Thus they talked together as the ship came slowly to her anchorage. Perrin joined them, seemingly indifferent to the present trouble. “Whatever happens,” he said, “we shall be ourselves. It’s no use worrying.” He smoked more than usual after dinner, and then made outline draughts of the coast. He was not being brave; but having little imagination he was indifferent. It was hot, too; and hot weather always made him dull. The sight of the new land pleased him. There was forest; miles of forest; forest rising over hills, lapsing to hollows of marsh, coming down to the sea, fading in a blur of branches. Here and there were clearings. Here and there, in sandy bays, the cows came, lowing at the sea. Smoke, in blue spires, rose up at a planter’s slip where a sloop was building. At times, as they neared the land, before going about on another reach, they heard the voices of men, the chop of axes upon timber. A country sloop lay at a jetty. Her men were hoisting casks aboard, singing at the tackles. A saw was at work at hand. Men were carrying planks to the jetty end. One of the men, laying down his load, waved to the ship as Captain Cammock flung his colours out. Very proudly, with all the dignity of beauty, the _Broken Heart_ marched to her rest. Her sailors cheered. They fired their guns, took up their berth and anchored. Jamestown lay before them; with some twenty of her citizens watching them from the battery. Already one or two men were putting out in boats towards them. “That’s not the whole city,” said Perrin. “There’s only twenty or thirty houses, beside the fort and the church.” “That’s Jamestown,” said Cammock. “Now, Captain Margaret. Now for it.” “Not much longer to wait. We’ll go ashore together.” “No, sir. I’ll go alone. If anything’s going to happen, I’ll send off word. Then you can look to the lady.” “Ah, thank you, Captain.” “Well. We’ll know soon. I’ll wave my hat from the pier if it’s all well, sir. Cheer up, sir. Mr. Cottrill, there.” “Ay, ay, Captain Cammock.” “My gig’s crew, mister. Are they in their whites?” “Gig’s crew all dressed, sir.” “Tell the bosun to pipe them away. No one to come aboard, Mr. Cottrill.” “No one to come aboard, sir.” “You better keep an eye on Mr. Stukeley, Captain Margaret. He may cut up rash.” “I will. Good-bye, captain. Good luck.” “We’ll know soon.” “Got your papers?” “All correct, sir. Now.” He passed over the side, and shoved off. Margaret watched the boat pull past, glad of that small diversion. She was a six-oar gig, whale-built, painted dark-blue and white, steering, on state occasions, with a brass-yoked rudder, at other times with an oar. A boy in a white jacket steered her with the yoke-lines, sitting behind Cammock’s back-board. “Look, Edward,” said Margaret. “How character shows in little things. Look at the style of the rowers. Look at the stroke, bowing his head as he comes aft, and the two midship oars watching their blades. What makes men watch their blades?”