He withdrew his head before I could answer, and I dropped into the tepid water, with care that there should be no splash. An instant later Peter was beside me, and we began to swim with long, slow strokes in the direction of the blobs of light which were the only indication of the Walrus, so impalpable was the texture of that breathless night. There was not even a star in the sky—and the sky itself was invisible.
The hull of the pirate ship did not take shape until we were under the sheer of the stern. A single, guttering lanthorn seemed to burn in the main cabin, which was tenantless. And we paralleled the sta'b'd side, attracted by a hum of voices for'ard.
Peter's hand on my shoulder detained me as we swam beneath the heel of the bowsprit.
"Here you climb oop," he breathed in my ear. "They are all on her deck. I t'ink dey smoke der pipe in council, ja!"
I trod water, and explored with both arms above my head.
"There's no rope within reach," I told him.
"Dot's all right. I lift you."
He was clutching the cutwater with both hands and bracing his feet against the swell of the bow.
"Come on," he urged. "Oop on to my shoulders. I hold you, ja."
"But if we splash?"