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.