in his skin.

He had no reason for alarm; the man was a negro; the dusky
face showed sympathy under its surprise.

"I am a Union soldier," said Cushing, feeling in his heart
that no slave would betray him.

"One o' dem as was in de town last night?" asked the negro.

"Yes. Have you been there? Can you tell me anything?"

"No, massa; on'y I's been tole dat dar's pow'ful bad work
dar, an' de sojers is bilin' mad."

Further words passed, in the end the negro agreeing to go to
the town, see for himself what harm had been done, and bring
back word. Cushing would wait for him under shelter of the
corn.

The old negro set out on his errand, glad of the
opportunity to help one of "Massa Linkum's sojers." The
lieutenant secreted himself as well as he could, and waited.
An hour passed. Then steps and the rustling of the dry
leaves of the corn-stalks were heard. The fugitive peeped
from his ambush. To his joy he saw before him the smiling
face of his dusky messenger.

"What news?" he demanded, stepping joyfully forward.

"Mighty good news, massa," said the negro, with a laugh.
"Dat big iron ship's got a hole in her bottom big 'nough to
drive a wagon in. She's deep in de mud, 'longside de wharf,
an' folks say she'll neber git up ag'in."

"Good! She's done for, then? My work is accomplished?--Now,
old man, tell me how I must go to get back to the ships."

The negro gave what directions he could, and the fugitive
took to the swamp again, after a grateful good-by to his
dusky friend and a warm "God-speed" from the latter. It was
into a thicket of tangled shrubs that Lieutenant Cushing now
plunged, so dense that he could not see ten feet in advance.
But the sun was visible overhead and served him as a guide.
Hour by hour he dragged himself painfully onward. At two
o'clock in the afternoon he found himself on the banks of a
narrow creek, a small affluent of the Roanoke.

He crouched in the bushes on the creek-side, peering warily
before him. Voices reached his ears. Across the stream he
saw men. A minute's observation apprised him of the
situation. The men he saw to be a group of soldiers, seven
in number, who had just landed from a boat in the stream. As
he watched, they tied their boat to the root of a tree, and
then turned into a path that led upward. Reaching a point at
some distance from the river, they stopped, sat down, and
began to eat their dinner.

Here was an opportunity, a desperate one, but Cushing had