The prospect began to make him nervous; and while he was bitterly regretting that he had not moored the boat before, he was startled to hear a sharp, commanding voice on the bank at his left.

“Who comes there?  Halt!”

Tom looked up, and discovered a grayback, standing on the shore, very deliberately pointing his musket at him.

“Who comes there?” demanded the picket; for at this point were stationed the outposts of the rebel force in the Shenandoah valley.

“Friend!” replied Tom.

“Halt, then!”

“I would, if I could,” answered Tom, as hastily as possible.

“Halt, or I’ll fire!”

“I tell you I can’t halt,” replied Tom, using his paddle vigorously, as though he was trying to urge the bateau to the shore.  “Don’t fire!  For mercy’s sake, don’t fire.”

Tom appeared to be intensely frightened at the situation in which he was placed, and redoubled his efforts apparently to gain the bank of the stream; but the more he seemed to paddle one way, the more the boat went the other way.  However much Tom appeared to be terrified by the peril that menaced him, it must be confessed that he was not wholly unmoved.

“Stop your boat, quick!” said the soldier, who had partially dropped his musket from its menacing position.

“I can’t stop it,” responded Tom, apparently in an agony of terror.  “I would go ashore if I could.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The water runs so swift, I can’t stop her; been trying this two hours.”

“You will be inside the Yankee lines in half an hour if you don’t fetch to,” shouted the picket.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Tom, redoubling his efforts.

But it was useless to struggle with the furious current, and Tom threw himself into the bottom of the boat, as if in utter desperation.  If Niagara Falls, with their thundering roar and fearful abyss, had been before him, his agony could not have been more intense, as judged from the shore.

By this time, the sentinel on the bank had been joined by his two companions, and the three men forming the picket post stood gazing at him, as he abandoned himself to the awful fate of being captured by the blood-thirsty Yankees, to whose lines the relentless current of the Shenandoah was bearing him.

When Tom was first challenged by the grayback, the boat had been some twenty rods above him; and it had now passed the spot where he stood, but the rebels were still near enough to converse with him.  Tom heard one of them ask another who he was.  Of course neither of them knew who he was, or where he came from.

“Try again!” shouted one of the pickets.  “The Yankees will have you in a few minutes.”

Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair.  The rebels followed him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.