But
the simile of the shiftless one had come true. The wedge, driven by
tremendous strokes, had cleft the log.
The Indian fleet, many of the boats containing white men, too, closed in
and sought to bar the way, but they were daunted somewhat by their great
disaster, and in an instant the American fleet was upon them cutting a
path through to the free river. Boat often smashed into boat, and the
weaker, or the one with less impulse, went down. Now and then white and
red reached over and grasped each other in deadly struggle, but, whatever
happened, the supply fleet moved steadily on.
It was to Paul a confused combat, a wild and terrible struggle, the climax
of the night-battle. White and red faces mingled before him in a blur, the
water seemed to flow in narrow, black streams between the boats and the
pall of smoke was ever growing thicker. It hung over them, black and
charged now with gases. Paul coughed violently, but he was not conscious
of it. He fired his rifle until it was too hot to hold. Then he laid it
down, and seizing an oar pulled with the energy of fever.
When the boats containing the cannon were through and into the river, they
faced about and began firing over the heads of the others into the huddled
mass of the enemy behind.
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