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.
“What’s all this?” demanded Bush, trying to make his voice sound as it would have sounded if he had no knowledge of anything irregular happening in the ship except this.
“Dunno, sir,” said the private he addressed. “We was just told to turn out—muskets an’ side arms and ball cartridge, sir.”
A sergeant of marines looked out through the screen which divided the noncommissioned officers’ bay from the rest of the deck.
“Captain’s orders, sir,” he said; and then with a roar at the men, “Come on! Slap it about, there!”
“Where’s the captain, then?” asked Bush with all the innocence he could muster.
“Aft some’eres, sir. ‘E sent for the corpril’s guard same time as we was told to turn out.”
Four marine privates and a corporal supplied the sentry who stood day and night outside the captain’s cabin. A single order was all that was needed to turn out the guard and provide the captain with at least a nucleus of armed and disciplined men ready for action.
“Very well, sergeant,” said Bush, and he tried to look puzzled and to hurry naturally aft to find out what was going on. But he knew what fear was. He felt he would do anything rather than continue this walk to encounter whatever was awaiting him at the end of it. Whiting, the captain of marines, made his appearance, sleepy and unshaven, belting on his sword over his shirt.
“What in hell?” he began as he saw Bush.
“Don’t ask me!” said Bush, striving after that natural appearance. So tense and desperate was he at that moment that his normally quiescent imagination was hard at work. He could imagine the prosecutor in the deceptive calm of a courtmartial saying to Whiting, “Did Mr. Bush appear to be his usual self?” and it was frightfully necessary that Whiting should be able to answer, “Yes.” Bush could even imagine the hairy touch of a rope round his neck. But next moment there was no more need for him to simulate surprise or ignorance. His reactions were genuine.
“Pass the word for the doctor,” came the cry. “Pass the word, there.”
And here came Wellard, whitefaced, hurrying.
“Pass the word for the doctor. Call Dr Clive.”
“Who’s hurt, Wellard?” asked Bush.
“The ccaptain, sir.”
Wellard looked distraught and shaken, but now Hornblower made his appearance behind him. Hornblower was pale, too, and breathing hard, but he seemed to have command of himself. The glance which he threw round him in the dim light of the lanterns passed over Bush without apparent recognition.
“Get Dr Clive!” he snapped at one midshipman peering out from the midshipmen’s berth; and then to another, “You there. Run for the first lieutenant. Ask him to come below here. Run!”
Hornblower’s glance took in Whiting and travelled forward to where the marines were snatching their muskets from the racks.
“Why are your men turning out, Captain Whiting?”
“Captain’s orders.”
“Then you can form them up. But I do not believe there is any emergency.”
Only then did Hornblower’s glance comprehend Bush.
“Oh, Mr. Bush. Will you take charge, sir, now that you’re here? I’ve sent for the first lieutenant. The captain’s hurt—badly hurt, I’m afraid, sir.”
“But what’s happened?” asked Bush.
“The captain’s fallen down the hatchway, sir,” said Hornblower.
In the dim light Hornblower’s eyes stared straight into Bush’s, but Bush could read no message in them. This after part of the lower gundeck was crowded now, and Hornblower’s definite statement, the first that had been made, raised a buzz of excitement. It was the sort of undisciplined noise that most easily roused Bush’s wrath, and, perhaps fortunately, it brought a natural reaction from him.
“Silence, there!” he roared. “Get about your business.”
When Bush glowered round at the excited crowd it fell silent.
“With your permission I’ll go below again, sir,” said Hornblower. “I must see after the captain.”
“Very well, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush; the stereotyped phrase had been uttered so often before that it escaped sounding stilted.
“Come with me, Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, and turned away.
Several new arrivals made their appearance as he did so—Buckland, his face white and strained, Roberts at his shoulder, Clive in his shirt and trousers walking sleepily from ho cabin. All of them started a little at the sight of the marines forming line on the cumbered deck, their musket barrels glinting in the feeble light of the lanterns.
“Would you come at once, sir?” asked Hornblower, turning back at sight of Buckland.
“I’ll come,” said Buckland.
“What in the name of God is going on?” asked Clive.
“The captain’s hurt,” said Hornblower curtly. “Come at once. You’ll need a light.”
“The captain?” Clive blinked himself wider awake. “Where is he? Give me that lantern, you. Where are my mates? You there, run and rouse my mates. They sling their hammocks in the sick bay.”
So it was a procession of half a dozen that carried their lanterns down the ladder—the four lieutenants, Clive and Wellard. While waiting at the head of the ladder Bush stole a side glance at Buckland; his face was working with anxiety. He would infinitely rather have been walking a shottorn deck with grape flying round him. He rolled an inquiring eye at Bush, but with Clive within earshot Bush dared say no word—he knew no more than Buckland did, for that matter. There was no knowing what was awaiting them at the foot of the ladder—arrest, ruin, disgrace, perhaps death.
The faint light of a lantern revealed the scarlet tunic and white crossbelts of a marine, standing by the hatchway. He wore the chevrons of a corporal.
“Anything to report?” demanded Hornblower.
“No, sir. Nothink, sir.”
“Captains down there unconscious. There are two marines guarding him,” said Hornblower to Clive, pointing down the hatchway, and Clive swung his bulk painfully on to the ladder and descended.
“Now, corporal,” said Hornblower, “tell the first lieutenant all you know about this.”
The corporal stood stiffly to attention. With no fewer than four lieutenants eyeing him he was nervous, and he probably had a gloomy feeling based on his experience of the service that when there was trouble among the higher ranks it was likely to go ill with a mere corporal who was unfortunate enough to be involved, however innocently. He stood rigid, trying not to meet anybody’s eye.
“Speak up, man,” said Buckland, testily. He was nervous as well, but that was understandable in a first lieutenant whose captain had just met with a serious accident.
“I was corporal of the guard, sir. At two bells I relieved the sentry at the captain’s door.”
“Yes?”
“An—an—then I went to sleep again.”
“Damn it,” said Roberts. “Make your report.”
“I was woke up, sir,” went on the corporal, “by one of the gentlemen. Gunner, I think ‘e is.”
“Mr. Hobbs?”
“That may be ‘is name, sir. ‘E said, ‘Cap’n’s orders, and guard turn out.’ So I turns out the guard, sir, an’ there’s the cap’n with Wade, the sentry I’d posted. ‘E ‘ad pistols in ‘is ‘ands, sir.”
“Who—Wade?”
“No, sir, the cap’n, sir.”
“What was his manner like?” demanded Hornblower.
“Well, sir—” The corporal did not want to offer any criticism of a captain, not even to a lieutenant.
“Belay that, then. Carry on.”
“Cap’n says, sir, ‘e says ‘e says, sir, ‘Follow me’; an’ then ‘e says to the gennelman, ‘e says, ‘Do your duty, Mr. Hobbs.’ So Mr. Hobbs, ‘e goes one way, sir, and we comes with the captain down ‘ere, sir. ‘There’s mutiny brewing,’ says the cap’n, ‘black bloody mutiny. We’ve got to catch the mutineers. Catch ‘em red’anded,’ says the cap’n.”
The surgeon’s head appeared in the hatchway.
“Give me another of those lanterns,” he said.
“How’s the captain?” demanded Buckland.
“Concussion and some fractures, I would say.”
“Badly hurt?”
“No knowing yet. Where are my mates? Ah, there you are, Coleman. Splints and bandages, man, as quick as you can get ‘em. And a carryingplank and a canvas and lines. Run, man! You, Pierce, come on down and help me.”
So the two surgeon’s mates had hardly made their appearance than they were hurried away.
“Carry on, corporal,” said Buckland.
“I dunno what I said, sir.”
“The captain brought you down here.”
“Yessir. ‘E ‘ad ‘is pistols in ‘is ‘ands, sir, like I said, sir. ‘E sent one file for’ard. ‘Stop every bolt’ole,’ ‘e says; an’ ‘e says, ‘You, corporal, take these two men down an’ search.’ ‘E—’e was yellin’, like. ‘E ‘ad ‘is pistols in ‘is ‘ands.”
The corporal looked anxiously at Buckland as he spoke.
“That’s all right, corporal,” said Buckland. “Just tell the truth.”
The knowledge that the captain was unconscious and perhaps badly hurt had reassured him, just as it had reassured Bush.
“So I took the other file down the ladder, sir,” said the corporal. “I went first with the lantern, seein’ as ‘ow I didn’t ‘ave no musket with me. We got down to the foot of the ladder in among those cases down there, sir. The cap’n, ‘e was yellin’ down the hatchway. ‘’Urry,’ he says. ‘’Urry. Don’t let ‘em escape. ‘Urry.’ So we started climbin’ for’ard over the stores, sir.”
The corporal hesitated as he approached the climax of his story. He might possibly have been seeking a crude dramatic effect, but more likely he was still afraid of being entangled in circumstances that might damage him despite his innocence.
“What happened then?” demanded Buckland.
“Well, sir—”
Coleman reappeared at this moment, encumbered with various gear, including a light sixfoot plank he had been carrying on his shoulder. He looked to Buckland for permission to carry on, received a nod, laid the plank on the deck along with the canvas and lines, and disappeared with the rest down the ladder.
“Well?” said Buckland to the corporal.
“I dunno what ‘appened, sir.”
“Tell us what you know.”
“I ‘eard a yell, sir. An’ a crash. I ‘adn’t ‘ardly gone ten yards, sir. So I came back with the lantern.”
“What did you find?”
“It was the cap’n, sir. Layin’ there at the foot of the ladder. Like ‘e was dead, sir. ‘E’d fallen down the ‘archway, sir.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to turn ‘im over, sir. ‘Is face was all bloodylike. ‘E was stunned, sir. I thought ‘e might be dead but I could feel ‘is ‘eart.”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t know what I ought to do, sir. I didn’t know nothink about this ‘ere meeting, sir.”
“But what did you do, in the end?”
“I left my two men with the cap’n, sir, an’ I come up to give the alarm. I didn’t know who to trust, sir.”
There was irony in this situation—the corporal frightened lest he should be taken to task about a petty question as to whether he should have sent a messenger or come himself, while the four lieutenants eyeing him were in danger of hanging.
“Well?”
“I saw Mr. Hornblower, sir.” The relief in the corporal’s voice echoed the relief he must have felt at finding someone to take over his enormous responsibility. “’E was with young Mr. Wellard, I think ‘is name is. Mr. Hornblower, ‘e told me to stand guard ‘ere, sir, after I told ‘im about the cap’n.”
“It sounds as if you did right, corporal,” said Buckland, judicially.
“Thank ‘ee, sir. Thank ‘ee, sir.”
Coleman came climbing up the ladder, and with another glance at Buckland for permission passed the gear he had left down to someone else under the hatchway. Then he descended again. Bush was looking at the corporal, who, now his tale was told, was selfconsciously awkward again under the concentrated gaze of four lieutenants.
“Now, corporal,” said Hornblower, speaking unexpectedly and with deliberation. “You have no idea how the captain came to fall down the hatchway?”
“No, sir. Indeed I haven’t, sir.”
Hornblower shot one single glance at his colleagues, one and no more. The corporal’s words and Hornblower’s glance were vastly reassuring.
“He was excited, you say? Come on, man, speak up.”
“Well, yessir.” The corporal remembered his earlier unguarded statement, and then in a sudden flood of loquacity he went on: “’E was yellin’ after us down the hatchway, sir. I expect ‘e was leanin’ over. ‘E must ‘ave been leanin’ when the ship pitched, sir. ‘E could catch ‘is foot on the coamin’ and fall ‘ead first, sir.”
“That’s what must have happened,” said Hornblower.
Clive came climbing up the ladder and stepped stiffly over the coaming.
“I’m going to sway him up now,” he said. He looked at the four lieutenants and then put his hand in the bosom of his shirt and took out a pistol. “This was lying at the captain’s side.”
“I’ll take charge of that,” said Buckland.
“There ought to be another one down there, judging by what we’ve just heard,” said Roberts, speaking for the first time. He spoke overloudly, too; excitement had worked on him, and his manner might appear suspicious to anyone with anything to suspect. Bush felt a twinge of annoyance and fear.
“I’ll have ‘em look for it after we’ve got the captain up,” said Clive. He leaned over the hatchway and called down, “Come on up.”
Coleman appeared first, climbing the ladder with a pair of lines in his hand, and after him a marine, clinging awkwardly to the ladder with one arm while the other supported a burden below him.
“Handsomely, handsomely, now,” said Clive.
Coleman and the marine, emerging, drew the end of the plank up after them; swathed mummylike in the canvas and bound to the plank was the body of the captain. That was the best way in which to mount ladders carrying a man with broken bones. Pierce, the other surgeon’s mate, came climbing up next, holding the foot of the plank steady. The lieutenants clustered round to give a hand as the plank was hoisted over the coaming. In the light of the lanterns Bush could see the captain’s face above the canvas. It was still and expressionless, what there was to be seen of it, for a white bandage concealed one eye and the nose. One temple was still stained with the traces of blood which the doctor had not entirely wiped away.
“Take him to his cabin,” said Buckland.
That was the definitive order. This was an important moment. The captain being incapacitated, it was the first lieutenant’s duty to take command, and those five words indicated that he had done so. In command, he could even give orders for dealing with the captain. But although this was a momentous step, it was one of routine; Buckland had assumed temporary command of the ship, during the captain’s absences, a score of times before. Routine had carried him through this present crisis; the habits of thirty years of service in the navy, as midshipman and lieutenant, had enabled him to carry himself with his usual bearing towards his juniors, to act normally even though he did not know what dreadful fate awaited him at any moment in the immediate future.
And yet Bush, turning his eyes on him now that he had assumed command, was not too sure about the permanence of the effect of habit. Buckland was clearly a little shaken. That might be attributed to the natural reaction of an officer with responsibility thrust upon him in such startling circumstances. So an unsuspicious person—someone without knowledge of the hidden facts—might conclude. But Bush, with fear in his heart, wondering and despairing about what the captain would do when he recovered consciousness, could see that Buckland shared his fear. Chains—a courtmartial—the hangman’s rope; thoughts of these were unmanning Buckland. And the lives, certainly the whole futures, of the officers in the ship might depend on Buckland’s actions.
“Pardon, sir,” said Hornblower.
“Yes?” said Buckland; and then with an effort, “Yes, Mr. Hornblower?”
“Might I take the corporal’s statement in writing now, while the facts are clear in his memory?”
“Very good. Mr. Hornblower.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower. There was nothing to be read in his expression at all, nothing except a respectful attention to duty. He turned to the corporal. “Report to me in my berth after you have reposted the sentry.”
The doctor and his party had already carried the captain away. Buckland was making no effort to move from the spot. It was as if he was paralysed.
“There’s the matter of the captain’s other pistol, sir,” said Hornblower, respectfully as ever.
“Oh yes.” Buckland looked round him.
“Here’s Wellard, sir.”
“Oh yes. He’ll do.”
“Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, “go down with a lantern and see if you can find the other pistol. Bring it to the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Wellard had recovered from most of his agitation; he had not taken his eyes from Hornblower for some time. Now he picked up the lantern and went down the ladder with it. What Hornblower had said about the quarterdeck penetrated into Buckland’s mind, and he began to move off with the others following him. On the lower gundeck Captain Whiting saluted him.
“Any orders, sir?”
No doubt the word that the captain was incapacitated and that Buckland was in command had sped through the ship like wildfire. It took Buckland’s numbed brain a second or two to function.
“No, captain,” he said at length; and then, “Dismiss your men.”
When they reached the quarterdeck the trade wind was still blowing briskly from over the starboard quarter, and the Renown was soaring along over the magic sea. Over their heads the great pyramids of sails were reaching up—up—up towards the uncounted stars; with the easy motion of the ship the mastheads were sweeping out great circles against the sky. On the port quarter a halfmoon had just lifted itself out of the sea and hung, miraculously, above the horizon, sending a long glittering trail of silver towards the ship. The dark figures of the men on deck stood out plainly against the whitened planks.
Smith was officer of the watch. He came eagerly up to them as they came up the companionway. For the last hour and more he had been pacing about in a fever, hearing the noise and bustle down below, hearing the rumours which had coursed through the ship, and yet unable to leave his post to find out what was really going on.
“What’s happened, sir?” he asked.
Smith had not been in the secret of the meeting of the other lieutenants. He had been less victimised by the captain, too. But he could not help being aware of the prevailing discontent; he must know that the captain was insane. Yet Buckland was not prepared for this question. He had not thought about it and had no particular reply. In the end it was Hornblower who answered.
“The captain fell down the hold,” he said; his tone was even and with no particular stress. “They’ve just carried him to his cabin unconscious.”
“But how in God’s name did he come to fall down the hold?” asked the bewildered Smith.
“He was looking for mutineers,” said Hornblower, in that same even tone.
“I see,” said Smith. “But—”
There he checked himself. That even tone of Hornblower’s had warned him that this was a delicate subject; if he pursued it the question of the captain’s sanity would arise, and he would be committed to an opinion on it. He did not want to ask any more questions in that case.
“Six bells, sir,” reported the quartermaster to him.
“Very good,” said Smith, automatically.
“I must take the marine corporal’s deposition, sir,” said Hornblower. “I come on watch at eight bells.”
If Buckland were in command he could put an end to the ridiculous order that Hornblower should stand watch and watch, and that Bush and Roberts should report to him hourly. There was a moment’s awkward pause. No one knew how long; the captain would remain unconscious nor in what condition he would regain consciousness. Wellard came running up to the quarterdeck.
“Here’s the other pistol, sir,” he said, handing it to Buckland, who took it, at the same time drawing its fellow from his pocket; he stood rather helplessly with them in his hands.
“Shall I relieve you of those, sir?” asked Hornblower, taking them. “And Wellard might be of help to me with the marine’s deposition. Can I take him with me, sir?”
“Yes,” said Buckland.
Hornblower turned to go below, followed by Wellard.
“Oh, Mr. Hornblower “ said Buckland.
“Sir?”
“Nothing,” said Buckland, the inflection in his voice revealing the indecision under which he laboured.
“Pardon, sir, but I should take some rest if I were you,” said Hornblower, standing at the head of the companionway. “You’ve had a tiring night.”
Bush was in agreement with Hornblower; not that he cared at all whether Buckland had had a tiring night or not, but because if Buckland were to retire to his cabin there would be no chance of his betraying himself—and his associates—by an unguarded speech. Then it dawned upon Bush that this was just what Hornblower had in mind. And at the same time he was aware of regret at Hornblower’s leaving them, and knew that Buckland felt the same regret. Hornblower was levelheaded, thinking fast whatever danger menaced him. It was his example which had given a natural appearance to the behaviour of all of them since the alarm down below. Perhaps Hornblower had a secret unshared with them; perhaps he knew more than they did about how the captain came to fall down the hold—Bush was puzzled and anxious about that—but if such was the case Hornblower had given no sign of it.
“When in God’s name is that damned doctor going to report?” said Buckland, to no one in particular.
“Why don’t you turn in, sir, until he does?” said Bush.
“I will.” Buckland hesitated before he went on speaking. “You gentlemen had best continue to report to me every hour as the captain ordered.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush and Roberts.
That meant, as Bush realised, that Buckland would take no chances; the captain must hear, when he should recover consciousness, that his orders had been carried out. Bush was anxious—desperate—as he went below to try to snatch half an hour’s rest before he would next have to report. He could not hope to sleep. Through the slight partition that divided his cabin from the next he could hear a drone of voices as Hornblower took down the marine corporal’s statement in writing.