mercy's sake, don't fire."

Tom appeared to be intensely frightened at the situation in which he was
placed, and redoubled his efforts apparently to gain the bank of the
stream; but the more he seemed to paddle one way, the more the boat went
the other way. However much Tom appeared to be terrified by the peril that
menaced him, it must be confessed that he was not wholly unmoved.

"Stop your boat, quick!" said the soldier, who had partially dropped his
musket from its menacing position.

"I can't stop it," responded Tom, apparently in an agony of terror. "I
would go ashore if I could."

"What's the matter?"

"The water runs so swift, I can't stop her; been trying this two hours."

"You will be inside the Yankee lines in half an hour if you don't fetch
to," shouted the picket.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Tom, redoubling his efforts.

But it was useless to struggle with the furious current, and Tom threw
himself into the bottom of the boat, as if in utter desperation. If
Niagara Falls, with their thundering roar and fearful abyss, had been
before him, his agony could not have been more intense, as judged from the
shore.

By this time, the sentinel on the bank had been joined by his two
companions, and the three men forming the picket post stood gazing at him,
as he abandoned himself to the awful fate of being captured by the
blood-thirsty Yankees, to whose lines the relentless current of the
Shenandoah was bearing him.

When Tom was first challenged by the grayback, the boat had been some
twenty rods above him; and it had now passed the spot where he stood, but
the rebels were still near enough to converse with him. Tom heard one of
them ask another who he was. Of course neither of them knew who he was, or
where he came from.

"Try again!" shouted one of the pickets. "The Yankees will have you in a
few minutes."

Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the
bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair. The rebels followed
him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire
prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.

"Can't you help me?" pleaded Tom, in accents of despair. "Throw me a rope!
Do something for me."

Now, this was a suggestion that had not before occurred to the picket
guard, and Tom would have been infinitely wiser if he had not put the idea
of assisting him into their dull brains; for it is not at all probable
that they