The wickerwork revetments were collapsing. Wires sagged and the walls slumped. Everything was falling down into the mud ahead.

Bartley nudged into Harry’s back. The line behind pressed.

“Go on,” said Fearnley’s voice.

“We can’t go back,” said Jones.

It was up beyond Harry’s knees now and moving against the glutinous thickness of it was so tiring. His greatcoat felt like an enormous weight.

“My legs are screaming,” said Pembridge.

Harry took large, exaggerated, slow steps. Each movement required concentration. Getting across it was the only thing that he thought about now, but there didn’t seem to be a far side. The mud-colored figures ahead were staggering like old men. He wished that he could shrug off his kit and his greatcoat. He watched the rain pitting the surface of the mud.

“I feel about a hundred years old,” said Bartley. Harry could hear the effort of his breath.

“I feel like I could fall down and sleep for a hundred years.” Pembridge leaned against a post with his eyes closed. “I am clinging to the mast,” he said. His eyes opened and rolled skyward. In the gathering dusk and the all-around mud the whites of his eyes glinted.

“This ship is well sunk,” he said.

From the thighs down Harry was all clay; he was a statue struggling into life. He felt the coldness of it circling around his thighs. It was soft, but sharp. It chilled and burned. Someone up ahead was yelling. The cries sounded hysterical.

“I’m not sure that I can go on,” said Bartley. “I’m not sure that I want to go on.”

The rain streamed down Harry’s face. He tasted the salt of his skin and it stung in his eyes. He thought about just giving in to it, just spreading his arms and sinking in. He imagined the mud pushing into his mouth and his nose, claiming his throat and his lungs. He stumbled in his panic.

“Go on,” said Francis’s voice behind. Harry looked back. The line of men were just shadows now, the mist of breath and the shimmer of rain on tin hats and capes.

Harry’s foot sank as he turned and he felt it lurch. The cold rushed up. His hands grasped but there was nothing to grab on to, nothing to stop him from falling. He tried to move his feet, to find purchase, but the weight and thickness of the mud was too great. It crept beyond his waist. His hands flailed but there was nothing to cling on to. He felt it rising up his chest. The figure of Pembridge was pulling away. He tried to turn, to reach to the man behind.