E. R. Punshon

“ That was the secret fear that haunted them all that now the soldier had put into words. The pale man looked round despairingly. None knew better than he how easily the breeze might come, when it came—too late.
Too late!!
These were the words echoing in his heart and brain as he turned and gazed towards the shore, gazed with longing, tortured eyes.
All this time the prostrate boy had not spoken. Even those fatal words, “too late,” had failed to stir his apathy. Youth is ever buoyant or despairing, and this boy had given up hope almost as soon as the breeze fell. ”

“ The third man had his back to the other two, and to the shore. His face was dark with an inward passion of anger and protest. A moment's thought, a little care on the part of the pale man in the stern, would have saved all. Then they could have just lain at their ease in the boat and waited with patience the rising of the wind; then all this would have seemed a mere awkward delay. How far otherwise now! This third man was a soldier, and he had never loved the sea, and it seemed the sea was having its revenge upon him. ”

“ So far they had survived without. Then within sight of land the wind dropped, and there they lay, motionless, helpless, their eyes upon the haven where they would be, where there was drink enough tor an army. ”