The next morning,
however, the wind lulled, and a crowd of curious native boats were
seen putting off from the shore.
Charlie had, after the vessel anchored, rejoined his ship with Tim
Kelly, and he now bade goodbye to all on board; for only the doctor,
two civilians, and the troops were destined for Madras; all the rest
going on in the ship to Calcutta, after she had discharged that
portion of her cargo intended for Madras. Charlie had, during the last
twelve hours, been made a great deal of, on account of the gallantry
he had displayed in risking his life for that of the soldier. Peters
and one of the other young writers were also to land; and, taking his
seat with these in a native boat, paddled by twelve canoe men, he
started for the shore.
As they approached the line of surf, Charlie fairly held his breath;
for it seemed impossible that the boat could live through it. The
boatmen, however, ceased rowing outside the line of broken water, and
lay on their paddles for three or four minutes.
At last a wave, larger than any of its predecessors, was seen
approaching. As it passed under them, the steersman gave a shout. In
an instant the rowers struck their paddles into the water, and the
boat dashed along, with the speed of a racehorse, on the crest of the
wave.
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