While he was still debating, a brisk young officer came along and called out: "Get ready, boys.

This is our turn." In less than a minute after, for no apparent reason, the crowd around Tristram surged forward to the bulwarks, and he was carried along with the rush.

Then he found himself swaying unsteadily down a flight of steps and calling to the men behind not to hustle and precipitate him into one or other of the two longboats that lay below.

Into the nearer of these his company swept him, and poured in at his heels until the gunwale was nearly level with the water.
The rowers pushed off in the nick of time, and pulled their freight slowly across the sullen tide, while the rain beat down relentlessly.
As they neared the shore, a landing-stage, or low jetty, of sunk piles disengaged itself from the mist.

This was the sole object that diversified the melancholy line of sandbanks, and towards it they were steered, Tristram looking eagerly out under the peak of his cap, from which a rivulet of water was by this time coursing down his nose.
Half a dozen grey figures were standing on the jetty, and, as the soldiers scrambled up its dripping steps, one of them advanced and touched Tristram by the elbow.