At noon
they had reached the beach at Deal, where this time they found no enemy to
oppose their landing; the Britons had been terrified at the multitude of
ships and boats in which the power of Rome was descending on them, and had
fled into the interior. The water was smooth, the disembarkation easy. A
camp was drawn out and intrenched, and six thousand men, with a few
hundred horse, were told off to guard it. The fleet was left riding
quietly at anchor, the pilots ignorant of the meaning of the treacherous
southern air which had been so welcome to them; and Caesar advanced inland
as far as the Stour. The Britons, after an unsuccessful stand to prevent
the Romans from crossing the river, retired into the woods, where they had
made themselves a fortress with felled trees. The weak defence was easily
stormed; the Britons were flying; the Romans were preparing to follow;
when an express came from Deal to tell Caesar that a gale had risen again
and the fleet was lying wrecked upon the shore. A second accident of the
same kind might have seemed an omen of evil, but Caesar did not believe in
omens. The even temperament of his mind was never discomposed, and at each
moment he was able always to decide, and to do, what the moment required.
The army was halted. He rode back himself to the camp, to find that forty
of his vessels only were entirely ruined.
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