His companion did not lift his head. He made
no sign, gave no last flashing comradeship with his eyes, but climbed
into the bow of the boat and sat down with his chin still on his chest,
like a man lost in stupor.
Nathaniel followed him, scarcely believing his eyes, and sat himself in
the stern, leaning comfortably against the knees of the man who took the
tiller. He felt a curious thrill pass through him when he discovered a
moment later that this man was Jeekum. Two men seized the oars
amidships. A fourth, with his rifle across his knees sat facing Neil.
For the first time Nathaniel found himself wondering what this voyage
meant. Were they to be rowed far down the shore to some secret fastness
where no other ears would hear the sound of the avenging rifles, and
where, a few inches under the forest mold, their bodies would never be
discovered? Each stroke of the oars added to the remoteness of this
possibility. The boat was heading straight out to sea. Perhaps they were
to meet a less terrible death by drowning, an end which, though
altogether unpleasant, held something comforting in it for Captain Plum.
Two hours passed without pause in the steady labor of the men at the
oars. In those hours not a word was spoken. The two men amidships held
no communication. The guard in the bow moved a little now and then only
to relieve his cramped limbs. Neil was absolutely motionless, as though
he had ceased to breathe. Jeekum uttered not a whisper.
It was his whisper that Nathaniel waited for, the signaling clutch of
his fingers, the sound of his breath close to his ears.
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