“I don’t know,” said Hornblower, and then he took two more strides. “But I do.”
Bush had no time to meditate over this curious avowal for he heard a sound that made him grasp Hornblower’s elbow with sudden excitement.
“Listen!”
Ahead of them, along the silent street, a heavy military tread could be heard. It was approaching. The faint light shone on white crossbelts and brass buttons. It was a military patrol, muskets at the slope, a sergeant marching beside it, his chevrons and his half pike revealing his rank.
“Now, what the deuce?” said Bush.
“Halt!” said the sergeant to his men; and then to the other two, “May I ask you two gentlemen who you are?”
“We are naval officers,” said Bush.
The lantern the sergeant carried was not really necessary to reveal them. The sergeant came to attention.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“What are you doing with this patrol, sergeant?” asked Bush.
“I have my orders, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir. By the left, quick — march!”
The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his half pike in salute as he passed on.
“What in the name of all that’s holy?” wondered Bush. “Boney can’t have made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so. You’d think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can’t be.”
“Look there!” said Hornblower.
Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red coats, not with the military stiffness of the soldiers. Checked shirts and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on his collar and his dirk at his side.
“The press gang for certain!” exclaimed Bush. “Look at the bludgeons!”
Every seaman carried a club in his hand.
“Midshipman!” said Hornblower, sharply. “What’s all this?”
The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the uniforms.
“Orders, sir,” he began, and then, realising that with the growing daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he went on: “Press gang, sir. We’ve orders to press every seaman we find. The patrols are out on every road.”
“So I believe. But what’s the press for?”
“Dunno, sir. Orders, sir.”
That was sufficient answer, maybe.
“Very good. Carry on.”
“The press, by jingo!” said Bush. “Something’s happening.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Hornblower.
They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way along to Mrs Mason’s house.
“There’s the first results,” said Hornblower.
They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least, escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were talking volubly — the noise they were making was rousing the street. Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.
“It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”
With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trouser would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.
“A likely looking lot of prime seamen,” said Bush, running a professional eye over them.
“Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.
“Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise.
Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night being replaced by day.