CHAPTER I

BETWEEN THE LINES

I had drifted slowly across the river, clinging with one arm thrown over
a log, expecting each moment the musket of some startled picket would
spit red through the dark, and scarcely daring to guide my unwieldy
support by the slightest movement of hand in the water. The splash of
motion might mean death in an instant, for keen eyes, sharpened by long
night vigils, were on the stream, and those who had ventured the deed
before me had failed utterly. Yet the southern bank remained silent, so
black I could scarcely discern its vaguest outlines, while, by good
fortune, the sweep of the current served me almost as well as a pair of
oars. Thus, trusting to luck, and without exerting a muscle, I finally
came to a full stop on a narrow spit of sand, so far out in the stream I
could scarcely touch bottom, until the sweep of the current drifted my
log inward, and thus left me flat on the wet sand facing the bank, the
wood-covered crest, as revealed dimly against the slightly lighter sky,
appearing almost to overhang the water.

This shadow served me well, yet did not invite to recklessness. There
were surely pickets posted along here, because the gleam of camp-fires
had been plainly visible during the early evening from the bluffs
opposite, but there was nothing observable from where I lay, my head
cautiously uplifted, peering across the log. It was several minutes
before I even ventured to creep up the sand-spit into the denser
blackness of the over-hanging bank, but, once there safely, I discovered
the drift had landed me at the mouth of a narrow gully, apparently a
mere crevice in the rocky shore-line. It was the occasional downpour of
water after rain which had caused the accumulation of debris on which my