“Let your men rest, Captain Whiting,” said Bush.
Life in the confines of a ship of the line was no sort of training for climbing cliffs in the tropics, especially as the day before had been exhausting. The marines lay down, some of them with groans of relief which drew the unmistakable reproof of savage kicks from the sergeant’s toe.
“We’re on the crest here, sir,” said Hornblower. “You can see over into the bay from that side there.”
“Three miles from the fort, d’ye think?”
Bush did not mean to ask a question, for he was in command, but Hornblower was so ready with his report that Bush could not help doing so.
“Perhaps. Less than four, anyway, sir. Dawn in four hours from now, and the moon rises in half an hour.”
“Yes.”
“There’s some sort of track or path along the crest, sir, as you’d expect. It should lead to the fort.”
“Yes.”
Hornblower was a good subordinate, clearly. Bush realised now that there would naturally be a track along the crest of the peninsula—that would be the obvious thing—but the probability had not occurred to him until that moment.