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.