“We are naval officers,” said Bush.
The lantern the sergeant carried was not really necessary to reveal them. The sergeant came to attention.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“What are you doing with this patrol, sergeant?” asked Bush.
“I have my orders, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir. By the left, quick—march!”
The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his half pike in salute as he passed on.
“What in the name of all that’s holy?” wondered Bush. “Boney can’t have made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so. You’d think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can’t be.”
“Look there!” said Hornblower.
Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red coats, not with the military stiffness of the soldiers. Checked shirts and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on his collar and his dirk at his side.
“The press gang for certain!” exclaimed Bush. “Look at the bludgeons!”