VIII GOING SHOREWARDS 103 
down, which it generally does at six in the evening. 
This we did, and in an hour or two the storm had 
spent itself and the sweeping waves were quieting down. 
Meanwhile the day was drawing to its close, and we 
had no time to waste, so away we steamed to the 
entrance of the river. “ Heave out the line,” I heard 
them call. The anchor caught fast and brought us to 
with a jerk. The sea looked still an angry, tumbled 
waste, and white lines of breakers chased each other 
along the stretch of yellow sands. The boat with some 
difficulty was launched, and between the rise and fall 
of the waves, I had to drop into it as best I could, 
but not before I had made sure that the officer of 
the boat (Mr. Gurner) was a good sailor. “ Admiral 
Fairfax,” the captain said, “ used to say he was the 
smartest midshipman he had on this station.” So I 
was content, and even the sound of his great honest 
voice above the storm reassured me. Notwithstanding 
that, several waves went clean over us, and I buried my 
head under the tarpaulin, feeling deadly sea-sick, and 
thinking what an utter fool I was to go on such a 
wild-goose chase in search of “ probable ” flowers. Sea- 
birds and pelicans were backing against the wind, and 
with flapping wings screeched overhead. The muddy 
banks of the river were lined with scrubby, wind-beaten 
trees and low mangrove swamps, and the thickly- wooded 
country behind rose high up one hill behind the other. 
As we rowed up through the interspaces of the 
mangroves we could see flat stretches of swampy 
ground and a thick vapour was already rising from the 
stagnant waters. There was a sickly scent now as we 
rowed past the twisted, snake-like roots of the water- 
plants and the oozing mud was stirred from the sides, 
as the sailors dipped their oars, and water rats 
scampered here and there up the deadly slime. 
