Jingo - Terry Pratchett [88]
“It stunk up on the surface, too,” Nobby went on.
“Nearly finished, gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari, putting the papers aside. “One last little venture and then we can surface. Very well, Leonard…take us underneath.”
“Er…aren’t we underneath already, sir?” said Colon.
“Only underneath the sea, sergeant.”
“Ah. Right.” Colon gave this due consideration. “Is there anything else to be under, then, sir?”
“Yes, sergeant. Now we’re going under the land.”
The beach was a lot closer now. The watchmen couldn’t help noticing that the sailors were all hurrying to the blunt end of the ship and hanging on to any small, lightweight and above all buoyant objects they could find.
“This seems close enough,” said Vimes. “Right. Stop here.”
“Stop here? How?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m no sailor. Aren’t there some sort of brakes?”
Jenkins stared at him. “You—you landlubber!”
“I thought you never used the word!”
“I never met one like you before! You even think we call the bows the sharp en—”
It was, the crew agreed later, one of the strangest landings in the history of bad seamanship. The shelving of the beach must have been right and the tide as well, because the ship did not so much hit the beach as sail up it, rising out of the water as the keel debarnacled itself on the sand. Finally the forces of wind, water, impetus and friction all met at the point marked “fall over slowly.”
It did so, earning the title of “world’s most laughable shipwreck.”
“Well, that might have been worse,” said Vimes, when the splintering noises had died away.
He eased himself out of a tangle of canvas and adjusted his helmet with as much aplomb as he could muster.
He heard a groan from the lopsided hold.
“Is dat you, Cheery?”
“Yes, Detritus.”
“Is dis me?”
“No!”
“Sorry.”
Carrot eased his way down the sloping deck and jumped on to the damp sand. He saluted.
“All present and lightly bruised, sir. Shall we establish a beachhead?”
“A what?”
“We have to dig in, sir.”
Vimes looked both ways along the beach, if such a sunny-sounding word could be applied to the forsaken strand. It was really just a hem to the land. Nothing stirred except the heat haze and, in the distance, one or two carrion birds.
“What for?” he said.
“Establish a defensible position. It’s just one of those things soldiers do, sir.”
Vimes glanced at the birds. They were approaching with a kind of sidling sideways hop, ready to move in just as soon as anyone had been dead for a few days. Then he flicked through Tacticus until the word “beachhead” caught his eye.
“It says here ‘If you want your men to spend much time wielding a shovel, encourage them to become farmers,’” he said. “So I think we’ll press on. He can’t have got very far. We’ll be back soon.”
Jenkins waded out of the surf. He didn’t look angry. He was a man who had passed through the fires of anger and was now in some strange peaceful bay beyond them. He pointed a quivering finger at his stricken ship and said “Muh…?”
“Pretty good shape, all things considered,” said Vimes.
“Muh?”
“I’m sure you and your salty sailors will be able to float it again.”
“Muh…”
Jenkins and his wading crew watched the regiment as it slithered and complained its way up the side of the dune. Eventually the crew went into a huddle and drew lots and the cook, who was always unlucky in games of chance, approached the captain.
“Never mind, captain,” he said, “we can probably find some decent balks of timber in all this driftwood, and a few days’ work with block and tackle should—”
“Muh.”
“Only…we’d better get started ’cos he said they won’t be long…”
“They won’t be back!” said the captain. “The water they’ve got won’t last a day up there! They haven’t got the right gear! And once they’re out of sight of the sea they’ll get lost!”
“Good!”
It took half an hour to get to the top of the dune. The sand had been stamped down but, even as Vimes watched, the wind caught the particles and nibbled away at the prints.
“Camel tracks,” said Vimes. “Well, camels don’t go all that fast. Let’s—”
“I think Detritus is having real trouble,