They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way along to Mrs Mason’s house.
“There’s the first results,” said Hornblower.
They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least, escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were talking volubly—the noise they were making was rousing the street. Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.
“It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”
With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trouser would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.
“A likely looking lot of prime seamen,” said Bush, running a professional eye over them.
“Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.
“Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise.
Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night being replaced by day.
Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.