Returning to their camp, the men were in a mood of thorough depression.
They couldn't understand what had happened to Eakins and they didn't
feel like speculating on it. The ravaging afternoon sun beat down,
reflecting heat back from the white sand. The damp jungle steamed, and
appeared to creep toward them like a huge and sleepy green dragon,
trapping them against the indifferent sea. Gun barrels grew too hot to
touch, and the water in the canteens was as warm as blood. Overhead,
thick gray cumulus clouds began to pile up; it was the beginning of the
monsoon season.
Drake sat in the shade of the copra shed. He shook off his lethargy
long enough to inspect the camp from the viewpoint of defense. He saw
the encircling jungle as enemy territory. In front of it was an area
fifty yards deep which they had cleared. This no man's land could
perhaps be defended for a while.
Then came the huts and the copra shed, their last line of defense,
leading to the beach and the sea.
The expedition had been in complete control of this island for better
than three months. Now they were pinned to a small and precarious
beachhead.
Drake glanced at the lagoon behind him and remembered that there was
still one line of retreat open. If the bug and his damned menagerie
pressed too hard, they could still escape in the ketch. With luck.
Sorensen came over and sat down beside him. "What are you doing?" he
asked.