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.