“We’re good, sir,” said Wodziczko, whom Hugo wanted to shut up. Not so much for the lie as for the diction. Hugo wanted to say a great many things to Ironside. Wilkie Collins is quite the treat, sir. Don’t we both miss Darjeeling at four?

“Private?”

“Sir?”

Ironside’s gaze seemed to be made of granite. “Have you been eating chocolate recently?”

“No, sir.” But Hugo’s hand went to his mouth.

“Because I am not aware of chocolate being in the ration.”

Hugo’s eyes stole toward Wodziczko, whose face, he now realized, was also smeared with the Cadbury squares they had liberated from the warehouse.

“I’m with you, sir,” Hugo said.

General Ironside blinked at him. “I’m sorry, Private—”

“Private First Class Hugo Black, sir.”

Ironside turned away, for he could settle later what “I’m with you” meant. “Do carry on.”

With an air hammer, four square bolts were drilled through the plate that secured the Stokes to the ground, and by consensus (no one really wanted to discuss in front of Ironside how unprepared they were), the weapon was pronounced ready to fire. Hugo pried open a crate of shells, and brushed the packing pellets aside.

“That guy?” Wodziczko whispered.

“Shh,” Hugo said.

“That guy reminds me of Lieutenant Gordon.”

“No, Wodziczko.”

“That guy is exactly like him.” His eyes had gone dreamy.

“Help me with these.” Hugo added, “Please.” Laid fin to nose like exotic fish were the eleven-pound bombs, painted around their bellies with the flashiest red and yellow stripes. They had received training in the form of advice: drop one in the barrel and get the hell out of the way.

“Private, are we ready to fire?” Ironside stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded the barracks as if he owned it.

“Yes, sir,” came simultaneously from Hugo and Wodziczko, who Hugo realized was now in love with Ironside.

“Please aim for the roof.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hugo, who was too intimidated to tell him that since it had frozen it couldn’t actually be aimed.

Meanwhile, in the barracks, the mutineers noted from their third-floor window the preparation of the Stokes mortar with nods and approval—it was a very good bluff. Any second now, negotiations would begin.

“Please fire,” Ironside said, covering his ears.

Hugo dropped his shell down the tube with a pneumatic rush of air and the snap of ignition fire, and the mortar round was sent sailing overhead with a low twang reminiscent of a single plucked harp string. It contained about two pounds of nitrostarch explosives, adequate to start a ruckus. The shell sang high into the night, spots of rust flying from its tiny fins, and then it came down with great speed, missing the roof, and vanishing from sight on the opposite side of the building.

A moment later, there was a distant explosion. Followed by a familiar, closer sigh.