Free A Hero for Leanda by Andrew Garve Page B

about thirty-five miles to go, but these would be the most hazardous miles of all. There w r as no question of alternate watches any more. Conway took the tiller, his ears alert for the warning sound of surf. Leanda, beside him, watched for any fleck of white. But they heard nothing, and saw nothing, and sailed peacefully on.
    It was a heavenly night, warm as a caress. The stars were brilliant. Over the tip of the boom, to the north, the Plow swung gently, upside down. Away to the south, the Southern Cross blazed. The air was sweet with the scents from the land.
    Conway looked down at Leanda. “Well,” he said, “only a few hours more. I must say I feel quite sorry.”
    “It’s been a good trip,” Leanda said.
    “It’s been a very short trip. I don’t feel ready for the land yet.”
    “We’ve a job to do,” Leanda reminded him. “We’re not just out for a sail.”
    “I can’t think of jobs tonight,” Conway said. He gazed up at the starlit canopy of the sky. “Lovely, isn’t it? ‘The great out-of-doors...’”
    “Beautiful.”
    “What was it Stevenson said?—‘To live out of doors...” Abruptly, he broke off.
    “ ‘To live out of doors’—what?” Leanda asked.
    “It’s odd,” Conway said, “but I can’t remember the rest of the quotation.... Look, if we’ve got to keep awake all night, why don’t we have some coffee?”

    It was a splendid and exciting dawn. Against a flushed sky, Heureuse stood out boldly, straight ahead and very close. It looked big and solid, a considerable chunk of land. Unlike the other islands they had seen, it rose impressively to a granite knob so high that the top was wreathed in cloud. Coconut palms climbed far up the hillside from the empty beaches. Trees covered the upper slopes, too. Everything looked lush and green and inviting.
    Leanda, studying the shore through the binoculars, said softly, “I wonder where we shall find him.”
    Conway grunted, and bent over his chart. The island, fifteen miles long by about ten at its widest part, was shaped like a pear, and it was the pointed end they were approaching. The capital, Port Edward, lay on the other side of the point, a mile or so up the coast. As they closed the land, the high ground took their wind and Thalia’s sails drooped. Conway started the engine and they motored round the promontory over a glassy sea. There was a tall white lighthouse marking the end of the harbor channel. As soon as they were in plain view of the port, Conway let the anchor go in four fathoms and hoisted the yellow “Q” flag—“My vessel is healthy and I request free pratique.” Leanda prepared breakfast while he wound in the log fine and scraped it clean of the sea creatures, large as olives, that had somehow managed to get a grip on it even though it had been spinning all the while. Then, for the first time since Mombasa , they ate a meal together, a cheerful celebration. They were just clearing away when a launch came out with the port doctor aboard, a young colored man who welcomed them warmly and quickly gave them permission to enter the port. They followed the launch in, steering between fierce-looking submarine cliffs of coral that made them glad of the pilotage, and tied up at the quieter end of the quay under directions from the harbor master. In a few minutes, customs and immigration formalities were completed. They had arrived!

    Their sudden appearance caused quite a stir on the jetty. A line of creoles, jogging between a shed and a small coastal schooner with headloads of green bananas, stopped short as though someone had switched off a conveyor belt. A man unloading a large turtle kept it dangling by its flippers while he exchanged excited comment with his neighbors in an unintelligible French patois. Children raced up noisily to inspect the new arrival, and strapping Negresses broke into shrill, hysterical giggles. Conway and Leanda stayed below for a while, tidying up the ship, and gradually the interest