Every seaman carried a club in his hand.
“Midshipman!” said Hornblower, sharply. “What’s all this?”
The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the uniforms.
“Orders, sir,” he began, and then, realising that with the growing daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he went on: “Press gang, sir. We’ve orders to press every seaman we find. The patrols are out on every road.”
“So I believe. But what’s the press for?”
“Dunno, sir. Orders, sir.”
That was sufficient answer, maybe.
“Very good. Carry on.”
“The press, by jingo!” said Bush. “Something’s happening.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Hornblower.