“Over there in a cove—about a mile south of us. If they leave the tavern we can get to the boat first and block their road.”
“We’ll be between two fires then,” observed Barres, “from the boat’s deck and from Skeel’s gang.”
Renoux nodded coolly:
“Two on the boat and five in the hotel make seven. We are five.”
“Then we can hold them,” said Westmore.
“That’s all I want,” rejoined Renoux briskly. “I just want to check them and hold them until your Government can send its agents here. I know I have no business to do this—probably I’ll get into trouble. But I can’t sit still and twirl my thumbs while people blow up a canal belonging to an ally of France, can I?”
“Hark!” motioned Barres. “They’re singing! Poor devils. They’re like Cree Indians singing their death song.”
“I suppose,” said Westmore sombrely, “that deep in each man’s heart there remains a glimmer of hope that he, at least, may come out of it.”
Renoux shrugged:
“Perhaps. But they are brave, these Irish—brave enough without a skinful of whiskey. And with it they are entirely reckless. No sane man can foretell what they will attempt.” He turned to include Alost and Souchez: “I think there can be only one plan of action for us, gentlemen. We should string out here along the edges of the woods. When they leave the tavern we should run for the landing and get into the shack that stands there—a rickety sort of boat-house on piles,” he explained to Westmore and Barres. “There is the path through the woods.” He pointed to 398 the left, where a trodden way bisected the wood-road. “It runs straight to the landing,” he added.