His last shot was not a bad one, and Tom could not help thinking, if the grayback should hit him, that he would not waste any fine feelings over him.

He did not like the sound of those whizzing bullets, and as he had never boasted of his courage, he did not scorn to adopt precautionary measures.

The water was three inches deep in the bottom of the bateau; but Tom deemed it prudent to lie down there until the current should bear him out of the reach of the rebel bullets.
He maintained this recumbent posture for half an hour or more, listening to the balls that frequently whistled over his head.

Once he ventured to raise his head, and discovered, not one man, but a dozen, on the shore, which accounted for the rapid firing he heard.

When he looked up again, his bateau had passed round a bend, and he was no longer exposed to the fire of the enemy.
From his heart Tom thanked God for his escape.