'Three knots, sir, that 'ud be good for scratch crews like this.' The Petty Officer stroked his chin and looked at the General thoughtfully.
'Three knots, eh?' Sallust repeated. He was reckoning up quickly their probable distance from the coast. Over twenty five miles meant an eight hour pull at least. They had started with the break through of the sun at two and it was just on six o'clock, so they might have covered half the distance. Daylight should last till about nine, just long enough for them to pick up the coast line before the sun went down, and another hour to pull. But that was only providing that they had not increased their distance from the land by rowing in the wrong direction for three hours or more in the early morning. If they had, darkness would close down again before they picked up the coast, then it was probable that they would row round in circles again all through the night a grim prospect. Yet there was nothing he could do about it so he sat there in the stern massaging the muscles of his leg and puffing away interminably at Rudd's looted cigarettes.
Gradually the sun sank towards the horizon, its slanting beams lighting up the tired faces of the men. For more than twelve hours now, apart from the forenoon interval, they had been rowing turn and turn about. Their mouths were parched and dry, their palms hot and aching, their backs weary with the strain, but wherever they turned their eyes there still remained the unaltered prospect of the gently heaving sea. Long banks of cloud were gathering in the west and for a little time those in the stern were entertained by the glory of a magnificent sunset, but Gregory and Sims who were whispering anxiously together again knew that it was the last glimpse of their friendly smile. In a great ball of fire the sun sank into the restless tossing waters beyond the bow.
'Think we'll be able to keep our course?' asked Gregory.
'I doubt it, sir.' The Petty Officer shook his head. 'But if it's a clear night there'll be a moon and stars. They'll help us to get back on it.'
Unfortunately as the twilight deepened, great masses of cloud seemed to be piling up from the west, obscuring what little light still remained in the sky, and half an hour after sundown black night had come upon them.
The double crews stuck uncomplainingly to the toil, relieving each other at set times, but there was no longer any strength or elasticity in their stroke. They did little more than pat the water with their oars despite Kenyon's and Silas's encouragement. The night of fighting and the long day in the boat had fagged them utterly.
At eleven o'clock Gregory ordered a further issue of rations. More of those evil biscuits, another wedge of cheese and a swig of water. It had turned chilly again and Veronica and Ann huddled together once more under their tarpaulin. Sallust refused to lie down, but sat, poker faced and silent, in the stern.
Rudd started another sing song, but gay choruses and marching songs were conspicuous by their absence. Sad, lilting tunes followed one another with unbroken regularity. Annie Laurie, A little Grey Home in the West and Mother Macree took the place of Tipperary and Three Men Went to Mow. In an attempt to raise their spirits Rudd called for individual talent, starting with a raucous rendering of Do we love our Sergeant Major? sung to the travesty of an ancient and popular hymn. Veronica, who had no voice at all, surprised them by a gallant attempt at Sur le Pont D'Avignon, but although she could not sing herself she adored music, and she was rewarded for her pains by the discovery that one of the Greyshirts was an ex opera singer, so after a little persuasion she had the strange pleasure of hearing a first class baritone pouring forth the clear notes of the Toreador Song from Carmen into the echoing silence of a desolate sea. No one had the temerity to follow so excellent a performance and by midnight the whole party were sleeping, or silently endeavouring to still the cravings of their empty stomachs.
Sims was nodding in his seat when Gregory roused him. 'Isn't that a light off the starboard bow?'
The Petty Officer started up. 'Why, yes, sir.'
'Is it a lighthouse or a vessel, do you think?'
'That I wouldn't like to say, sir, but we'd best pull towards it.'
Orders were given to the weary crew, and the boat headed again in a new direction. The man at the bow, now worn out with his exertions, occasionally caught a semi crab and, topping the wavelets, sent a sheet of spray into the stern. Gregory cursed him mildly but knew that the man's blunders were unintentional. Kenyon was bandaging his blistered palms with the tail of his shirt which he had torn away. Veronica was feeling sick but feared to rouse Ann who had dropped off to sleep.
'I got a feeling that's Orford Ness Light, sir,' said Sims after another half hour had slipped by. 'We'll make the coast quicker if we put her over to port a bit, for we should be south of that.'
'Very good,' agreed Gregory. 'Do as you think best.'
'If I'm right, sir, we've been drifting down the coast for some little time.'
The new direction taken with the light on the starboard bow, the duty crew, unutterably weary now, tugged at their oars. No sound broke the stillness but the gentle swish of the waters and the rhythmic rattle of the oar looms in the crutches.
After a time Kenyon stood up to take over again, he had ceased by this time to count the number of spells that he had done, but looking forward he saw a line of whiteness in the gloom and at the same moment a cry came from the bow.
'Something ahead, sir.'
All but the sleepers peered into the darkness. It was the surf breaking upon a shallow beach, and as the boat slid forward, the exhausted crew leaning on their oars, a black mass became visible.
'All together,' sang out Gregory, and with a sudden access of energy the Greyshirts began to pull again.
Sims hastened forward and was the first to jump ashore. Several others followed, plunging knee deep into the water as the boat grounded on a shelving beach of shingle. The remainder stretched their cramped limbs and climbed out one by one.
'Pull her ashore,' Gregory ordered, 'we may want to use her again later,' and. after two or three heaves the men succeeded in running the whaler up out of the water.
In groups of three or four they stumbled up the beach, the loose pebbles slipping and slithering beneath their feet. When they reached the top the faint starlight from one quarter of the heavens gave a little help as they looked about them. The shore seemed to curve away on either side without any sign of habitation.
'We'll try to the right,' said Gregory, 'must strike something sooner or later, but first let's get clear of this shingle.'
The pebbly foreshore seemed to stretch interminably inland,, hummocks and dips of slippery stones alternating like the waves of a solidified sea, but at last they became firmer and interspersed with small tussocks of coarse grass. The party turned right and trooped wearily along the last embankment beyond which it seemed that the sea never penetrated.
Ann was almost dropping with fatigue but Kenyon had his hand under her arm and was leading her forward into the darkness. Silas was helping Veronica, and Gregory, limping painfully now, was at the head of the party, leaning hard on the shoulder of the faithful Rudd, but suppressing a groan at every step. With bowed shoulders the non commissioned officers and men brought up the rear.
Suddenly a dark blotch loomed up before them. ‘Martello Tower,' Kenyon and Ann heard Gregory mutter, and a moment later the whole party were standing in a group beneath it.
They had not got a torch between them but the lance corporal produced a box of matches; they found the doorway and Gregory followed him inside. In the faint light the walls were hardly perceptible, but the floor seemed reasonably clean and even.
'All right,' he said to Rudd, 'we'll doss down here for the night. Fetch 'em in.'