At Downend Point
the leading boat will halt and lie on her oars, dose inshore,
while each successor pivots and spreads in echelon to starboard,
keeping, as nearly as may be, two fathoms' distance from her
consort to port; all gradually, as the shore is approached,
rounding up for a simultaneous attack in line. The crews, on
leaping ashore, will spread and find touch with one another in
two lines, to sweep the beach. A bugle-call will announce the
arrival of each boat_."
The Major, erect in the bows of the leading boat, glanced over his
right shoulder and beheld his line of followers, all in perfect
order, extend themselves and close the mouth of the Cove. Ahead of
him--ahead but a few yards only--he heard the slack tide run faintly
on the shingle. From the dark beach came no sound. Overhead
quivered the expectant stars. He lifted his sword-arm, and from
point to hilt ran a swift steely glitter.
"Give way, lads! And Saint Fimbar for Troy!"
A stroke of the oars, defiant now, muffled no longer! Two--three
strokes, and with a jolt the boat's nose took the beach. The shock
flung the Major forward over the bows; and on all fours, with a
splash--like Julius Caesar--he saluted the soil he came to conquer.
But in an instant he stood erect again, waving his blade.
"Forward! Forward, Troy!"
"I beg your pardon, Hymen," interrupted Captain Pond, quietly but
seriously, stepping forth from the darkness.
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