When we were within twenty yards of the middle arch, she told us to cease
rowing, and we obeyed, leaving the boat in her hands.
The roar of the falling waters, tumbling in a cataract on the further
side of the Bridge, frightened me, but if Betty heard it she did not fear
it, for she began to sing the plaintive little French lullaby we had so
often heard, and De Grammont, leaning forward, touched me on the back as
he whispered:--
"God gives us an angel to steer our boat."
The next moment the water caught us in its mighty suck, just under the
upper edge of the arch, and almost before we were aware that we had
started through, our boat made a plunge on the lower side, the perilous
moment was past, and we were floating in comparatively still water two
score yards below London Bridge.
Then Captain Bettina resumed her seat on the stern thwart, and we dipped
our oars.
We were turning about to get under way again, when De Grammont cried
out:--
"Mon Dieu! They are lost! There they go under! Ah, Jesu!"
We all turned our eyes toward the Bridge, but were too late to see the
barge. It had sunk in four fathoms of water, and every man aboard had
gone down with it.
We backed water, resting on our oars, and presently the overturned barge
came to the surface and floated past us, telling its sad story, "Perished
in a bad king's bad cause,"--a story written on almost every page of the
world's history.
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