close succession.

"One down, sir," said Morgan, coolly; but his voice sounded to me distant and strange.

"Pull hard, George, my lad--your right. We must give that point as wide a berth as we can."

I obeyed as well as I could, and half wondered at the singing noise in my ears.

_Bang_! Came from the foremost boat, and I seemed to know that Morgan had no one to load for him now, and that poor Sarah had uttered that shriek we had heard. Then I saw that my father was resting his gun on the foremost part of the boat, and he too fired at the woody point, from which arrow after arrow came in quick succession.

And still I rowed hard, with the perspiration streaming down to soak me.

_Whizz_--_thud_--_whizz_--_whizz_, and an angry e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n from my father; I did not know why, nor yet why Pomp uttered a shrill e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, for I was pulling with all my might like one in a dream. I felt once as if I should like to look back and see how near we were to the point that I knew must be close at hand; but everything was getting dark, and a horrible sensation of sickness was coming on. Then the sharp report of my father's piece made me start and pull harder, as I thought, and I tried to look toward the sh.o.r.e, where a wild yelling had arisen; but Pomp's words uttered close to me took my attention, and in a dreamy way I supposed that another Indian had been killed.

Then the boy spoke again in a low whimpering way--

"Ma.s.sa--ma.s.sa--look at de blood. Oh, Ma.s.s' George! Ma.s.s' George!"

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

"Better, my lad?"

I did not answer, but looked in my father's face, wondering what was the matter--why I felt so deathly sick, as I lay back feeling water splashed in my face, and seeing a black hand going and coming from somewhere at my side.

"Come: try and hold up," said my father.