“Very good, Mr. Hornblower.”
“I’ll start up the gully with the advanced guard then, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Hornblower. Carry out your orders.”
Bush was tense and excited, as far as his stoical training and phlegmatic temperament would allow him to be; he would have liked to plunge into action at once, but the careful scheme worked out in consultation with Hornblower did not allow it. He stood aside while his own party was being formed up and Hornblower called the other division to order.
“StarbowLines! Follow me closely. Every man is to keep in touch with the man ahead of him. Remember your muskets aren’t loaded—it’s no use snapping them if we meet an enemy. Cold steel for that. If any one of you is fool enough to load and fire he’d get four dozen at the gangway tomorrow. That I promise you. Woolton!”
“Sir!”
“Bring up the rear. Now follow me, you men, starting from the right of the line.”
Hornblower’s party filed off into the darkness. Already the marines were coming ashore, their scarlet tunics black against the phosphorescence. The white crossbelts were faintly visible side by side in a rigid twodeep line as they formed up, the noncommissioned officers snapping low-voiced orders at them. With his left hand still resting on his sword hilt Bush checked once more with his right hand that his pistols were in his belt and his cartridges in his pocket. A shadowy figure halted before them with a military click of the heels.
“All present and correct, sir. Ready to march off,” said Whiting’s voice.
“Thank you. We may as well start. Mr. Abbott!”