long head disappeared. Tim saw a feather float down on a zephyr.
‘Bugger!’ said Nelson. ‘Easy all, easy. Mr Coxswain, steer for that boat there. Aye, there, damn you! Can’t you see the fellow is aground?’
It was a larger pitpan, more a bongo it would appear, when they had learned the native terminology. It was carved from a log, twenty five feet or more, with eight paddles on either side and the gunwales built up like fortress walls.
‘A native boat, and run aground already,’ Nelson said. ‘That scoundrel Hanna deserves a whipping round the fleet. Oh God, a hundred miles of this? I’d rather swim across the Western Ocean!’
Because their coxswain was a man of skill, because there was a lookout on the bow, because the cutter did not draw too much, they got up to the stranded boat. Before they could offer proper help another was aground, and then another. All around were cries of anger and frustration.
‘Back gently,’ Nelson said, almost a whisper. ‘Handsome now, my lads – if we get stuck on the pudding dough it’s overboard all hands, and I have got my best shoes on this morning.’
Almost as a counterpoint, Hastie saw another bloody flurry, another swimming bird snatched under, and this time a churn of snapping fish. He gasped as he saw silver bodies snake and wriggle, saw fins and tails below the surface, saw a hint of many mouths.
‘Sir!’ he said. And Nelson smiled.
‘No danger, Tim,’ he said. ‘Unless you’re bloodied. Then I’m told they’ll nip your bollocks off. It’s better to be careful than to swim.’
The stroke oar grunted. He had a sense of humour.
‘They can clear the meat from off a bone in twenty seconds,’ he said laconically. ‘Well, bones in fact. I’ve seen a pig gone in a drunkard’s fart. Nothing left but squeak.’
‘And if the fish don’t get you, the leeches will,’ said the next man forward. ‘They take blood out like a chain pump. Stay warm and dry is my advice to you, Tim. You ain’t got much flesh on you to start with.’
‘Way enough,’ the coxswain said. ‘Alongside, sir? Or lie off a bit?’
Nelson looked around him and assessed. For the moment, there seemed more hulls aground than floating. Some of the soldiers in a nearby bongo were shouting as if drunk. Maybe they were, indeed. But not drunk enough yet to go overboard.
‘Captain Collins!’ Nelson shouted. Then: ‘Stow your noise there, men, I need to be heard on the Royal George. Captain Collins! Have you got Mr Hanna there on board you?’
The Royal George was half a cable’s length astern of the cutter, and as Nelson spoke to her she went aground, with a clearly visible shock. A sudden shriek of parakeets rose simultaneously, sounding remarkably like mocking laughter. The stroke oar whooped, and Captain Nelson cursed him, mildly.
‘Shut your mouth, man. The whole damn lot of them are going on the mud. Collins! Where is our bloody pilot?’
The ‘bloody pilot,’ unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. What point in any case, the thing was plain as daylight. They were at a bend in the river, and the scoured channel was on the unexpected side. Each vessel would need to work over to it.
At first, men tried with oars and paddles, then reversed them and thrust down with their looms. The results were different from hull to hull, only that a stench of fresh-turned mud arose, and white men turned black or pie-bald as the filth was flung around. Some boats, mainly the pitpans and canoes, worked free, the bongos and the European hulls did not.
Here again the navy and the army men were different. The army men, of whatever rank, seemed mesmerized by the environment. They sat unmoving while the natives on each boat thrust and splashed and rocked to get their vessels free. Their clothing was an appalling hamper to them. Stiff coats, white breeches, shiny boots and shoes. Many still wore wigs.
‘God’s balls and pudden!’ shouted Nelson’s coxswain. ‘Beg pardon, sir, the
‘Bugger!’ said Nelson. ‘Easy all, easy. Mr Coxswain, steer for that boat there. Aye, there, damn you! Can’t you see the fellow is aground?’
It was a larger pitpan, more a bongo it would appear, when they had learned the native terminology. It was carved from a log, twenty five feet or more, with eight paddles on either side and the gunwales built up like fortress walls.
‘A native boat, and run aground already,’ Nelson said. ‘That scoundrel Hanna deserves a whipping round the fleet. Oh God, a hundred miles of this? I’d rather swim across the Western Ocean!’
Because their coxswain was a man of skill, because there was a lookout on the bow, because the cutter did not draw too much, they got up to the stranded boat. Before they could offer proper help another was aground, and then another. All around were cries of anger and frustration.
‘Back gently,’ Nelson said, almost a whisper. ‘Handsome now, my lads – if we get stuck on the pudding dough it’s overboard all hands, and I have got my best shoes on this morning.’
Almost as a counterpoint, Hastie saw another bloody flurry, another swimming bird snatched under, and this time a churn of snapping fish. He gasped as he saw silver bodies snake and wriggle, saw fins and tails below the surface, saw a hint of many mouths.
‘Sir!’ he said. And Nelson smiled.
‘No danger, Tim,’ he said. ‘Unless you’re bloodied. Then I’m told they’ll nip your bollocks off. It’s better to be careful than to swim.’
The stroke oar grunted. He had a sense of humour.
‘They can clear the meat from off a bone in twenty seconds,’ he said laconically. ‘Well, bones in fact. I’ve seen a pig gone in a drunkard’s fart. Nothing left but squeak.’
‘And if the fish don’t get you, the leeches will,’ said the next man forward. ‘They take blood out like a chain pump. Stay warm and dry is my advice to you, Tim. You ain’t got much flesh on you to start with.’
‘Way enough,’ the coxswain said. ‘Alongside, sir? Or lie off a bit?’
Nelson looked around him and assessed. For the moment, there seemed more hulls aground than floating. Some of the soldiers in a nearby bongo were shouting as if drunk. Maybe they were, indeed. But not drunk enough yet to go overboard.
‘Captain Collins!’ Nelson shouted. Then: ‘Stow your noise there, men, I need to be heard on the Royal George. Captain Collins! Have you got Mr Hanna there on board you?’
The Royal George was half a cable’s length astern of the cutter, and as Nelson spoke to her she went aground, with a clearly visible shock. A sudden shriek of parakeets rose simultaneously, sounding remarkably like mocking laughter. The stroke oar whooped, and Captain Nelson cursed him, mildly.
‘Shut your mouth, man. The whole damn lot of them are going on the mud. Collins! Where is our bloody pilot?’
The ‘bloody pilot,’ unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. What point in any case, the thing was plain as daylight. They were at a bend in the river, and the scoured channel was on the unexpected side. Each vessel would need to work over to it.
At first, men tried with oars and paddles, then reversed them and thrust down with their looms. The results were different from hull to hull, only that a stench of fresh-turned mud arose, and white men turned black or pie-bald as the filth was flung around. Some boats, mainly the pitpans and canoes, worked free, the bongos and the European hulls did not.
Here again the navy and the army men were different. The army men, of whatever rank, seemed mesmerized by the environment. They sat unmoving while the natives on each boat thrust and splashed and rocked to get their vessels free. Their clothing was an appalling hamper to them. Stiff coats, white breeches, shiny boots and shoes. Many still wore wigs.
‘God’s balls and pudden!’ shouted Nelson’s coxswain. ‘Beg pardon, sir, the
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