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colored haze of satisfaction and hope, became a popular man on board,

Captain Pritchard pronounced him worth his weight in gold; for if there were no gales, or rough seas to thwart our purpose, fogs were rather frequent, and here the pilot's intimate acquaintance with the rocks, shoals, and islets---many of which were not noted down in the chart—more than once saved the Bonnybell from an ugly thump upon some hidden obstacle.

For an American, Zack Foster was singularly silent; yet there was something elephantine about his high forehead and narrow dark eyes, which suggested shrewdness, rather than vanity. He did his work, answered when spoken to, but seldom addressed any one.

Land-ho!" sung out the look-out man at the masthead, and Pritchard and the pilot, who were pouring together over the map, close to the binnacle, looked up, while the passengers edged nearer to hear the news. Pritchard lifted his telescope, while Foster went aloft for a better view !

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“Edisto Island, as I said, Cap!" hailed the pilot; “ and beyond it is the Carolina coast. We're close to home, gentlemen and ladies."

There was a cheer from the little group gathered near the helm, but directly afterward came two shrill cries of " sail ho!" “Uncle Sam's breakers.

We must put out a few miles yet, Cap.,” said the pilot, as he leisurely descended the rope ladder. There were many good glasses on board, and we all gazed eagerly through them, and with beating hearts we recognised the port-holes, the grinning cannon, the “star-spangled flags,” and warlike display of the Federal blockading squadron."

The steamer was put about, and we stood further out, until shore and ships were alike lost to view. The disappointment of the passengers, who had been granted a mere glimpse of the land, that to them was home, was considerable; but none could doubt the prudence of delaying our entrance into Charleston harbor until night should assist us in eluding the hostile war vessels.

There was no going to bed on the Bonnybell that night; we all kept to the deck, gazing eagerly out over the sparkling and phosphorescent sea, glimmering and glancing with St. Elmo's fires. There was a pale young moon—a mere sickle of silver—in the sky;

and objects were so faintly discernible, that the utmost caution was necessary.

The second mate took the helm, while the first mate superintended the almost constant heaving of the lead, and the captain and pilot stood on the forecastle, noting the replies of the sailor, chaunted, as they were, in a shrill: monotone, in accordance with old custom.

Ten fathoms, sheer! By the deep, nine! By the mark, seven!" called out the leadsman from the chains.

“Water allers does shoal here, Cap. I know the channel, though, as well as I know my parlor ashore, at Nantucket-at Savannah, I mean," said the pilot, with some confusion.

“By the mark, five!" was the next call.

Captain Pritchard here grew uneasy. He did not pretend to equal the pilot in local knowledge, but he was too good a seaman not to take alarm at the abrupt lessening of the depth of water. He gave orders to reduce the speed, and we moved but slowly on, the lead going as before.

“Are you sure, Mr. Foster, you're not mistaken? It seems to me the water shoals at the rate of a fathom for every hundred yards traversed. We may have missed the Swash, left Moultrie to leeward, and got into the net-work of sand banks, near. Hilloa! what's that ahead of us ? Boats, as I'm a sinner!"

At the same moment the pilot thrust his hand rapidly into the breast of his coat, drew out something, and flung it on the deck, where it instantly began to sputter and hiss, and directly afterward, the livid glare of a bluelight flashed through the darkness, showing funnel and rigging, the pale faces of the passengers, the narrow channel of fretted water, and the sandy islets on either bow.

Nor was this all, for by the ghastly light we could distinguish two dark objects on the foamy sea ahead of us--boats full of men pulling swiftly, but noiselessly toward


and no doubt with muffled oars. "By the mark, two!-shoal water-we're aground !" cried an ill-boding voice, that of the sailor in the chains; and the Bonnybell came suddenly to a check, throwing most of the landsmen from their feet, while the ominous scrooping of the keel told that the steamer was aground.

A loud clamor instantly arose—many voices shouting at once, in tones of inquiry, dismay, or command; and even above this turmoil arose the hurrah of those who manned the boats, and who now came dashing up, pulling and cheering like madmen.

“Treachery! treachery!" cried several of the passengers and crew, pointing to where the pilot stood beside the blue-light, that his own perfidious hand had kindled; while already the man-of-war's men, for such we could not doubt them to be, began to scramble on board. “The Yankee blood-hounds sure enough; but you shall not live to share the prize-money!” exclaimed Pritchard, snatching up a hand-spike, and aiming a blow at Mr. Zack Foster, that would have been a lethal stroke had not that astute person swerved aside, receiving the weapon on his left shoulder.

Our men set up a faint cheer, and a shot was fired, luckily without effect. But resistance would have been madness, so thickly did the American sailors crowd up our gangway, their pistols and cutlasses ready for the fray; while among them were nine or ten marines, wellarmed with musket and bayonet, and who drove the Bonnybell's crew below hatches without any serious show of fighting

The Federal Lieutenant in command, to do him justice, seemed anxious that no needless violence should be used, while proclaiming the vessel a prize to the boats of the United States war-brig Dacotah, he yet restrained the fury of that precious guide, Mr. Zack Foster, who had recovered from the effect of his knockdown blow, drawn a bowie-knife, and rushed upon Pritchard, who was struggling in the hands of his captors.

“Gently, sir,” said the Lieutenant; “gently Quartermaster Fitch. These caged birds are under Uncle Sam's protection, and I cannot allow any ill-usage of my prisoners. Do you hear me, sir?”

“Quartermaster!" exclaimed poor Captain Pritchard, as his wrists were thrust into the handcuffs. don't mean that double-dyed villain, that Judas of a pilot, is a Yankee petty officer after all? I wish I'd only guessed the truth a few hours back, and--if I swung for it--I'd have chucked the spy overboard as I would a mangy puppy."

“ You

The Lieutenant made no answer, but ordered the Captain and mates sent below, and proceeded at once to seize the steamer's papers, to place the passengers under arrest, and to take steps to get the Bonnybell off the sand-bank.

IIe then compelled the ngineer to set the machinery at work, and we ran down, under the skillful pilotage of Mr. Fitch, to Edisto Island, in which anchorage we came to our moorings under the guns of the Dacotah, and within a short distance of several other vessels of the blockading squadron.



EARLY in December, 1863, the Union officers confined in Libby Prison conceived the idea of effecting their escape; and after the matter had been seriously discussed by a few of them, they undertook to tunnel out, by commencing operations in the cellar, near a chimney; the cellar being under the hospital, and used as a receptacle of straw, thrown from the beds when changed, and for other refuse matter.

Those who were in the secret improvised a rope, and by removing a few stones from the chimney, nightly let working parties down into the cellar, who from thence prosecuted their projected excavation, hiding the dirt under the straw, after tramping it down, so as not to attract observation.

As the work progressed, a spittoon from the officer's room with a string attached was used for hauling the

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