“Yes.”
“This is Wellard, sir. Mr. Hornblower sent me hack here to act as guide; There’s grassland beginning just above here.” Very well, said Bush.
He halted for a space, wiping his streaming face with his coat sleeve, while the column closed up behind him. It was not much farther to climb when he moved on again; Wellard led him past a clump of shadowy trees, and, sure enough, Bush felt grass under his feet, and he could walk more freely, uphill still, but only a gentle slope compared with the gully. There was a low challenge ahead of them.
“Friend,” said Wellard. “This is Mr. Bush here.”
“Glad to see you, sir,” said another voice—Hornblower’s.
Hornblower detached himself from the darkness and came forward to make his report.
“My party is formed up just ahead, sir. I’ve sent Saddler and two reliable men on as scouts.”
“Very good,” said Bush, and meant it.
The marine sergeant was reporting to Whiting.
“All present, sir, ‘cept for Chapman, sir. ‘E’s sprained ‘is ankle, or ‘e says ‘e ‘as, sir. Left ‘im be’ind back there, sir.”