Somebody else answered in the same language. Hornblower tried to struggle up, and a restraining hand was laid on his shoulder. He rolled over, and with his eyes now accustomed to the darkness, he could see the three swarthy faces with the long black moustaches. These men were not Gibraltarians. On the instant he could guess who they were — the crew of one of the fire ships who had steered their craft in past the Mole, set fire to it, and made their escape in the boat. Foster was sitting doubled up, in the bottom of the boat, and now he lifted his face from his knees and stared round him.
'Who are these fellows?' he asked feebly — his struggle in the water had left him as weak as Hornblower.
'Spanish fire ship's crew, I fancy, sir,' said Hornblower. We're prisoners.'
'Are we indeed!'
The knowledge galvanized him into activity just as it had Hornblower. 'He tried to get to his feet, and the Spaniard at the tiller thrust him down with a hand on his shoulder. Foster tried to put his hand away, and raised his voice in a feeble cry, but the man at the tiller was standing no nonsense, He brought out, in a lightning gesture, a knife from his belt. The light from the fire ship, burning itself harmlessly out on the shoal in the distance, ran redly along the blade, and Foster ceased to struggle. Men might call him Dreadnought Foster, but he could recognize the need for discretion.
'How are we heading?' he asked Hornblower, sufficiently quietly not to irritate their captors.
'North, sir. Maybe they're going to land on the Neutral Ground and make for the Line.'
'That's their best chance,' agreed Foster.
He turned his neck uncomfortably to look back up the harbour.
'Two other ships burning themselves out up there,' he said. 'There were three fire ships came in, I fancy.'