He pointed to the wreck, and force was added to his words by the sight of a roller bursting over the Devil's Teeth.
'How would you carry a boat?' asked the commandant.
To shout his plan in English against that wind would have been a strain; to do so in Spanish was beyond him.
'I can show you at the dockyard, sir,' he yelled. 'I cannot explain. But we must hurry!'
'You want to go to the dockyard, then?'
'Yes — oh, yes.'
'Mount behind me, sir,' said the commandant.
Awkwardly Hornblower scrambled up to a seat astride the horse's haunches and clutched at the commandant's belt. He bumped frightfully as the animal wheeled round and trotted down the slope. All the idlers of the town and garrison ran beside them.
The dockyard at Ferrol was almost a phantom organization, withered away like a tree deprived of its roots, thanks to the British blockade. Situated as it was at the most distant corner of Spain, connected with the interior by only the roughest of roads, it relied on receiving its supplies by sea, and any such reliance was likely with British cruisers off the coast to be disappointed. The last visit of Spanish ships of war had stripped the place of almost all its stores, and many of the dockyard hands had been pressed as seamen at the same time. But all that Hornblower needed was there, as he knew, thanks to his careful observation. He slid off the horse's hindquarters — miraculously avoiding an instinctive kick from the irritated animal — and collected his thoughts. He pointed to a low dray — a mere platform on wheels — which was used for carrying beef barrels and brandy kegs to the pier.
'Horses,' he said, and a dozen willing hands set to work harnessing a team.