Then something scraped against our bows and knocked the low oars, and the noise seemed awfully loud and startling. A lot of the men let out "Oh!" under their breath; they were so excited and jumpy. I don’t wonder either, because the marines were simply sitting on the thwarts, with their rifles between their knees, and they had nothing to do except to prevent them rattling against anything.
We hauled ourselves up, and the Commander came aft, leant over the side and felt it, and the coxswain, who had been there before with the Captain, felt it too, and he whispered to the Commander that it was one of the fishing stakes.
We pulled to the side and came across some more, so felt sure.
The dark mass of the cutter came quite close to us.
"I’ve found the first line, the second is fifty yards farther on; you go back about thirty yards," the Commander whispered across to Mr. Whitmore. There were a few click, clicks, and the cutter disappeared again. We started to pull out round that first line of stakes, but we had made more noise with our oars, knocking against them—the men couldn’t help that—and suddenly, right over our heads, it seemed, someone yelled out.
I clutched hold of Captain Marshall’s arm—it was the first thing my fingers touched—and I heard him give a gulp; but the Commander "hissed", and we lay on our oars and held our breath. It must have been a sentry or a watchman, and he sang out again, and I felt as if I was throbbing all over. Then we heard him muttering to himself. The tide had taken us clear of the stakes, and the Commander whispered "to give way", and we pulled round the end one without hitting it; but the sentry could hear the oars, and sang out again. The men began to pull faster, and the oars made an awful noise. More Chinamen began shouting—one quite a long way in front, and then several more.
"Starboard!" I heard the Commander say; "starboard, hard!" and then knew that in another half-minute we should be scrambling ashore. I crept along to the bows with the Commander, to be ready to follow him. We had hardly got there when the bows ran into the mud with a jerk, and I had to hang on to the gun mounting to prevent being knocked over. "Keep on ’giving way’, Withers!" the Commander sang out, and slipped down into the water without the least hesitation. It was up to his waist, and he held out a hand for me. I fell in after him up to my armpits, with my feet sinking in the beastly mud at the bottom. I was so excited, that I didn’t notice how cold it was; but it just flashed through me how Captain Marshall could do it, with all his beautiful uniform on, and then I found myself wading after the Commander, and pulling my feet out of the mud. There was enough noise now to wake anybody. No one could help the rifles and everything else knocking against the side of the boat, and the splashing, and the men cursing under their breath. There were some frightened cries above us, and a rifle was let off (it sounded like a six-pounder), and all the dogs in the town seemed to start barking; but we were all too excited and busy getting through the water and mud to notice much. In half a dozen steps the water was only up to my knees, and in two or three more I dragged my feet out on to firm mud, and started to break into a kind of "splodgy" trot to keep up with the Commander—I could only just see his dark figure, and had to keep close for fear of losing him.