It was dark before the boats were brought to the inner beach. I heard Calhoun telling Cavarly there would be no landing from the cruisers till daybreak, and probably none at all.
“What would they do it for? The ship's burned.”
“I don' calculate till I know where we are.”
“Well—suppose it's the Bahamas. They wouldn't then.”
“Bahamas! How come we to get to the Bahamas? Ho, they wouldn't.”
I think he knew it was the United States, and no Bahamas.
We were wet, shivering, and exhausted. The night was dark, the wind cold and of spray. Cavarly ordered us to scatter, and each find dry sand among the dunes, if he could, to cover himself with. What with the darkness and the shrieking wind, at twenty feet from your next neighbour you were quite alone, seeing and hearing nothing of him. Presently I was stumbling among sliding sand heaps; and after I had found a sheltered spot, I did not care where it was, but scraped off the wet top sand and, burying myself in the dry beneath, there lay shaking and gasping with the chill till I fell asleep.
The morning broke with the grey, driving clouds still over us. We got away, without looking to see whether the cruisers on the other side were waiting or not, every man with sand on his hair and clothes, a silent and pale-faced company. Few had slept for the wet and cold.
I was in the boat with Cavarly, and saw him gazing at the distant shore and wrinkling his brow and pulling his beard. A thin, sallow man it was, named Henry, who pulled the bow oar and kept his head turned over his shoulder. Presently he unshipped his oar, got up and looked ahead.
“Cap'n,” he said, “beggin' your pardon, that's Redwood, North Ca'lina.”