The bank above him was rather high and quite steep, for which he was glad,
as it afforded protection. A half mile farther down he came to the mouth
of a creek coming in from the South, and just as he passed it he heard
voices on the bank. He held his boat among the bushes on the cliff and
listened. Several men were talking, but he judged them to be farmers,
not soldiers. Yet they talked of the battle that night, and Harry
surmised that they were looking at the lights in the Southern camp which
might yet be visible from the high point on which they stood. He could
not gather from their words whether they were Northern or Southern
sympathizers, but it did not matter, as he had no intention of speaking
to them, hoping only that they would go away in a few minutes and let him
continue his journey unseen.
His hope speedily came to pass. He heard their voices sinking in the
distance, and leaving the shelter of the bushes he pulled down the stream
once more. Then he found that he had deceived himself about the clouds.
If they had retired, they had merely recoiled, to use the French phrase,
in order to gather again with greater force.
During his short stay among the bushes at the foot of the cliff the whole
heavens had blackened and the air was surcharged with the heavy damp and
tensity that betoken a coming storm.
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