behind him.
'Heave, lads!' Bolitho strained harder, trying to hold back the nausea as the stinking gases rose about him, making his mind swim as if in a fever. 'Together, heave!'
Reluctantly and very slowly the boat slid forward and down into another trough of deeper water. But there was another barrier waiting for their hesitant steps, and more than one slipped spluttering and choking as the sludge clawed his feet from under him.
Then they were through, and shivering and coughing they dragged themselves back into the boat, where yet another horror awaited them.
Most of the men had great leeches fixed to their bodies, and as several tried to drag the slimy creatures free Bolitho shouted, 'Mr. Shambler, pass the slowmatch down the boat! Burn each off in turn, you'll not free yourselves otherwise!'
Allday held the slow-match to his leg and cursed as the fat leech dropped to the bottom of the boat. 'Drink my blood, would you? Damn your eyes, I'll see you fry first!'
Bolitho stood to watch the dying sun as it painted the tops of the rushes with red gold, so that for an instant the menace and despair were shaded with strange beauty.
The other boats were still following, the crews plunging through the shallows, their bodies pale in the fading light.
He said, 'We will moor for the night.' He saw Lang nodding to his words from the other boat. 'But we will get under way before dawn and try to make up lost time.'
He looked down at his own boat, where the seamen lolled together unable to do little more than sit as they had done throughout the day.
'Detail one man for the watch, Allday. We are all so weary that otherwise I fear we would sleep through dawn and beyond.'
He lowered himself slowly into the sternsheets again and saw that Pascoe was already asleep, his head on the gunwale and one hand hanging almost to the water. Gently he lifted the boy's arm inboard and then seated himself against the tiller bar.
High overhead the first stars were pale in the sky and the tall rushes around the boat hissed quietly to a sudden breeze. For a few moments it was almost refreshing after the heat and filth of the day, but the impression was merely a passing one.
Bolitho leaned back and watched the stars, trying not to think of the hours and days which still lay ahead.
Near the bows a man groaned in his sleep, and another whispered fervently, 'Martha, Martha!' before falling silent once again.
Bolitho drew his knees up to his chin, feeling the caked mud hard against his skin. Who was Martha? he wondered. And was she still remembering the young man who had been snatched from her side to serve in a King's ship? Or maybe she was a daughter. A mere child who perhaps could no longer remember her father's face.
He looked down at Pascoe's limp body. Was he dreaming, tog? Of his father whom he had never seen? Of a memory which had turned his mind to hate and shame?
Then he rested his forehead on his folded arms and was instantly asleep.
11. DAWN ATTACK
Throughout the following day the nightmare passage across the swamp continued with the sun always there to add to the slow torture. Poling from the boats, or wading through shallows to pull them bodily from the clinging mud, it now made little difference to anyone. They had lost count of time, or the number of occasions- they had left or re-entered the boats, and their bodies and tom clothes were thick with filth, their faces cracked from fatigue and strain.
They had now found a more open stretch of swamp where there was no apparent current at all to break the surface. It was covered in a thick layer of green slime, while the rushes were in separate, isolated clumps, like strange creatures from another planet.
In the late afternoon, when it had become necessary to tow the boats across a half-submerged island of soft sand, one of the men had let go the line and had fallen thrashing and screaming, and because of the mud and slime on his body it was difficult at first to see what had happened. While the others had clustered apprehensively around the boat Bolitho and Allday had hoisted the writhing man aboard, and using a shirt dipped in fresh water Bolitho had cleaned away some of the mud from around a small droplet of blood deep in the man's groin. He must have trodden on some sort of snake, for the bright punctures were easy to see. While Allday had stayed with the seaman Bolitho had ordered the rest back to the towing lines, knowing that the snake's poison was already beyond cure, and to let his men stand by and watch their companion's wretched end would do nothing but harm.
As they had struggled on through the swamp they had been followed by the man's awful cries, and once when Bolitho had glanced across his shoulder he had seen the other seamen watching him, their eyes red-rimmed through the filth on their stubbled faces, their expressions filled with more hatred than pity.
Mercifully the poison took little more than an hour to complete its work, and the lifeless body had been pushed clear of the boat, a grim warning to the others who were following close behind.
Most of the men could no longer face their rations of beef and hard biscuit, and lived rather than waited for the meagre issue of water from the barricoes. Bolitho had watched them during the brief rests, conscious of their jerky movements and dull-eyed faces. Of the way they watched each pannikin of water, with expressions more of animals than men.
Yet in spite of everything they had managed to keep moving. Bolitho knew their forbearance had changed to hatred towards him, that it only needed some small spark to turn the mission into a bloody mutiny.
During the night he let all the men sleep, taking turns to keep watch with Allday and Shambler alone. But in the second boat the vigilance was not enough. Or perhaps Lieutenant Lang had misjudged his own ability to control his men.
As Bolitho awoke from a restless doze he felt Allday tugging his shoulder and the touch of cold metal in his hand as the coxswain thrust a pistol towards him.
'What is it?' For a second longer he thought he had overslept, but when he peered over the gunwale he saw that there was only a hint of light in the eastern sky, and along the boat the men still lay entwined like crude statuary.
'Mr. Lang's sent word that the water's been broached in his boat, Captain! The news'll be badly received when his people awake.'
Bolitho lurched to his feet. 'Here, keep the pistol.' He climbed over the gunwale and felt the slime pressing against his legs in a cool embrace, his feet sinking with each step that he took towards the other boat.
Lang was waiting for him, his face screwed into a frown.
'How bad is it?'
Lang shrugged. 'Hardly a drop left, sir. I've only one barricoe for the rest of the journey and the return passage.'
A voice echoed across the swamp from another boat. 'Time to call the hands, sir!'
Bolitho hauled himself into the boat. 'Go to Mr. Quince and wam him at once, and then pass the word to Mr. Canyon.' He gripped the lieutenant's wrist. 'And no pistols, d'you understand?'
When the men of the second cutter dragged themselves from their sleep they stared blearily at Bolitho and then at each other as he said, 'During the night someone aboard this boat broached the barricoe. He took a goodly helping, and in his guilty haste allowed the rest of its contents to run through the bottom boards.' He gestured towards their feet, to the.glint of water amidst the caked mud and slime brought inboard during the previous day. He added slowly, 'I think you know what this will mean!'
Someone near the bows yelled, 'Mr. Lang must'a done it, lads. 'E 'ad the watch hisself!' There was an answering growl as he persisted, 'The officers 'ave bin 'elping theirselves!'
Bolitho stood quite still in the sternsheets, his hands on his hips. He was aware of the sudden desperate anger, of the fact he was alone and unarmed. But more than this he was conscious of something akin to shame, as if he was indeed responsible.
