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That was so that cowards could not take refuge below the waterline.

'What about men carrying wounded?'

The astonished marine found it hard to answer; he found it hard to think after years of drill.

'I have no orders about them, sir,' he said at last, actually allowing his eyes, though not his neck, to move.

Hornblower glanced at Bush.

'I'll speak to the sergeant of marines, sir,' said Bush.

'Who's on the quarter-bill to attend to the wounded?'

'Cooper and his mate, sir. Sailmaker and his mate. Four altogether, sir.'

Trust Bush to have all those details at his fingers' ends, even though Hornblower had found two small points to find fault with, for which Bush was ultimately responsible. No need to stress those matters with Bush--he was burning with silent shame.

Down the hatchway to the magazine. A candle glimmered faintly through the glass window of the light-room, throwing just enough light for powder-boys to see what they were doing as they received loaded cartridges through the double serge curtains opening into the magazine; inside the magazine the gunner and his mate, wearing list slippers, were ready to pass out, and, if necessary, fill cartridges. Down the after hatchway to where the surgeon and his lob-lolly boy were ready to deal with the wounded. Hornblower knew that he himself might at some time be dragged in here with blood streaming from some shattered limb--it was a relief to ascend to the main-deck again.