“Rather an ugly place to tackle, Rodd, from the sea, but I suppose our fellows wouldn’t scruple about making an attack if there were any need. But here, I think we had better get back on board.”
“Oh, not yet, uncle. I haven’t half seen enough.”
“But I am getting sick of this tiresome wind,” said Uncle Paul. “One can’t keep on one’s hat, and it is just as if these gusts were genuine French, and kept on making a rush at us from round the corners of the streets as if they wanted to blow us into the harbour.”
“Yes, it is rather tiresome,” replied Rodd. “But I should have liked to have had a look inside one of those batteries.”
“Pooh! What do you want to see them for?”
“Why, just because they are French, uncle.”
“Nonsense! You have seen all ours on the heights of Plymouth, and they are a deal better-looking than these. We have a good way to walk, so let’s go down at once. There, look yonder.”
“What at, uncle?”
“What at? Why, at the clouds gathering there in the wind’s eye. You see Captain Chubb’s right, and we shall have the rain pouring down again before long.”
Rodd laughed as if he did not believe it, but making no farther opposition, they began to descend towards the harbour; but before they were half-way there the wind had increased to a furious pitch, the sea became a sheet of foam, and with wonderful rapidity the clouds had gathered overhead, till a black curtain was sweeping right over, and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall. Then down came a drenching shower, and they were glad to run for refuge to the nearest shelter, which presented itself in the shape of a great barrack-like building that seemed to be built about a square, and at whose arched entrance a couple of sentries with shouldered muskets were pacing up and down.