Lying in the high road to the East, it saw daily
the armed strength of England sweep proudly by. Now a squadron of
men-of-war: not the hideous, shapeless ironclad of to-day, but the
traditional three-decker, with its tiers of snarling teeth and its
beauty of white-bellying canvas and majestic spar. Now a troopship
with its consorts, two, or three, or more, tightly packed with their
living cargo--whole regiments of red-coated soldiers on their way to
Malta and beyond.
Such sights as these kept the garrison--friends and comrades of those
bound eastward--in a state of constant high-pitched excitement. At
first, forbidden by strict quarantine, there was no communication
between the sea and the shore, but all day long there were crowds of
idlers ready to line the sea-wall and greet every ship that came in
close enough with hearty repeated cheers. When the vexatious
health-rules were relaxed, and troopships landed some of their
passengers, there was endless fraternisation, eager discussion of
coming operations, and unlimited denunciation of the common foe.
Members of the garrison itself were, of course, frantically jealous of
all who had the better luck to belong to the expeditionary force. That
they were not under orders for the East was the daily burden of
complaint in every barrack-room and guard-house upon the Rock.
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