Highly sensitive and imaginative,
this battle rolling along in alternate dusky light and white obscurity,
was to him uncanny and unreal. He saw pink dots of rifle fire in the fog,
he caught glimpses now and then of brown, savage faces or the prow of a
canoe, and then the heavy fog would come down like a blanket again,
shutting out everything.
Paul's hand trembled. Every nerve in him was jumping, but he resolutely
steered the boat while the others rowed and fought. Once he barely grazed
a snag and he shivered, knowing how one of these terrible obstructions
could rip the bottom out of a boat. But soon the trees and bushes almost
disappeared. They were coming into open water. The fog, too, ceased to
close down, and the wind began to blow steadily out of the north. Banks
and streamers of white vapor rolled away toward the south. In a few
minutes it would all be gone. Out of the mists behind them rose the shapes
of war canoes not far away, and the fierce triumphant yell that swept far
over the river sent a chill to Paul's very marrow. Once again rose the
rifle fire, and it was now a rapid and steady crackle, but the bullets
thudded in vain on the thick sides of "The Galleon."
All except Paul now pulled desperately for the middle of the stream, while
he, bending as low as he could, still kept a steady hand on the tiller.
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