"There's a 94-pounder up there," said a high officer, who might just have been his grandfather.
"All right, sir," said the child serenely; "we'll knock him out."
He hasn't knocked him out yet, but he is going to next shot, which in a siege is the next best thing.
In the meantime he has had his gun's name, "Lady Ellen," neatly carved on a stone and put up on his emplacement. Another gun-pit bears the golden legend "Princess Victoria Battery," on a board elegant beyond the dreams of suburban preparatory schools. A regiment would have had no paint or gold-leaf; the sailors always have everything. They carry their home with them, self-subsisting, self-relying. Even as the constant bluejacket says, "Right Gun Hill up, sir," there floats from below ting-ting, ting-ting, ting.
Five bells!
The rock-rending double bang floats over you unheard; the hot iron hills swim away.
Five bells—and you are on deck, swishing through cool blue water among white-clad ladies in long chairs, going home.
O Lord, how long?
But the sailors have not seen home for two years, which is two less than their usual spell. This is their holiday.