Chapter I

Lieutenant William Bush came on board HMS Renown as she lay at anchor in the Hamoaze and reported himself to the officer of the watch, who was a tall and rather gangling individual with hollow cheeks and a melancholy cast of countenance, whose uniform looked as if it had been put on in the dark and not readjusted since.

“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” said the officer of the watch. “My name’s Hornblower. The captain’s ashore. First lieutenant went for’ard with the bosun ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” said Bush.

He looked keenly round him at the infinity of activities which were making the ship ready for a long period of service in distant waters.

“Hey there! You at the stay tackles! Handsomely! Handsomely! Belay!” Hornblower was bellowing this over Bush’s shoulder. “Mr. Hobbs! Keep an eye on what your men are doing there!”

“Aye aye, sir,” came a sulky reply.

“Mr. Hobbs! Lay aft here!”

A paunchy individual with a thick grey pigtail came rolling aft to where Hornblower stood with Bush at the gangway. He blinked up at Hornblower with the sun in his eyes; the sunlight lit up the sprouting grey beard on his tiers of chins.

“Mr. Hobbs!” said Hornblower. He spoke quietly, but there was an intensity of spirit underlying his words that surprised Bush. “That powder’s got to come aboard before nightfall and you know it. So don’t use that tone of voice when replying to an order. Answer cheerfully another time. How are you going to get the men to work if you sulk? Get for’ard and see to it.”

Hornblower was leaning a little forward as he spoke; the hands which he clasped behind him served apparently to balance the jutting chin, but his attitude was negligent compared with the fierce intensity with which he spoke, even though he was speaking in an undertone inaudible to all except the three of them.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Hobbs, turning to go forward again.

Bush was making a mental note that this Hornblower was a firebrand when he met his glance and saw to his surprise a ghost of a twinkle in their melancholy depths. In a flash of insight he realised that this fierce young lieutenant was not fierce at all, and that the intensity with which he spoke was entirely assumed—it was almost as if Hornblower had been exercising himself in a foreign language.

“If they once start sulking you can’t do anything with’em,” explained Hornblower, “and Hobbs is the worst of ‘em—actinggunner, and no good. Lazy as they make ‘em.”

“I see,” said Bush.

The duplicity—play acting—of the young lieutenant aroused a momentary suspicion in Bush’s mind. A man who could assume an appearance of wrath and abandon it again with so much facility was not to be trusted. Then, with an inevitable reaction, the twinkle in the brown eyes called up a responsive twinkle in Bush’s frank blue eyes, and he felt a friendly impulse towards Hornblower, but Bush was innately cautious and checked the impulse at once, for there was a long voyage ahead of them and plenty of time for a more considered judgment. Meanwhile he was conscious of a keen scrutiny, and he could see that a question was imminent—and even Bush could guess what it would be. The next moment proved him right.

“What’s the date of your commission?” asked Hornblower.

“July ‘96,” said Bush.

“Thank you,” said Hornblower in a flat tone that conveyed so little information that Bush had to ask the question in his turn.

“What’s the date of yours?”

“August ‘97,” said Hornblower. “You’re senior to me. You’re senior to Smith, too—January ‘97.”

“Are you the junior lieutenant, then?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

His tone did not reveal any disappointment that the newcomer had proved to be senior to him, but Bush could guess at it. Bush knew by very recent experience what it was to be the junior lieutenant in a ship of the line.

“You’ll be third,” went on Hornblower. “Smith fourth, and I’m fifth.”

“I’ll be third?” mused Bush, more to himself than to anyone else.

Every lieutenant could at least dream, even lieutenants like Bush with no imagination at all. Promotion was at least theoretically possible; from the caterpillar stage of lieutenant one might progress to the butterfly stage of captain, sometimes even without a chrysalis period as commander. Lieutenants undoubtedly were promoted on occasions; most of them, as was to be expected, being men who had friends at Court, or in Parliament, or who had been fortunate enough to attract the attention of an admiral and then lucky enough to be under that admiral’s command at the moment when a vacancy occurred. Most of the captains on the list owed their promotion to one or other of such causes. But sometimes a lieutenant won his promotion through merit—through a combination of merit and good fortune, at least—and sometimes sheer blind chance brought it about. If a ship distinguished herself superlatively in some historic action the first lieutenant might be promoted (oddly enough, that promotion was considered a compliment to her captain), or if the captain should be killed in the action even a moderate success might result in a step for the senior surviving lieutenant who took his place. On the other hand some brilliant boataction, some dashing exploit on shore, might win promotion for the lieutenant in command—the senior, of course. The chances were few enough in all conscience, but there were at least chances.

But of those few chances the great majority went to the senior lieutenant, to the first lieutenant; the chances of the junior lieutenant were doubly few. So that whenever a lieutenant dreamed of attaining the rank of captain, with its dignity and security and prize money, he soon found himself harking back to the consideration of his seniority as lieutenant. If this next commission of the Renown ’s took her away to some place where other lieutenants could not be sent on board by an admiral with favourites, there were only two lives between Bush and the position of first lieutenant with all its added chances of promotion. Naturally he thought about that; equally naturally he did not spare a thought for the fact that the man with whom he was conversing was divided by four lives from that same position.

“But still, it’s the West Indies for us, anyway,” said Hornblower philosophically. “Yellow fever. Ague. Hurricanes. Poisonous serpents. Bad water. Tropical heat. Putrid fever. And ten times more chances of action than with the Channel fleet.”

“That’s so,” agreed Bush, appreciatively.

With only three and four years’ seniority as lieutenants, respectively, the two young men (and with young men’s confidence in their own immortality) could face the dangers of West Indian service with some complacence.

“Captain’s coming off, sir,” reported the midshipman of the watch hurriedly.

Hornblower whipped his telescope to eye and trained it on the approaching shore boat.

“Quite right,” he said. “Run for’ard and tell Mr. Buckland. Bosun’s mates! Sideboys! Lively, now!”

Captain Sawyer came up through the entry port, touched his hat to the quarterdeck, and looked suspiciously around him. The ship was in the condition of confusion to be expected when she was completing for foreign service, but that hardly justified the sidelong, shifty glances which Sawyer darted about him. He had a big face and a prominent hawk nose which he turned this way and that as he stood on the quarterdeck. He caught sight of Bush, who came forward and reported himself.

“You came aboard in my absence, did you?” asked Sawyer.

“Yes, sir,” said Bush, a little surprised.

“Who told you I was on shore?”

“No one, sir.”

“How did you guess it, then?”

“I didn’t guess it, sir. I didn’t know you were on shore until Mr. Hornblower told me.”

“Mr. Hornblower? So you know each other already?”

“No, sir. I reported to him when I came on board.”

“So that you could have a few private words without my knowledge?”

“No, sir.”

Bush bit off the ‘of course not’ which he was about to add. Brought up in a hard school, Bush had learned to utter no unnecessary words when dealing with a superior officer indulging in the touchiness superior officers might be expected to indulge in. Yet this particular touchiness seemed more unwarranted even than usual.

“I’ll have you know I allow no one to conspire behind my back, Mr—ah—Bush,” said the captain.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Bush met the captain’s searching stare with the composure of innocence, but he was doing his best to keep his surprise out of his expression, too, and as he was no actor the struggle may have been evident.

“You wear your guilt on your face, Mr. Bush,” said the captain. “I’ll remember this.”

With that he turned away and went below, and Bush, relaxing from his attitude of attention, turned to express his surprise to Hornblower. He was eager to ask questions about this extraordinary behaviour, but they died away on his lips when he saw that Hornblower’s face was set in a wooden unresponsiveness. Puzzled and a little hurt, Bush was about to note Hornblower down as one of the captain’s toadies—or as a madman as well—when he caught sight out of the tail of his eye of the captain’s head reappearing above the deck. Sawyer must have swung round when at the foot of the companion and come up again simply for the purpose of catching his officers off their guard discussing him—and Hornblower knew more about his captain’s habits than Bush did. Bush made an enormous effort to appear natural.

“Can I have a couple of hands to carry my seachest down?” he asked, hoping that the words did not sound nearly as stilted to the captain as they did to his own ears.

“Of course, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower, with a formidable formality. “See to it, if you please, Mr. James.”

“Ha!” snorted the captain, and disappeared once more down the companion.

Hornblower flicked one eyebrow at Bush, but that was the only indication he gave, even then, of any recognition that the captain’s actions were at all unusual, and Bush, as he followed his seachest down to his cabin, realised with dismay that this was a ship where no one ventured on any decisive expression of opinion. But the Renown was completing for sea, amid all the attendant bustle and confusion, and Bush was on board, legally one of her officers, and there was nothing he could do except reconcile himself philosophically to his fate. He would have to live through this commission, unless any of the possibilities catalogued by Hornblower in their first conversation should save him the trouble.

Chapter II

HMS Renown was clawing her way southward under reefed topsails, a westerly wind laying her over as she thrashed along, heading for those latitudes where she would pick up the northeast trade wind and be able to run direct to her destination in the West Indies. The wind sang in the taut weather-rigging, and blustered around Bush’s ears as he stood on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, balancing to the roll as the roaring wind sent one massive grey wave after another hurrying at the ship; the starboard bow received the wave first, beginning a leisurely climb, heaving the bowsprit up towards the sky, but before the pitch was in any way completed the ship began her roll, heaving slowly over, slowly, slowly, while the bowsprit rose still more steeply. And then as she still rolled the bows shook themselves free and began to slide down the far side of the wave, with the foam creaming round them; the bowsprit began the downward portion of its arc as the ship rose ponderously to an even keel again, and as she heeled a trifle into the wind with the send of the sea under her keel her stern rose while the last of the wave passed under it, her bows dipped, and she completed the corkscrew roll with the massive dignity to be expected of a ponderous fabric that carried five hundred tons of artillery on her decks. Pitch—roll—heave—roll; it was magnificent, rhythmic, majestic, and Bush, balancing on the deck with the practiced ease of ten years’ experience, would have felt almost happy if the freshening of the wind did not bring with it the approaching necessity for another reef, which meant, in accordance with the ship’s standing orders, that the captain should be informed.

Yet there were some minutes of grace left him, during which he could stand balancing on the deck and allow his mind to wander free. Not that Bush was conscious of any need for meditation—he would have smiled at such a suggestion were anyone to make it to him. But the last few days had passed in a whirl, from the moment when his orders had arrived and he had said goodbye to his mother and sisters (he had had three weeks with them after the Conqueror had paid off) and hurried to Plymouth, counting the money he had left in his pockets to make sure he could pay the postchaise charges. The Renown had been in all the flurry of completing for the West Indian station, and during the thirtysix hours that elapsed before she sailed Bush had hardly time to sit down, let alone sleep—his first good night’s rest had come while the Renown clawed her way across the bay. Yet almost from the moment of his first arrival on board he had been harassed by the fantastic moods of the captain, now madly suspicious and again stupidly easygoing. Bush was not a man sensitive to atmosphere—he was a sturdy soul philosophically prepared to do his duty in any of the difficult conditions to be expected at sea—but he could not help but be conscious of the tenseness and fear that pervaded life in the Renown. He knew that he felt dissatisfied and worried, but he did not know that these were his own forms of tenseness and fear. In three days at sea he had hardly come to know a thing about his colleagues: he could vaguely guess that Buckland, the first lieutenant, was capable and steady, and that Roberts, the second, was kindly and easygoing; Hornblower seemed active and intelligent, Smith a trifle weak; but these deductions were really guesses. The wardroom officers—the lieutenants and the master and the surgeon and the purser—seemed to be secretive and very much inclined to maintain a strict reserve about themselves. Within wide limits this was right and proper—Bush was no frivolous chatterer himself—but the silence was carried to excess when conversation was limited to half a dozen words, all strictly professional. There was much that Bush could have learned speedily about the ship and her crew if the other officers had been prepared to share with him the results of their experience and observations during the year they had been on board, but except for the single hint Bush had received from Hornblower when he came on board no one had uttered a word. If Bush had been given to Gothic flights of imagination he might have thought of himself as a ghost at sea with a company of ghosts, cut off from the world and from each other, ploughing across an endless sea to an unknown destination. As it was he could guess that the secretiveness of the wardroom was the result of the moods of the captain: and that brought him back abruptly to the thought that the wind was still freshening and a second reef was now necessary. He listened to the harping of the rigging, felt the heave of the deck under his feet, and shook his head regretfully. There was nothing for it.

“Mr. Wellard,” he said to the volunteer beside him. “Go and tell the captain that I think another reef is necessary.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was only a few seconds before Wellard was back on deck again.

“Cap’n’s coming himself, sir.”

“Very good,” said Bush.

He did not meet Wellard’s eyes as he said the meaningless words; he did not want Wellard to see how he took the news, nor did he want to see any expression that Wellard’s face might wear. Here came the captain, his shaggy long hair whipping in the wind and his hook nose turned this way and that as usual.

“You want to take in another reef, Mr. Bush?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bush, and waited for the cutting remark that he expected. It was a pleasant surprise that none was forthcoming. The captain seemed almost genial.

“Very good, Mr. Bush. Call all hands.”

The pipes shrilled along the decks.

“All hands! All hands! All hands to reef tops’ls. All hands!”

The men came pouring out; the cry of ‘All hands’ brought out the officers from the wardroom and the cabins and the midshipmen’s berths, hastening with their stationbills in their pockets to make sure that the reorganised crew were properly at their stations. The captain’s orders pealed against the wind. Halliards and reef tackles were manned; the ship plunged and rolled over the grey sea under the grey sky so that a landsman might have wondered how a man could keep his footing on deck, far less venture aloft. Then in the midst of the evolution a young voice, soaring with excitement to a high treble, cut through the captain’s orders.

“’Vast hauling there! ‘Vast hauling!”

There was a piercing urgency about the order, and obediently the men ceased to pull. Then the captain bellowed from the poop:

“Who’s that countermanding my orders?”

“It’s me, sir—Wellard.”

The young volunteer faced aft and screamed into the wind to make himself heard. From his station aft Bush saw the captain advance to the poop rail; Bush could see he was shaking with rage, his nose pointing forward as though seeking a victim.

“You’ll be sorry, Mr. Wellard. Oh yes, you’ll be sorry.”

Hornblower now made his appearance at Wellard’s side. He was green with seasickness, as he had been ever since the Renown left Plymouth Sound.

“There’s a reef point caught in the reef tackle block, sir—weather side,” he hailed, and Bush, shifting his position, could see that this was so; if the men had continued to haul on the tackle, damage to the sail might easily have followed.

“What d’you mean by coming between me and a man who disobeys me?” shouted the captain. “It’s useless to try to screen him.”

“This is my station, sir,” replied Hornblower. “Mr. Wellard was doing his duty.”

“Conspiracy!” replied the captain. “You two are in collusion!”

In the face of such an impossible statement Hornblower could only stand still, his white face turned towards the captain.

“You go below, Mr. Wellard,” roared the captain, when it was apparent that no reply would be forthcoming, “and you too, Mr. Hornblower. I’ll deal with you in a few minutes. You hear me? Go below! I’ll teach you to conspire.”

It was a direct order, and had to be obeyed. Hornblower and Wellard walked slowly aft: it was obvious that Hornblower was rigidly refraining from exchanging a glance with the midshipman, lest a fresh accusation of conspiracy should be hurled at him. They went below while the captain watched them. As they disappeared down the companion the captain raised his big nose again.

“Send a hand to clear that reef tackle!” he ordered, in a tone as nearly normal as the wind permitted. “Haul away!”

The topsails had their second reef, and the men began to lay in off the yards. The captain stood by the poop rail looking over the ship as normal as any man could be expected to be.

“Wind’s coming aft,” he said to Buckland. “Aloft there! Send a hand to bear those backstays abreast the topbrim. Hands to the weatherbraces. After guard! Haul in the weather main brace! Haul together, men! Well with the fore-yard! Well with the main yard! Belay every inch of that!”

The orders were given sensibly and sanely, and the hands stood waiting for the watch below to be dismissed.

“Bosun’s mate! My compliments to Mr. Lomax and I’ll be glad to see him on deck.”

Mr. Lomax was the purser, and the officers on the quarterdeck could hardly refrain from exchanging glances; it was hard to imagine any reason why the purser should be wanted on deck at this moment.

“You sent for me, sir?” said the purser, arriving short of breath on the quarterdeck.

“Yes, Mr. Lomax. The hands have been hauling in the weather main brace.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Now we’ll splice it.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. We’ll splice the main brace. A tot of rum to every man. Aye, and to every boy.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. A tot of rum, I said. Do I have to give my orders twice? A tot of rum for every man. I’ll give you five minutes, Mr. Lomax, and not a second longer.”

The captain pulled out his watch and looked at it significantly.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Lomax, which was all he could say. Yet he still stood for a second or two, looking first at the captain and then at the watch, until the big nose began to lift in his direction and the shaggy eyebrows began to come together. Then he turned and fled; if the unbelievable order had to be obeyed five minutes would not be long in which to collect his party together, unlock the spirit room, and bring up the spirits. The conversation between captain and purser could hardly have been overheard by more than half a dozen persons, but every hand had witnessed it, and the men were looking at each other unbelievingly, some with grins on their faces which Bush longed to wipe off.

“Bosun’s mate! Run and tell Mr. Lomax two minutes have gone. Mr. Buckland! I’ll have the hands aft here, if you please.”

The men came trooping along the waist; it may have been merely Bush’s overwrought imagination that made him think their manner slack and careless. The captain came forward to the quarterdeck rail, his face beaming in smiles that contrasted wildly with his scowls of a moment before.

“I know where loyalty’s to be found, men,” he shouted, “I’ve seen it. I see it now. I see your loyal hearts. I watch your unremitting labours. I’ve noticed them as I notice everything that goes on in this ship. Everything, I say. The traitors meet their deserts and the loyal hearts their reward. Give a cheer, you men.”

The cheer was given, halfheartedly in some cases, with over-exuberance in others. Lomax made his appearance at the main hatchway, four men with him each carrying a twogallon anker.

“Just in time, Mr. Lomax. It would have gone hard with you if you had been late. See to it that the issue is made with none of the unfairness that goes on in some ships. Mr. Booth! Lay aft here.”

The bulky bosun came hurrying on his short legs.

“You have your rattan with you, I hope?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Booth displayed his long silvermounted cane, ringed at every two inches by a pronounced joint. The dilatory among the crew knew that cane well and not only the dilatory—at moments of excitement Mr. Booth was likely to make play with it on all within reach.

“Pick the two sturdiest of your mates. Justice will be executed.”

Now the captain was neither beaming nor scowling. There was a smile on his heavy lips, but it might be a smile without significance as it was not reechoed in his eyes.

“Follow me,” said the captain to Booth and his mates, and he left the deck once more to Bush, who now had leisure to contemplate ruefully the disorganization of the ship’s routine and discipline occasioned by this strange whim.

When the spirits had been issued and drunk he could dismiss the watch below and set himself to drive the watch on deck to their duties again, slashing at their sulkiness and indifference with bitter words. And there was no pleasure now in standing on the heaving deck watching the corkscrew roll of the ship and the hurrying Atlantic waves, the trim of the sails and the handling of the wheel—Bush still was unaware that there was any pleasure to be found in these everyday matters, but he was vaguely aware that something had gone out of his life.

He saw Booth and his mates making their way forward again, and here came Wellard on to the quarterdeck.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” he said.

The boy’s face was white, set in a strained rigidity, and Bush, looking keenly at him, saw that there was a hint of moisture in his eyes. He was walking stiffly, too, holding himself inflexibly; pride might be holding back his shoulders and holding up his head, but there was some other reason for his not bending at the hips.

“Very good, Mr. Wellard,” said Bush.

He remembered those knots on Booth’s cane. He had known injustice often enough. Not only boys but grown men were beaten without cause on occasions, and Bush had nodded sagely when it happened, thinking that contact with injustice in a world that was essentially unjust was part of everyone’s education. And grown men smiled to each other when boys were beaten, agreeing that it did all parties good; boys had been beaten since history began, and it would be a bad day for the world if ever, inconceivably, boys should cease to be beaten. This was all very true, and yet in spite of it Bush felt sorry for Wellard. Fortunately there was something waiting to be done which might suit Wellard’s mood and condition.

“Those sandglasses need to be run against each other, Mr. Wellard,” said Bush, nodding over to the binnacle. “Run the minute glass against the halfhour glass as soon as they turn it at seven bells.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Mark off each minute on the slate unless you want to lose your reckoning,” added Bush.

“Aye aye, sir.”

It would be something to keep Wellard’s mind off his troubles without calling for physical effort, watching the sand run out of the minute glass and turning it quickly, marking the slate and watching again. Bush had his doubts about that halfhour glass and it would be convenient to have both checked. Wellard walked stiffly over to the binnacle and made preparation to begin his observations.

Now here was the captain coming back again, the big nose pointing to one side and the other. But now the mood had changed again; the activity, the restlessness, had evaporated. He was like a man who had dined well. As etiquette dictated, Bush moved away from the weather rail when the captain appeared and the captain proceeded to pace slowly up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck, his steps accommodating themselves by long habit to the heave and pitch of the ship. Wellard took one glance and then devoted his whole attention to the matter of the sandglasses; seven bells had just struck and the halfhour glass had just been turned. For a short time the captain paced up and down. When he halted he studied the weather to windward, felt the wind on his cheek, looked attentively at the dogvane and up at the topsails to make sure that the yards were correctly trimmed, and came over and looked into the binnacle to check the course the helmsman was steering. It was all perfectly normal behaviour; any captain in any ship would do the same when he came on deck. Wellard was aware of the nearness of his captain and tried to give no sign of disquiet; he turned the minute glass and made another mark on the slate.

“Mr. Wellard at work?” said the captain.

His voice was thick and a little indistinct, the tone quite different from the anxietysharpened voice with which he had previously spoken. Wellard, his eyes on the sandglasses, paused before replying. Bush could guess that he was wondering what would be the safest, as well as the correct, thing to say.

“Aye aye, sir.”

In the navy no one could go far wrong by saying that to a superior officer.

“Aye aye, sir,” repeated the captain. “Mr. Wellard has learned better now perhaps than to conspire against his captain, against his lawful superior set in authority over him by the Act of His Most Gracious Majesty King George II?”

That was not an easy suggestion to answer. The last grains of sand were running out of the glass and Wellard waited for them; a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ might be equally fatal.

“Mr. Wellard is sulky,” said the captain. “Perhaps Mr. Wellard’s mind is dwelling on what lies behind him. Behind him. ‘By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept.’ But proud Mr. Wellard hardly wept. And he did not sit down at all. No, he would be careful not to sit down. The dishonourable part of him has paid the price of his dishonour. The grown man guilty of an honourable offence is flogged upon his back, but a boy, a nasty dirtyminded boy, is treated differently. Is not that so, Mr. Wellard?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Wellard. There was nothing else he could say, and an answer was necessary.

“Mr. Booth’s cane was appropriate to the occasion. It did its work well. The malefactor bent over the gun could consider of his misdeeds.”

Wellard inverted the glass again while the captain, apparently satisfied, took a couple of turns up and down the deck, to Bush’s relief. But the captain checked himself in midstride beside Wellard and went on talking; his tone now was highpitched.

“So you chose to conspire against me?” he demanded. “You sought to hold me up to derision before the hands?”

“No, sir,” said Wellard in sudden new alarm. “No, sir, indeed not, sir.”

“You and that cub Hornblower. Mister Hornblower. You plotted and you planned, so that my lawful authority should be set at nought.”

“No, sir!”

“It is only the hands who are faithful to me in this ship where everyone else conspires against me. And cunningly you seek to undermine my influence over them. To make me a figure of fun in their sight. Confess it!”

“No, sir. I didn’t, sir.”

“Why attempt to deny it? It is plain, it is logical. Who was it who planned to catch that reef point in the reef tackle block?”

“No one, sir. It—”

“Then who was it that countermanded my orders? Who was it who put me to shame before both watches, with all hands on deck? It was a deeplaid plot. It shows every sign of it.”

The captain’s hands were behind his back, and he stood easily balancing on the deck with the wind flapping his coattails and blowing his hair forward over his cheeks, but Bush could see he was shaking with rage again—if it was not fear. Wellard turned the minute glass again and made a fresh mark on the slate.

“So you hide your face because of the guilt that is written on it?” blared the captain suddenly. “You pretend to be busy so as to deceive me. Hypocrisy!”

“I gave Mr. Wellard orders to test the glasses against each other, sir,” said Bush.

He was intervening reluctantly, but to intervene was less painful than to stand by as a witness. The captain looked at him as if this was his first appearance on deck.

“You, Mr. Bush? You’re sadly deceived if you believe there is any good in this young fellow. Unless”—the captain’s expression was one of sudden suspicious fear—“unless you are part and parcel of this infamous affair. But you are not, are you, Mr. Bush? Not you. I have always thought better of you, Mr. Bush.”

The expression of fear changed to one of ingratiating good fellowship.

“Yes, sir,” said Bush.

“With the world against me I have always counted on you, Mr. Bush,” said the captain, darting restless glances from under his eyebrows. “So you will rejoice when this embodiment of evil meets his deserts. We’ll get the truth out of him.”

Bush had the feeling that if he were a man of instant quickness of thought and readiness of tongue he would take advantage of this new attitude of the captain’s to free Wellard from his peril; by posing as the captain’s devoted companion in trouble and at the same time laughing off the thought of danger from any conspiracy, he might modify the captain’s fears. So he felt, but he had no confidence in himself.

“He knows nothing, sir,” he said, and he forced himself to grin. “He doesn’t know the bobstay from the spankerboom.”

“You think so?” said the captain doubtfully, teetering on his heels with the roll of the ship. He seemed almost convinced, and then suddenly a new line of argument presented itself to him.

“No, Mr. Bush. You’re too honest. I could see that the first moment I set eyes on you. You are ignorant of the depths of wickedness into which this world can sink. This lout has deceived you. Deceived you!”

The captain’s voice rose again to a hoarse scream, and Wellard turned a white face towards Bush, lopsided with terror.

“Really, sir—” began Bush, still forcing a death’shead grin.

“No, no, no!” roared the captain. “Justice must be done! The truth must be brought to light! I’ll have it out of him! Quartermaster! Quartermaster! Run for’ard and tell Mr. Booth to lay aft here. And his mates!”

The captain turned away and began to pace the deck as if to offer a safety valve to the pressure within him, but he turned back instantly.

“I’ll have it out of him! Or he’ll jump overboard! You hear me? Where’s that bosun?”

“Mr. Wellard hasn’t finished testing the glasses, sir,” said Bush in one last feeble attempt to postpone the issue.

“Nor will he,” said the captain.

Here came the bosun hurrying aft on his short legs, his two mates striding behind him.

“Mr. Booth!” said the captain; his mood had changed again and the mirthless smile was back on his lips. “Take that miscreant. Justice demands that he be dealt with further. Another dozen from your cane, properly applied. Another dozen, and he’ll coo like a dove.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said the bosun, but he hesitated.

It was a momentary tableau: the captain with his flapping coat; the bosun looking appealingly at Bush and the burly bosun’s mates standing like huge statues behind him; the helmsman apparently imperturbable while all this went on round him, handling the wheel and glancing up at the topsails; and the wretched boy beside the binnacle—all this under the grey sky, with the grey sea tossing about them and stretching as far as the pitiless horizon.

“Take him down to the maindeck, Mr. Booth,” said the captain.

It was the utterly inevitable; behind the captain’s words lay the authority of Parliament, the weight of agesold tradition. There was nothing that could be done. Wellard’s hands rested on the binnacle as though they would cling to it and as though he would have to he dragged away by force. But he dropped his hands to his sides and followed the bosun while the captain watched him, smiling.

It was a welcome distraction that came to Bush as the quartermaster reported, “Ten minutes before eight bells, sir.”

“Very good. Pipe the watch below.”

Hornblower made his appearance on the quarterdeck and made his way towards Bush.

“You’re not my relief,” said Bush.

“Yes I am. Captain’s orders.”

Hornblower spoke without any expression—Bush was used to the ship’s officers by now being as guarded as that, and he knew why it was. But his curiosity made him ask the question.

“Why?”

“I’m on watch and watch,” said Hornblower stolidly. “Until further orders.”

He looked at the horizon as he spoke, showing no sign of emotion.

“Hard luck,” said Bush, and for a moment felt a twinge of doubt as to whether he had not ventured to far in offering such an expression of sympathy. But no one was within earshot.

“No wardroom liquor for me,” went on Hornblower, “until further orders either. Neither my own nor anyone else’s.”

For some officers that would be a worse punishment than being put on watch and watch—four hours on duty and four hours off day and night—but Bush did not know enough about Hornblower’s habits to judge whether this was the case with him. He was about to say ‘hard luck’ again, when at that moment a wild cry of pain reached their ears, cutting its way through the whistling wind. A moment later it was repeated, with even greater intensity. Hornblower was looking out at the horizon and his expression did not change. Bush watched his face and decided not to pay attention to the cries.

“Hard luck,” he said.

“It might be worse,” said Hornblower.

Chapter III

It was Sunday morning. The Renown had caught the northeast trades and was plunging across the Atlantic at her best speed, with studding sails set on both sides, the roaring trades driving her along with a steady pitch and heave, her bluff bows now and then raising a smother of spray that supported momentary rainbows. The rigging was piping loud and clear, the treble and the tenor to the baritone and bass of the noises of the ship’s fabric as she pitched—a symphony of the sea. A few clouds of startling white dotted the blue of the sky, and the sun shone down from among them, revivifying and rejuvenating, reflected in dancing facets from the imperial blue of the sea.

The ship was a thing of exquisite beauty in an exquisite setting, and her bluff bows and her rows of guns added something else to the picture. She was a magnificent fighting machine, the mistress of the waves over which she was sailing in solitary grandeur. Her very solitude told the story; with the fleets of her enemies cooped up in port, blockaded by vigilant squadrons eager to come to grips with them, the Renown could sail the seas in utter confidence that she had nothing to fear. No furtive blockaderunner could equal her in strength; nowhere at sea was there a hostile squadron which could face her in battle. She could flout the hostile coasts; with the enemy blockaded and helpless she could bring her ponderous might to bear in a blow struck wherever she might choose. At this moment she was heading to strike such a blow, perhaps, despatched across the ocean at the word of the Lords of the Admiralty.

And drawn up in ranks on her maindeck was the ship’s company, the men whose endless task it was to keep this fabric at the highest efficiency, to repair the constant inroads made upon her material by sea and weather and the mere passage of time. The snowwhite decks, the bright paintwork, the exact and orderly arrangement of the lines and ropes and spars severe proofs of the diligence of their work; and when the time some for the Renown to deliver the ultimate argument regarding the sovereignty of the seas, it would be they who would man the guns—the Renown might be a magnificent fighting machine, but she was so only by virtue of the frail humans who handled her. They, like the Renown herself, were only cogs in the greater machine which was the Royal Navy, and most of them, caught up in the time-honoured routine and discipline of the service, were content to be cogs, to wash decks and set up rigging, to point guns or to charge with cutlasses over hostile bulwarks, with little thought as to whether the ship’s bows were headed north or south, whether it was Frenchman or Spaniard or Dutchman who received their charge. Today only the captain knew the mission upon which the Lords of the Admiralty—presumably in consultation with the Cabinet—had despatched the Renown. There had been the vague knowledge that she was headed for the West Indies, but whereabouts in that area, and what she was intended to do there was known only to one man in the seven hundred and forty on the Renown ’s decks.

Every possible man was drawn up on this Sunday morning on the maindeck, not merely the two watches, but every ‘idler’ who had no place in the watches—the holders, who did their work so far below decks that for some of them it was literally true that they did not see the sun from one week’s end to another, the cooper and his mates, the armourer and his mates, sailmaker and cook and stewards, all in their best clothes with the officers with their cocked hats and swords beside their divisions. Only the officer of the watch and his assistant warrant officer, the quartermasters at the wheel and the dozen hands necessary for lookouts and to handle the ship in a very sudden emergency were not included in the ranks that were drawn up in the waist at rigid attention, the lines swaying easily and simultaneously with the motion of the ship.

It was Sunday morning, and every hat was off, every head was bare as the ship’s company listened to the words of the captain. But it was no church service; these bareheaded men were not worshipping their Maker. That could happen on three Sundays in every month, but on those Sundays there would not be quite such a strict inquisition throughout the ship to compel the attendance of every hand—and a tolerant Admiralty had lately decreed that Catholics and Jews and even Dissenters might be excused from attending church services. This was the fourth Sunday, when the worship of God was set aside in favour of a ceremonial more strict, more solemn, calling for the same clean shirts and bared heads, but not for the downcast eyes of the men in the ranks. Instead every man was looking to his front as he held his hat before him with the wind ruffling his hair; he was listening to laws as allembracing as the Ten Commandments, to a code as rigid as Leviticus, because on the fourth Sunday of every month it was the captain’s duty to read the Articles of War aloud to the ship’s company, so that not even the illiterates could plead ignorance of them; a religious captain might squeeze in a brief church service as well, but the Articles of War had to be read.

The captain turned a page.

“Nineteenth Article,” he read. “If any person in or belonging to the fleet shall make or endeavour to make any mutinous assembly upon any offence whatsoever, every person offending therein, and being convicted by the sentence of the courtmartial, shall suffer death.”

Bush, standing by his division, heard these words as he had heard them scores of times before. He had, in fact, heard them so often that he usually listened to them with inattention; the words of the previous eighteen Articles had flowed past him practically without his hearing them. But he heard this Nineteenth Article distinctly; it was possible that the captain read it with special emphasis, and in addition Bush raising his eyes in the blessed sunshine, caught sight of Hornblower, the officer of the watch, standing at the quarterdeck rail listening as well. And there was that word ‘death’. It struck Bush’s ear with special emphasis, as emphatic and as final as the sound of a stone dropped into a well, which was strange, for the other articles which the captain had read had used the word freely—death for holding back from danger, death for sleeping while on duty.

The captain went on reading.

“And if any person shall utter any words of sedition or mutiny he shall suffer death…”

“And if any officer, mariner, or soldier shall behave himself with contempt to his superior officer…”

Those words had a fuller meaning for Bush now, with Hornblower looking down at him; he felt a strange stirring within him. He looked at the captain, unkempt and seedy in his appearance, and went back in his memory through the events of the past few days; if ever a man had shown himself unfit for duty it was the captain, but he was maintained in his position of unlimited power by these Articles of War which he was reading. Bush glanced up at Hornblower again; he felt that he knew for certain what Hornblower was thinking about as he stood there by the quarterdeck rail, and it was strange to feel this sympathy with the ungainly angular young lieutenant with whom he had had such little contact.

“And if any officer, mariner, or soldier or other person in the fleet”—the captain had reached the TwentySecond Article now—“shall presume to quarrel with any of his superior officers, or shall disobey any lawful command, every such person shall suffer death.”

Bush had not realised before how the Articles of War harped on this subject. He had served contentedly under discipline, and had always philosophically assured himself that injustice or mismanagement could be lived through. He could see now very special reasons why they should be. And as if to clinch the argument, the captain was now reading the final Article of War, the one which filled in every gap.

“All other crimes committed by any person or persons in the fleet which are not mentioned in this Act…”

Bush remembered that article; by its aid an officer could accomplish the ruin of an inferior who was clever enough to escape being pinned down by any of the others.

The captain read the final solemn words and looked up from the page. The big nose turned like a gun being trained round as he looked at each officer in turn; his face with its unshaven cheeks bore an expression of coarse triumph. It was as if he had gained by this reading of the Articles reassurance regarding his fears. He inflated his chest; he seemed to rise on tiptoe to make his concluding speech.

“I’ll have you all know that these Articles apply to my officers as much as to anyone else.”

Those were words which Bush could hardly believe he had heard. It was incredible that a captain could say such a thing in his crew’s hearing. If ever a speech was subversive of discipline it was this one. But the captain merely went on with routine.

“Carry on, Mr. Buckland.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Buckland took a pace forward in the grip of routine himself.

“On hats!”

Officers and men covered their heads now that the ceremonial was completed.

“Division Officers, dismiss your divisions!”

The musicians of the marine band had been waiting for this moment. The drum sergeant waved his baton and the drumsticks crashed down on the side drums in a long roll. Piercing and sweet the fifes joined in—‘The Irish Washerwoman,’ jerky and inspiriting. Smack—smack—smack; the marine soldiers brought their ordered muskets up to their shoulders. Whiting, the captain of marines, shouted the orders which sent the scarlet lines marching and counter-marching in the sunshine over the limited area of the quarterdeck.

The captain had been standing by watching this orderly progress of this ship’s routine. Now he raised his voice.

“Mr. Buckland!”

“Sir!”

The captain mounted a couple of steps of the quarterdeck ladder so that he might be clearly seen, and raised his voice so that as many as possible could hear his words.

“Ropeyarn Sunday today.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And double rum for these good men.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Buckland did his best to keep the discontent out of his voice. Coming on top of the captain’s previous speech this was almost too much. A ropeyarn Sunday meant that the men would spend the rest of the day in idleness. Double rum in that case most certainly meant fights and quarrels among the men. Bush, coming aft along the maindeck, was well aware of the disorder that was spreading among the crew, pampered by their captain. It was impossible to maintain discipline when every adverse report made by the officers was ignored by the captain. Bad characters and idlers were going unpunished; the willing hands were beginning to sulk, while the unruly ones were growing openly restless. “These good men,” the captain had said. The men knew well enough how bad their record had been during the last week. If the captain called them ‘good men’ after that, worse still could be expected next week. And besides all this the men most certainly knew about the captain’s treatment of his lieutenants, of the brutal reprimands dealt out to them, the savage punishments. ‘Today’s wardroom joint is tomorrow’s lowerdeck stew,’ said the proverb, meaning that whatever went on aft was soon being discussed in a garbled form forward; the men could not be expected to be obedient to officers whom they knew to be treated with contempt by the captain. Bush was worried as he mounted the quarterdeck.

The captain had gone in under the halfdeck to his cabin; Buckland and Roberts were standing by the hammock nettings deep in conversation, and Bush joined them.

“These articles apply to my officers,” said Buckland as he approached.

“Ropeyarn Sunday and double rum,” added Roberts. “All for these good men.”

Buckland shot a furtive glance round the deck before he spoke next. It was pitiful to see the first lieutenant of a ship of the line taking precautions lest what he should say should be overheard. But Hornblower and Wellard were on the other side of the wheel. On the poop the master was assembling the midshipmen’s navigation class with their sextants to take their noon sights.

“He’s mad,” said Buckland in as low a voice as the northeast trade wind would allow.

“We all know that,” said Roberts.

Bush said nodding. He was too cautious to commit himself at present.

“Clive won’t lift a finger,” said Buckland. “He’s a ninny if there ever was one.”

Clive was the surgeon.

“Have you asked him?” asked Roberts.

“I tried to. But he wouldn’t say a word. He’s afraid.”

“Don’t move from where you are standing, gentlemen,” broke in a loud harsh voice; the wellremembered voice of the captain, speaking apparently from the level of the deck on which they stood. All three officers started in surprise.

“Every sign of guilt,” blared the voice. “Bear witness to it, Mr. Hobbs.”

They looked round them. The skylight of the captain’s fore cabin was open a couple of inches, and through the gap the captain was looking at them; they could see his eyes and his nose. He was a tall man and by standing on anything low, a book or a footstool, he could look from under the skylight over the coaming. Rigid, the officers waited while another pair of eyes appeared under the skylight beside the captain’s. They belonged to Hobbs, the actinggunner.

“Wait there until I come to you, gentlemen,” said the captain, with a sneer as he said the word ‘gentlemen’. “Very good, Mr. Hobbs.”

The two faces vanished from under the skylight, and the officers had hardly time to exchange despairing glances before the captain came striding up the ladder to them.

“A mutinous assembly, I believe,” he said.

“No, sir,” replied Buckland. Any word that was not a denial would be an admission of guilt, on a charge that could put a rope round his neck.

“Do you give me the lie on my own quarterdeck?” roared the captain. “I was right in suspecting my officers. Plotting. Whispering. Scheming. Planning. And now treating me with gross disrespect. I’ll see that you regret this from this minute, Mr. Buckland.”

“I intended no disrespect, sir,” protested Buckland.

“You give me the lie again to my face! And you others stand by and abet him! You keep him in countenance! I thought better of you, Mr. Bush, until now.”

Bush thought it wise to say nothing.

“Dumb insolence, eh?” said the captain. “Eager enough to talk when you think my eye isn’t on you, all the same.”

The captain glowered round the quarterdeck.

“And you, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “You did not see fit to report this assembly to me. Officer of the watch, indeed! And of course Wellard is in it too. That is only to be expected. But I fancy you will be in trouble with these gentlemen now, Mr. Wellard. You did not keep a sharp enough lookout for them. In fact you are in serious trouble now, Mr. Wellard, without a friend in the ship except for the gunner’s daughter, whom you will be kissing again soon.”

The captain stood towering on the quarterdeck with his gaze fixed on the unfortunate Wellard, who shrank visibly away from him. To kiss the gunner’s daughter was to be bent over a gun and beaten.

“But later will still be sufficient time to deal with you, Mr. Wellard. The lieutenants first, as their lofty rank dictates.”

The captain looked round at the lieutenants, fear and triumph strangely alternating in his expression.

“Mr. Hornblower is already on watch and watch,” he said. “You others have enjoyed idleness in consequence, and Satan found mischief for your idle hands. Mr. Buckland does not keep a watch. The high and mighty and aspiring first lieutenant.”

“Sir—” began Buckland, and then bit off the words which were about to follow. That word ‘aspiring’ undoubtedly implied that he was scheming to gain command of the ship, but a courtmartial would not read that meaning into it. Every officer was expected to be an aspiring officer and it would be no insult to say so.

“Sir!” jeered the captain. “Sir! So you have grace enough still to guard your tongue. Cunning, maybe. But you will not evade the consequences of your actions. Mr. Hornblower can stay on watch and watch. But these two gentlemen can report to you when every watch is called, and at two bells, at four bells, and at six bells in every watch. They are to be properly dressed when they report to you, and you are to be properly awake. Is that understood?”

Not one of the dumbfounded trio could speak for a moment.

“Answer me!”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Buckland.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush and Roberts as the captain turned his eyes on them.

“Let there be no slackness in the execution of my orders,” said the captain. “I shall have means of knowing if I am obeyed or not.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Buckland.

The captain’s sentence had condemned him, Bush and Roberts to be roused and awakened every hour, day and night.

Chapter IV

It was pitch dark down here, absolutely dark, not the tiniest glimmer of light at all. Out over the sea was the moonless night, and here it was three decks down, below the level of the sea’s surface—through the oaken skin of the ship could be heard the rush of the water alongside, and the impact of the waves over which the ship rode; the fabric of the ship grumbled to itself with the alternating stresses of the pitch and the roll. Bush hung on to the steep ladder in the darkness and felt for foothold; finding it, he stepped off among the water barrels, and, crouching low, he began to make his way aft through the solid blackness. A rat squeaked and scurried past him, but rats were only to be expected down here in the hold, and Bush went on feeling his way aft unshaken. Out of the blackness before him, through the multitudinous murmurings of the ship, came a slight hiss, and Bush halted and hissed in reply. He was not selfconscious about these conspiratorial goings on. All precautions were necessary, for this was something very dangerous that he was doing.

“Bush!” whispered Buckland’s voice.

“Yes.”

“The others are here.”

Ten minutes before, at two bells, in the middle watch Bush and Roberts had reported to Buckland in his cabin in obedience to the captain’s order. A wink, a gesture, a whisper, and the appointment to meet here was made; it was an utterly fantastic state of affairs that the lieutenants of a King’s ship should have to act in such a fashion for fear of spies and eavesdroppers, but it had been necessary. Then they had dispersed and by devious routes and different hatchways had made their way here. Hornblower, relieved by Smith on watch, had preceded them.

“We mustn’t be here long,” whispered Roberts.

Even by his whisper, even in the dark, one could guess at his nervousness. There could be no doubt about this being a mutinous assembly. They could all hang for what they were doing.

“Suppose we declare him unfit for command?” whispered Buckland. “Suppose we put him in irons?”

“We’d have to do it quick and sharp if we do it at all,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll call on the hands and they might follow him. And then—”

There was no need for Hornblower to go on with that speech. Everyone who heard it formed a mental picture of corpses swaying at the yardarms.

“Supposing we do it quick and sharp?” agreed Buckland. “Supposing we get him into irons?”

“Then we go on to Antigua,” said Roberts.

“And a courtmartial,” said Bush, thinking as far ahead as that for the first time in this present crisis.

“Yes,” whispered Buckland.

Into that flat monosyllable were packed various moods—inquiry and despair, desperation and doubt.

“That’s the point,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll give evidence. It’ll sound different in court. We’ve been punished—watch and watch, no liquor. That could happen to anybody. It’s not grounds for mutiny.”

“But he’s spoiling the hands.”

“Double rum. Make and mend. It’ll sound quite natural in court. It’s not for us to criticise the captain’s methods—so the court will think.”

“But they’ll see him.”

“He’s cunning. And he’s no raving lunatic. He can talk—he can find reasons for everything. You’ve heard him. He’ll be plausible.”

“But he’s held us up to contempt before the hands. He’s set Hobbs to spy on us.”

“That’ll be a proof of how desperate his situation was, surrounded by us criminals. If we arrest him we’re guilty until we’ve proved ourselves innocent. Any court’s bound to be on the captain’s side. Mutiny means hanging.”

Hornblower was putting into words all the doubts that Bush felt in his bones and yet had been unable to express.

“That’s right,” whispered Bush.

“What about Wellard?” whispered Roberts. “Did you hear him scream the last time?”

“He’s only a volunteer. Not even a midshipman. No friends. No family. What’s the court going to say when they hear the captain had a boy beaten half a dozen times? They’ll laugh. So would we if we didn’t know. Do him good, we’d say, the same as it did the rest of us good.”

A silence followed this statement of the obvious, broken in the end by Buckland whispering a succession of filthy oaths that could give small vent to his despair.

“He’ll bring charges against us,” whispered Roberts. “The minute we’re in company with other ships. I know he will.”

“Twentytwo years I’ve held my commission,” said Buckland. “Now he’ll break me. He’ll break you as well.”

There would be no chance at all for officers charged before a courtmartial by their captain with behaving with contempt towards him in a manner subversive of discipline. Every single one of them knew that. It gave an edge to their despair. Charges pressed by the captain with the insane venom and cunning he had displayed up to now might not even end in dismissal from the service—they might lead to prison and the rope.

“Ten more days before we make Antigua,” said Roberts. “If this wind holds fair—and it will.”

“But we don’t know we’re destined for Antigua,” said Hornblower. “That’s only our guess. It might be weeks—it might be months.”

“God help us!” said Buckland.

A slight clatter farther aft along the hold—a noise different from the noises of the working of the ship—made them all start. Bush clenched his hairy fists. But they were reassured by a voice calling softly to them.

“Mr. Buckland—Mr. Hornblower—sir!”

“Wellard, by God!” said Roberts.

They could hear Wellard scrambling towards them.

“The captain, sir!” said Wellard. “He’s coming!”

“Holy God!”

“Which way?” snapped Hornblower.

“By the steerage hatchway. I got to the cockpit and came down from here. He was sending Hobbs—”

“Get for’ard, you three,” said Hornblower, cutting into the explanation. “Get for’ard and scatter when you’re on deck. Quick!”

Nobody stopped to think that Hornblower was giving orders to officers immensely his senior. Every instant of time was of vital importance, and not to be wasted in indecision or in silly blasphemy. That was apparent as soon as he spoke. Bush turned with the others and plunged forward in the darkness, barking his shins painfully as he fell over unseen obstructions. Bush heard Hornblower say, “Come along, Wellard,” as he parted from them in his mad flight with the others beside him.

The cable tier—the ladder—and then the extraordinary safety of the lower gundeck. After the utter blackness of the hold there was enough light here for him to see fairly distinctly. Buckland and Roberts continued to ascend to the maindeck; Bush turned to make his way aft. The watch below had been in their hammocks long enough to be sound asleep; here to the noises of the ship was added the blended snoring of the sleepers as the closehung rows of hammocks swayed with the motion of the ship in such a coincidence of timing as to appear like solid masses. Far down between the rows a light was approaching. It was a horn lantern with a lighted purser’s dip inside it, and Hobbs, the actinggunner, was carrying it, and two seamen were following him as he hurried along. There was an exchange of glances as Bush met the party. A momentary hesitation on Hobbs’ part betrayed the fact that he would have greatly liked to ask Bush what he was doing on the lower gundeck, but that was something no actingwarrant officer, even with the captain’s favour behind him, could ask of a lieutenant. And there was annoyance in Hobbs’ expression, too; obviously he was hurrying to secure all the exits from the hold, and was exasperated that Bush had escaped him. The seamen wore expressions of simple bewilderment at these goings on in the middle watch. Hobbs stood aside to let his superior pass, and Bush strode past him with no more than that one glance. It was extraordinary how much more confident he felt now that he was safely out of the hold and disassociated from any mutinous assembly. He decided to head for his cabin; it would not be long before four bells, when by the captain’s orders he had to report again to Buckland. The messenger sent by the officer of the watch to rouse him would find him lying on his cot. But as Bush went on and had progressed as far as the mainmast he arrived in the midst of a scene of bustle which he would most certainly have taken notice of if he had been innocent and which consequently he must (so he told himself) ask about now that he had seen it—he could not possibly walk by without a question or two. This was where the marines were berthed, and they were all of them out of their hammocks hastily equipping themselves—those who had their shirts and trousers on were putting on their crossbelts ready for action.