e, pistols, plenty of ammunition, an extra suit of
clothes, a pair of blankets, and a good supply of money were all that he
took. One small package which contained a hundred dollars in gold coins
he put in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

"You are to give that to Jarvis just after you start," said the colonel.
"We cannot pay him directly for saving you, because he will not take it,
but you can insist that this is for your passage."

They were all at the cove before dawn on the appointed morning. Colonel
Kenton was to say Harry's good-bye for him to his friends. The whole
departure had been arranged with so much skill that they alone knew
of it. The boat was strong, shaped well, and had two pairs of oars.
A heavy canvas sheet could be erected as a kind of awning or tent in the
rear, in case of rain. They carried plenty of food, and Jarvis said
that in addition they were more than likely to pick up a deer or two on
the way. Both he and Ike carried long-barreled rifles.

The three stepped into the boat.

"Good-bye, Harry," said the colonel, reaching down a strong hand that
trembled.

"Good-bye, father," said Harry, returning the clasp with another strong
hand that trembled also.

People in that region were not demonstrative. Family affection was
strong, but they were reared on the old, stern Puritan plan, and the
handshake and the brief words were all. Then Jarvis and his silent
nephew bent to the oars and the boat shot up the deep channel of the
Kentucky.

Harry looked back, and in the dusk saw his father still standing at the
edge of the cove. He waved a hand and the colonel waved back. Then
they disappeared around a curve of the hills, and the first light of
dawn began to drift over the Kentucky.

Harry was silent for a long time. He was becoming used to sudden and
hard traveling and danger, but the second parting with his father moved
him deeply. Since he had been twelve or thirteen years of age, they
had been not only father and son, but comrades, and, in the intimate
association, he had acquired more of a man's mind than was usual in
one of his years. He felt now, since he was going to the east and the
colonel was remaining in the west, that the parting was likely to be
long--perhaps forever.

It was no morbid feeling. It was the consciousness that a great and
terrible war was at hand. Although but a youth, he had been in the
forefront of things. He had been at Montgomery and Sumter, and