“Sergeant Bland, the captain orders you to take four men and station them along the north shore of the pond.  The rascals are in the cypress swamp, and are making their way out toward Moccasin Creek.  One man can watch the block-house, and the rest come with me.—­Guard, we shall be within a hundred yards of you.  A shot will bring a dozen men to your assistance; but it isn’t likely an enemy can reach this point.  The whole regiment is deployed in the woods.”

This was said to the sentry as the group, detailed for Moccasin Creek, filed off at a double-quick down the hill.  In a few moments the blockhouse was deserted, save by the sentry, who had now risen and was vigorously pacing before the doorway.  Now was Jack’s time, if ever.  If he could only whisper to one of the prisoners to call the sentry.  But how?  He had nothing to fear in approaching the rear, and in a few moments he had examined the walls.  There was no opening where he could get speech with those inside.  What could he do?  To boldly fall upon the sentry was risky, for the slightest noise would bring rescue from the front of the bluff.  At the base of the wall, where the log-joists rested upon a huge bowlder, his quick eye detected an air-hole.  He examined it hurriedly.  It was evidently below the flooring.  So much the better.  Putting his mouth to this, he called out in a piteous tone: 

“For God’s sake, sentry, give me some water!  I’m choking—­oh—­oh water! water!”

He waited to see if the sentry would heed the call.  He knew that the men inside could not betray him, for, if they were not asleep, they could not be sure that the voice was not from among themselves.  Sure enough, the sentry’s step ceased.  Was he near the door?  Jack crept to the corner.  Yes, he had halted at the aperture.  Would he enter?  Jack stepped back to his post, as the guard called out: 

“Where are you?  Which of you wants water?  Sing out!”

“Here!” Jack cried, “Here!” Then darting back to the corner, he was just in time to see the man lean his gun against the door-post, and disappear in the hut.  In an instant the gun was in Jack’s possession, and he was behind the Samaritan in quest of the suffering victim.  It was dark as a tunnel.  Jack’s victim still gave him the aid he needed, for, as he groped along the wall, he said, good-humoredly: 

“Sing out again, my friend; I haven’t got cat’s eyes.”

Jack’s grasp was on his throat and Jack’s mouth was at his ear.

“One sound, one word, and this knife goes to the hilt in your heart!”

The astounded man half reeled at this awful apparition in the black darkness, and he limply yielded to his captor under the impression that the prisoners were loose and upon him.  Jack tied the man’s unresisting hands with his own canteen-straps; then seated him near the wall and lighted a match.  Four men, undisturbed by this swift and noiseless coup, were stretched on the board floor, breathing the heavy,