“I think he must have overbalanced, sir,” said Hornblower, with the utmost respect and a complete absence of feeling in his voice. “The ship was lively that night, you remember, sir.”
“I suppose she was,” said Buckland; disappointment and perplexity were audible in his tone. He stared at Hornblower, but there was nothing to be gleaned from that face. “Oh, very well then. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Chapter IX
The sea breeze had died away with the cooling of the land, and it was that breathless time of night when air pressures over land and ocean were evenly balanced. Not many miles out at sea the trade winds could blow, as they blew eternally, but here on the beach a humid calm prevailed. The long swell of the Atlantic broke momentarily at the first hint of shallows far out, but lived on, like some once vigorous man now feeble after an illness, to burst rhythmically in foam on the beach to the westward; here, where the limestone cliffs of the Samaná peninsula began, there was a sheltered corner where a small watercourse had worn a wide gully in the cliff, at the most easterly end of the wide beach. And sea and surf and beach seemed to be afire; in the dark night the phosphorescence of the water was vividly bright, heaving up with the surf, running up the beach with the breakers, and lighting up the oar blades as the launches pulled to shore. The boats seemed to be floating on fire which derived new life from their passage; each launch left a wake of fire behind it, with a vivid streak on either side where the oar blades had bitten into the water.
Both landing and ascent were easy at the foot of the gully; the launches nuzzled their bows into the sand and the landing party had only to climb out, thigh-deep in the water — thigh-deep in liquid fire — holding their weapons and cartridge boxes high to make sure they were not wetted. Even the experienced seamen in the party were impressed by the brightness of the phosphorescence; the raw hands were excited by it enough to raise a bubbling chatter which called for a sharp order to repress it. Bush was one of the earliest to climb out of his launch; he splashed ashore and stood on the unaccustomed solidity of the beach while the others followed him; the water streamed down out of his soggy trouser legs.
A dark figure appeared before him, coming from the direction of the other launch.
“My party is all ashore, sir,” it reported.
“Very good, Mr Hornblower.”
“I’ll start up the gully with the advanced guard then, sir?”
“Yes, Mr Hornblower. Carry out your orders.”
Bush was tense and excited, as far as his stoical training and phlegmatic temperament would allow him to be; he would have liked to plunge into action at once, but the careful scheme worked out in consultation with Hornblower did not allow it. He stood aside while his own party was being formed up and Hornblower called the other division to order.
“StarbowLines! Follow me closely. Every man is to keep in touch with the man ahead of him. Remember your muskets aren’t loaded — it’s no use snapping them if we meet an enemy. Cold steel for that. If any one of you is fool enough to load and fire he’d get four dozen at the gangway tomorrow. That I promise you. Woolton!”
“Sir!”
“Bring up the rear. Now follow me, you men, starting from the right of the line.”
Hornblower’s party filed off into the darkness. Already the marines were coming ashore, their scarlet tunics black against the phosphorescence. The white crossbelts were faintly visible side by side in a rigid two-deep line as they formed up, the non-commissioned officers snapping low-voiced orders at them. With his left hand still resting on his sword hilt Bush checked once more with his right hand that his pistols were in his belt and his cartridges in his pocket. A shadowy figure halted before them with a military click of the heels.
“All present and correct, sir. Ready to march off,” said Whiting’s voice.
“Thank you. We may as well start. Mr Abbott!”
“Sir!”
“You have your orders. I’m leaving with the marine detachment now. Follow us.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was a long hard climb up the gully; the sand soon was replaced by rock, flat ledges of limestone, but even among the limestone there was a sturdy vegetation, fostered by the tropical rains which fell profusely on this northern face. Only in the bed of the watercourse itself, dry now with all the water having seeped into the limestone, was there a clear passage, if clear it could be called, for it was jagged and irregular, with steep ledges up which Bush had to heave himself. In a few minutes he was streaming with sweat, but he climbed on stubbornly. Behind him the marines followed clumsily, boots clashing, weapons and equipment clinking, so that anyone might think the noise would be heard a mile away. Someone slipped and swore.
“Keep a still tongue in yer ‘ead!” snapped a corporal.
“Silence!” snarled Whiting over his shoulder.
Onward and upward; here and there the vegetation was lofty enough to cut off the faint light from the stars, and Bush had to grope his way along over the rock, his breath coming with difficulty, powerfully built man though he was. Fireflies showed here and there as he climbed; it was years since he had seen fireflies last, but he paid no attention to them now. They excited irrepressible comment among the marines following him, though; Bush felt a bitter rage against the uncontrolled louts who were imperilling everything — their own lives as well as the success of the expedition — by their silly comments.
“I’ll deal with ‘em, sir,” said Whiting, and dropped back to let the column overtake him.
Higher up a squeaky voice, moderated as best its owner knew how, greeted him from the darkness ahead.
“Mr Bush, sir?”
“Yes.”
“This is Wellard, sir. Mr Hornblower sent me hack here to act as guide; There’s grassland beginning just above here.” Very well, said Bush.
He halted for a space, wiping his streaming face with his coat sleeve, while the column closed up behind him. It was not much farther to climb when he moved on again; Wellard led him past a clump of shadowy trees, and, sure enough, Bush felt grass under his feet, and he could walk more freely, uphill still, but only a gentle slope compared with the gully. There was a low challenge ahead of them.
“Friend,” said Wellard. “This is Mr Bush here.”
“Glad to see you, sir,” said another voice — Hornblower’s.
Hornblower detached himself from the darkness and came forward to make his report.
“My party is formed up just ahead, sir. I’ve sent Saddler and two reliable men on as scouts.”
“Very good,” said Bush, and meant it.
The marine sergeant was reporting to Whiting.
“All present, sir, ‘cept for Chapman, sir. ‘E’s sprained ‘is ankle, or ‘e says ‘e ‘as, sir. Left ‘im be’ind back there, sir.”
“Let your men rest, Captain Whiting,” said Bush.
Life in the confines of a ship of the line was no sort of training for climbing cliffs in the tropics, especially as the day before had been exhausting. The marines lay down, some of them with groans of relief which drew the unmistakable reproof of savage kicks from the sergeant’s toe.
“We’re on the crest here, sir,” said Hornblower. “You can see over into the bay from that side there.”
“Three miles from the fort, d’ye think?”
Bush did not mean to ask a question, for he was in command, but Hornblower was so ready with his report that Bush could not help doing so.
“Perhaps.Less than four, anyway, sir. Dawn in four hours from now, and the moon rises in half an hour.”
“Yes.”
“There’s some sort of track or path along the crest, sir, as you’d expect. It should lead to the fort.”
“Yes.”
Hornblower was a good subordinate, clearly. Bush realised now that there would naturally be a track along the crest of the peninsula — that would be the obvious thing — but the probability had not occurred to him until that moment.