With savage yells the Indians sprang into their canoes and gave chase.
It was ten to one and they were sure of their prey. The chance of escape
from such strong, swift rowers in light bark canoes was slight. The low
fierce cries of victory and the joyous shout of coming torture rang over
the waters.
The Indians gained rapidly.
The young Lieutenant's eye measured the distance between them and saw
the race was hopeless. With quick command he ordered a huge blanket
stretched in the bow for a sail. The wind was blowing a furious gale
and might swamp their tiny craft. It was drowning or death by torture.
The commander's choice was instantaneous.
The frail boat plunged suddenly forward, swayed and surged from side to
side through the angry, swirling waters, settled at last, and drew
steadily away from the maddened savages.
With a curious smile, the boyish commander stood in the stern and
watched the black swarm of yelling devils fade in the distance.
He was thinking of his old professor at West Point. His insult had been
the one thing in life to which he owed most. He could see that clearly
now. His heart went out in a wave of gratitude to his enemy. Our enemies
are always our best friends when we have eyes to see.
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