The crash of it recalled the Major to his senses. He stared down on
the fragments at his feet. He had burnt his boats now.
As methodically as he had indued them he divested himself of his
regimentals, and so, having slipped into his old clothes again and
strapped on his leg, stumped resolutely forth into the street.
Cai Tamblyn, like every other Trojan, kept a boat of his own; and on
the eve of departing he had placed her at the Major's disposal.
She lay moored by a frape off a semi-public quay door, approached
from the Fore Street by a narrow alley known as Cherry's (or
Charity's) Court.
The Major stumped down to the waterside in the fast gathering dusk
and hauled in the boat. Luckily the tide was high, and reached
within four feet of the sill of the doorway; luckily, I say, because
few contrivances in this world are less compatible than a ladder and
a wooden leg. The tide being high, however, he managed to scramble
down and on board without much difficulty; unmoored, shipped a paddle
in the sculling-notch over the boat's stern, and very quietly worked
her up and alongshore, in the shadow of the waterside houses.
Arrived at the quay-ladder leading up to Dr. Hansombody's garden--
once, alas! his own--and to the terrace consecrated by memories of
the green-sealed Madeira, he checked the boat's way and looked up for
a moment, listening. Hearing no sound, he slipped the painter around
a rung, made fast with a hitch, and cautiously, very cautiously,
pulled himself up the ladder, bringing his eyes level with the sill
of the open door.
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