Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence.
“A bad business,—a bad business we 're making of it all! The Crimea was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow,—Moscow or St Petersburg,—I don't care which.”
“Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.
“Get there,—and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir,—capacity to deal with the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked that we have no generalship,—no guidance—”
“I won't say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We're knocking hard at Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n't found the weak spot yet.”
“The weak spot! Why, it 's all weak,—earthworks, nothing but earthworks! Now, don't tell me that Wellington would have minded earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously. “Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say stone walls can't be attacked.”
Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
“And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the empty sleeve.