ept the deck, he found that, though
he had been beyond remarking any difference in the ship's motion, she
was now lying at anchor, and within a cable's length from a desolate
shore, which began in sandhills and ended in mist.

The rain was pouring perpendicularly from a leaden sky and drenching
the decks. The soldiers, in their great-coats, huddled together as
they waited for the boats, and shrugged their shoulders to keep the
drops from trickling down the napes of their necks. Somebody gave
Tristram a great-coat and knapsack, and pointed out the group to
which he was to attach himself. He obeyed, though scarcely aware of
what he did: for his head was light, his hunger was ravenous, and his
legs were trembling beneath him. A soldier cursed close by, and he
cursed too, echoing the man's words without knowing why. Another man
slapped him on the back, mistaking him for a crony, and begged his
pardon. "It really makes no difference," said Tristram politely, and
at once fell to wondering if this remark were absurd or no. Beyond
the grey veils of rain he spied, now and then, a cluster of red roofs
and a steeple close beside the shore.

"What place is that yonder?" he asked the man who stood at his elbow.

"Vlaardingen," said the fellow gruffly. It was Sergeant Klomp, and
Tristram turned it over in his mind whether to offer an apology or
no. While he was still debating, a brisk young officer came along
and called out:

"Get ready, boys. This is our turn."

In less than a minute after, for no apparent reason, the crowd around
Tristram surged forward to the bulwarks, and he was carried along
with the rush. Then he found himself swaying unsteadily down a
flight of steps and calling to the men behind not to hustle and
precipitate him into one or other of the two longboats that lay
below. Into the nearer of these his company swept him, and poured in
at his heels until the gunwale was nearly level with the water.
The rowers pushed off in the nick of time, and pulled their freight
slowly across the sullen tide, while the rain beat down relentlessly.

As they neared the shore, a landing-stage, or low jetty, of sunk
piles disengaged itself from the mist. This was the sole object that
diversified the melancholy line of sandbanks, and towards it they
were steered, Tristram looking eagerly out under the peak of his cap,
from which a rivulet of water was by this time coursing down his
nose.

Half a dozen grey figures