'Put that down,' he ordered.
The urgency of the situation made his seventeen-year-old voice crack like a fourteen-year-old's, and the seaman hesitated, holding the bottle in his hand.
'Put it down, d'ye hear?' said Hornblower, desperate with worry. This was his first independent command; conditions were absolutely novel, and excitement brought out all the passion of his mercurial temperament, while at the same time the more calculating part of his mind told him that if he were not obeyed now he never would be. His pistol was in his belt, and he put his hand on the butt, and it is conceivable that he would have drawn it and used it (if the priming had not got wet, he said to himself bitterly when he thought about the incident later on), but the seaman with one more glance at him put the bottle back into the case. The incident was closed, and it was time for the next step.
'Take these men forrard,' he said, giving the obvious order. 'Throw 'em into the forecastle.'
'Aye aye, sir.'
Most of the Frenchmen could still walk, but three were dragged by their collars, while the British herded the others before them.
'Come alongee,' said one of the seamen. 'Thisa waya.'
He evidently believed a Frenchman would understand him better if he spoke like that. The Frenchman who had greeted their arrival now awakened and suddenly realizing he was being dragged forward, broke away and turned back to Hornblower.
'I officer,' he said, pointing to himself. 'I not go wit' zem.'
'Take him away!' said Hornblower. In his tense condition he could not stop to debate trifles.