From the small calico tent that was his sentry post on the west of the island he could see for twenty miles all around him. The wind whipped at the sides of the tent but it was warm and always dry under the blue skies. He spent the hours of his watch with charcoal and paper, refining the multitude of sketches that he kept in his leather satchel. He had painstakingly drawn, over the last few weeks, all the foliage that the small world outside the tent offered; now he drafted portraits of his comrades, their barracks and any ships that appeared in the offing. For occasional inspiration and relief from the monotony of his forenoon watch, he walked the short distance to the edge of the cliff and cautiously watched the breakers and white catspaws licking the rocks below, silent and gentle from this height. From his vantage, two hundred feet high, he could see the crescent sand bar spreading for miles around, only broken by the savage dagger-points of black volcanic rock, threatening to rip the hull of any ship foolish enough to approach. He sat cross-legged on the sandy, straw-like grass in the mouth of his tent and perused his sketches. He disliked his rendition of the Cressy, the sloop that had brought them to the island.
