"Had you not better take a couple of hands with you, Mr. Treenail?"
said the skipper.

"Why, no, sir, I don't think I shall want them; but if you will spare
me Mr. Cringle I will be obliged, in case I want any help."

We shoved off, and as the glowing sun dipped under Portland Point, as
the tongue of land that runs out about four miles to the southward, on
the western side of Port Royal harbour, is called, we arrived within a
hundred yards of the _Palisadoes_. The surf, at the particular spot we
steered for, did not break on the shore in a rolling curling wave, as
it usually does, but smoothed away under the lee of a small sandy
promontory that ran out into the sea, about half a cable's length to
windward, and then slid up the smooth white sand without breaking, in a
deep clear green swell, for the space of twenty yards, gradually
shoaling, the colour becoming lighter and lighter until it frothed away
in a shallow white fringe, that buzzed as it receded back into the deep
green sea, until it was again propelled forward by the succeeding
billow.

"I say, friend Bungo, how shall we manage? You don't mean to swamp us
in a shove through that surf, do you?" said Mr. Treenail.

"No fear, massa, if you and toder leetle man-of-war buccra only keep
dem seat when we rise on de crest of de swell dere."

We sat quiet enough. Treenail was coolness itself, and I aped him as
well as I could. The loud murmur, increasing to a roar, of the sea,
was trying enough as we approached, buoyed on the last long undulation.