“This yere’s the magazine, zur,” said the petty officer—Ambrose, captain of the foretop, who had never lost the broad Devon acquired in his childhood, despite his years in the navy. “We’m guarding of it.”
“Mr. Hornblower’s orders?”
“Iss, zur.”
A forlorn party of prisoners were squatting by the main gate. Hornblower had reported the presence of them. But there were guards he had said nothing about: a sentry at the well; guards at the gate; Woolton, the steadiest petty officer of them all, at a long wooden building beside the gate, and six men with him.
“What’s your duty?” demanded Bush.
“Guarding the provision store, sir. There’s liquor here.”
“Very well.”
If the madmen who had made the assault—that marine, for instance, whose bayonetthrust Bush had parried—had got at the liquor there would be no controlling them at all.
Abbott, the midshipman in subordinate command of Bush’s own division, came hurrying up.
“What the hell d’ye think you’ve been doing?” demanded Bush, testily. “I’ve been without you since the attack began.”