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“Yes, kurnel.”

Turning to the firing party, the officer gave the successive orders—make ready,—present,—fire! Hardly had the last word been uttered, than the prisoner, with surprising agility, gave a backward leap into the river, and the volley swept over where he stood, the bullets ricochetting on the surface of the river behind. “The Yankee scoundrel! Has he escaped? Ten pounds for him alive or dead!” shouted the officer. There was a rush to the edge of the wharf, and the soldiers fired at random amid its posts, but the American was not to be seen. “It is impossible for him to escape,” the captain said to Morton, who had come to aid in the search. “He would have been hung had we had a gallows handy, and if he has escaped the bullet it is only to be drowned, for the river runs here like a mill-race and will carry him into the rapids.” The soldiers jumped on the boats and scanned wharf and shore, and seeing no trace came to the conclusion that from his backward leap he had been unable to recover himself and did not rise to the surface. Satisfied the man was drowned, the soldiers were ordered back to the guard-room and the stir and hurry in getting the flotilla ready were resumed.