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merged through varied-hued shadows into the inland undergrowth.
    The cove where their boat lay concealed was a mile to the westward and their path ran just within the belt of palms and bushes fringing the sand. Here they were hidden and could move swiftly and silently, Ben in the lead, Malloy and Bull together, and Rackham in the rear. Moonlight slanted in ghostly rays between the tangled stems, making little pools of silver in the darkness; it was very still, but there was a hint of wind coming from the sea, and before their journey was over the moon had slid behind the cloud-wrack.
    It was as well, Rackham thought. Woodes Rogers’ trap would spring all the better in the dark, provided his cutting-out party could find the
Kingston
when she stood in. It would take a good seaman to do that, but Rogers would have a good seaman.
    Counting his steps Rackham had reckoned just over sixteen hundred when a parrot squeaked in the darkness ahead. That was Ben signalling that he had reached the cove, and a few moments later the four of them were crouched in the lee of a little cliff with the water lapping at their feet. Between the two small bluffs at the end of the cove lay the open sea, and close by was their boat, beached beneath the overhang of a great boulder and artfully screened by loose bushes. Since they could hardly hope to float her without some noise they sacrificed silence to speed, flinging aside the branches and running the boat between them over the loose sand to the water’s edge.
    With Ben and Bull at the oars, Malloy in the bow, and Rackham in the stern, they poled the boat out of the shallows and were soon scudding out between the bluffs to the sea.
    With the exception of Malloy, who was to look out for the
Kingston
, they watched the shore receding behind them. The black mouth of the little creek grew smaller, flanked by the vaguely glimmering beach. Then darkness closed in on the little boat, bringing with it a sense of unprotected loneliness: Malloy fidgeted in the bows, casting anxious glances astern until Rackham bade him keep watch in front of him. Ben and Bull, pulling strongly, were sending the boat through the water at a fair speed, and when Rackham calculated that they must be fifteen hundred yards from the shore he ordered them to cease rowing. They rested on their oars, listening while the boat rode the light swell, their ears straining for the tell-tale creak of cord and timber which would herald the presence of the
Kingston.
But no sound came, save the gentle slapping of the waves against the boat and the occasional scrape of the oars in the rowlocks.
    Rackham felt the light drift of spray on his cheek. The wind was freshening and blowing almost dead inshore. Ben noticed it at the same moment.
    â€˜It’s going to be easier for the
Kingston
to come in than to stand out again,’ he muttered.
    â€˜What d’ye say?’ Bull’s head came up. ‘Bigod, ye’re right!’ He strained his eyes into the darkness seaward. ‘She’s beginning to blow, the windy bitch!’
    The little boat was beginning to rock appreciably now, and Rackham gave the order to commence rowing again. They must not drift inshore: if the wind strengthened they might find themselves hard put to it to stand out to the
Kingston.
    â€˜Where the hell are they?’ snarled Bull suddenly. He kept turning his head at the end of each stroke to watch for the Kingston.
    â€˜Wait! In oars!’ Malloy, craning over the bow, flung out a hand behind him. ‘I hear something.’
    They ceased rowing, and Rackham, straining his ears against the noises of the sea, leaned forward between them.
    â€˜Listen!’ Malloy turned his head towards them. ‘D’ye hear nothing?’
    Holding their breath, they listened, and sure enough from somewhere in the gloom ahead came the faint but unmistakable creak of a ship. Bull breathed a gusty sigh of relief.
    â€˜Wait for the light,’ ordered