Diamante, beyond that low shore where the cane brake grows to within
fifty yards of the sea. Now you have run past the little cape, and are
abreast of the beach. Down mainsail--down jib--down foresail. Let go the
anchor while she forges, eight to nine lengths from the land, and let
her swing round, stern to the sand. Clear away the dingy and launch her
from amidships, and send a line ashore. Overboard with everything now,
for beaching, capstan, chocks and all--the swell will wash them in. As
the keel grates on the pebbles, the men jump into the water from the
high stern and catch the drifting wood. Some plant the capstan, others
pass the long hemp cable and reeve it through the fiddle block. A hand
forward to slack out the cable as the heavy boat slowly creeps up out of
the water. The men from other craft, already beached, lend a hand too
and a score of stout fellows breast the long oars which serve for
capstan bars. A little higher still. Now prop her securely and make all
snug and ship-shape, and make fast the blade of an oar to one of the
forward tholes, with the loom on the ground, for a ladder. You are safe
in Calabria.

To-morrow at early dawn you must go into the hills, for you cannot sell
a tenth of your cargo in the little village. Away you trudge on foot,
across the rocky point, along the low flat beach by the cane brake, up
the bed of the rivulet, where the wet green blades of the canes brush
your face at every step. Shoes and stockings in hand you ford the
shallow river, then, shod again, you begin the long ascent. You will
need four good hours, or five, for you are not a landsman, your shoes
hurt you, and you would rather reef top-sails--aye, and take the lee
earing, too, in any gale and a score of times, than breast that
mountain. It cannot be helped. It is a hard life, though there are lazy
days in the summer months, when the wind will do your work for you. You
must live, and earn your share; though they call you the master, neither