The court of inquiry was not nearly as aweinspiring as a courtmartial. There was no gun fired, no courtmartial flag hoisted; the captains who constituted the board wore their everyday uniforms, and the witnesses were not required to give their evidence under oath; Bush had forgotten about this last fact until he was called into the court.
“Please take a seat, Mr. Bush,” said the president. “I understand you are still weak from your wounds.”
Bush hobbled across to the chair indicated and was just able to reach it in time to sit down. The great cabin of the Renown –here, where Captain Sawyer had lain quivering and weeping with fear—was sweltering hot. The president had the logbook and journal in front of him, and he held in his hand what Bush recognised to be his own report regarding the attack on Samaná, which he had addressed to Buckland.
“This report of yours does you credit, Mr. Bush,” said the president. “It appears that you stormed this fort with no more than six casualties, although it was constructed with a ditch, parapets, and ramparts in regular style, and defended by a garrison of seventy men, and armed with twentyfour-pounders.”
“We took them by surprise, sir,” said Bush.
“It is that which is to your credit.”
The surprise of the garrison of Samaná could not have been greater than Bush’s own surprise at this reception; he was expecting something far more unpleasant and inquisitorial. A glance across at Buckland, who had been called in before him, was not quite so reassuring; Buckland was pale and unhappy. But there was something he must say before the thought of Buckland should distract him.
“The credit should be given to Lieutenant Hornblower, sir,” he said. “It was his plan.”
“So you very handsomely say in your report. I may as well say at once that it is the opinion of this court that all the circumstances regarding the attack on Samaná and the subsequent capitulation are in accordance with the best traditions of the service.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now we come to the next matter. The attempt of the prisoners to capture the Renown. You were by this time acting as first lieutenant of the ship, Mr. Bush?”
“Yes, sir.”
Step by step Bush was taken through the events of that night. He was responsible under Buckland for the arrangements made for guarding and feeding the prisoners. There were fifty women, wives of the prisoners, under guard in the midshipmen’s berth. Yes, it was difficult to supervise them as closely as the men. Yes, he had gone his rounds after pipedown. Yes, he had heard a disturbance. And so on. “And you were found lying among the dead, unconscious from your wounds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bush.”
A freshfaced young captain at the end of the table asked a question.
“And all this time Captain Sawyer was confined to his cabin, until he was murdered?”
The president interposed.
“Captain Hibbert, Mr. Buckland has already enlightened us regarding Captain Sawyer’s indisposition.”
There was annoyance in the glance that the president of the court turned upon Captain Hibbert, and light suddenly dawned upon Bush. Sawyer had a wife, children, friends, who would not desire that any attention should be called to the fact that he had died insane. The president of the court was probably acting under explicit orders to hush that part of the business up. He would welcome questions about it no more than Bush himself would, now that Sawyer was dead in his country’s cause. Buckland could not have been very closely examined about it either. His unhappy look must be due to having to describe his inglorious part in the attempt on the Renown.
“I don’t expect any of you gentlemen wish to ask Mr. Bush any more questions?” asked the president of the court in such a way that questions could not possibly have been asked. “Call Lieutenant Hornblower.”
Hornblower made his bow to the court; he was wearing that impassive expression which Bush knew by now to conceal an internal turbulence. He was asked as few questions on Samaná as Bush had been.
“It has been suggested,” said the president, “that this attack on the fort, and the hoisting up of the gun to search the bay, were on your initiative?”
“I can’t think why that suggestion was made, sir. Mr. Buckland bore the entire responsibility.”
“I won’t press you further about that Mr. Hornblower, then. I think we all understand. Now, let us hear about your recapture of the Renown. What first attracted your attention?”
It called for steady questioning to get the story out of Hornblower. He had heard a couple of musket shots, which had worried him, and then he saw the Renown come up into the wind, which made him certain something was seriously wrong. So he had collected his prize crews together and laid the Renown on board.
“Were you not afraid of losing the prizes, Mr. Hornblower?”
“Better to lose the prizes than the ship, sir. Besides—”
“Besides what, Mr. Hornblower?”
“I had every sheet and halliard cut in the prizes before we left them, sir. It took them some time to reeve new ones, so it was easy to recapture them.”
“You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. Hornblower,” said the president, and there was a buzz of approval through the court. “And you seem to have made a very prompt counterattack on the Renown. You did not wait to ascertain the extent of the danger? Yet for all you knew the attempt to take the ship might have already failed.”
“In that case no harm was done except the disabling of the rigging of the prizes, sir. But if the ship had actually fallen into the hands of the prisoners it was essential that an attack should be directed on her before any defence could be organized.”
“We understand. Thank you, Mr. Hornblower.”
The inquiry was nearly over. Carberry was still too ill with his wounds to be able to give evidence; Whiting of the marines was dead. The court conferred only a moment before announcing its findings.
“It is the opinion of this court,” announced the president, “that strict inquiry should be made among the Spanish prisoners to determine who it was that murdered Captain Sawyer, and that the murderer, if still alive, should be brought to justice. And as the result of our examination of the surviving officers of HMS Renown it is our opinion that no further action is necessary.”
That meant there would be no courtmartial. Bush found himself grinning with relief as he sought to meet Hornblower’s eye, but when he succeeded his smile met with a cold reception. Bush tried to shut off his smile and look like a man of such clear conscience that it was no relief to be told that he would not be courtmartialled. And a glance at Buckland changed his elation to a feeling of pity. The man was desperately unhappy; his professional ambitions had come to an abrupt end. After the capitulation of Samaná he must have cherished hope, for with that considerable achievement to his credit, and his captain unfit for service, there was every possibility that he would receive the vital promotion to commander at least, possibly even to captain. The fact that he had been surprised in bed meant an end to all that. He would always be remembered for it, and the fact would remain in people’s minds when the circumstances were forgotten. He was doomed to remain an ageing lieutenant.
Bush remembered guiltily that it was only by good fortune that he himself had awakened in time. His wounds might be painful, but they had served an invaluable purpose in diverting attention from his own responsibility; he had fought until he had fallen unconscious, and perhaps that was to his credit, but Buckland would have done the same had the opportunity been granted him. But Buckland was damned, while he himself had come through the ordeal at least no worse off than he had been before. Bush felt the illogicality of it all, although he would have been hard pressed if he had to put it into words. And in any case logical thinking on the subject of reputation and promotion was not easy, because during all these years Bush had become more and more imbued with the knowledge that the service was a hard and ungrateful one, in which fortune was even more capricious than in other walks of life. Good luck came and went in the navy as unpredictably as death chose its victims when a broadside swept a crowded deck. Bush was fatalistic and resigned about that, and it was not a state of mind conducive to penetrating thought.
“Ah, Mr. Bush,” said Captain Cogshill, “it’s a pleasure to see you on your feet. I hope you will remain on board to dine with me. I hope to secure the presence of the other lieutenants.”
“With much pleasure, sir,” said Bush. Every lieutenant said that in reply to his captain’s invitation.
“In fifteen minutes’ time, then? Excellent.”
The captains who had constituted the court of inquiry were leaving the ship, in strict order of seniority, and the calls of the bosun’s mates echoed along the deck as each one left, a careless hand to a hat brim in acknowledgment of the compliments bestowed. Down from the entry port went each in turn, gold lace, epaulettes, and all, these blessed individuals who had achieved the ultimate beatitude of post rank, and the smart gigs pulled away towards the anchored ships.
“You’re dining on board, sir?” said Hornblower to Bush.
“Yes.”
On the deck of their own ship the ‘sir’ came quite naturally, as naturally as it had been dropped when Hornblower had been visiting his friend in the hospital ashore. Hornblower turned to touch his hat to Buckland.
“May I leave the deck to Hart, sir? I’m invited to dine in the cabin.”
“Very well, Mr. Hornblower.” Buckland forced a smile. “We’ll have two new lieutenants soon, and you’ll cease to be the junior.”
“I shan’t be sorry, sir.”
These men who had been through so much together were grasping eagerly at trivialities to keep the conversation going for fear lest more serious matters should lift their ugly heads.
“Time for us to go along,” said Buckland.
Captain Cogshill was a courtly host. There were flowers in the great cabin now; they must have been kept hidden away in his sleeping cabin while the inquiry was being held so as not to detract from the formality of the proceedings. And the cabin windows were wide open, and a wind scoop brought into the cabin what little air was moving.
“That is, a landcrab salad before you, Mr. Hornblower. Coconutfed land crab. Some prefer it to dairyfed pork. Perhaps you will serve it to those who would care for some?”
The steward brought in a vast smoking joint which he put on the table.
“A saddle of fresh lamb,” said the captain. “Sheep do badly in these islands and I fear this may not be fit to eat. But perhaps you will at least try it. Mr. Buckland, will you carve? You see, gentlemen, I still have some real potatoes left—one grows weary of yams. Mr. Hornblower, will you take wine?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And Mr. Bush—to your speedy recovery, sir.”
Bush drained his glass thirstily. Sankey had warned him, when he left the hospital, that over indulgence in spirituous liquors might result in inflammation of his wounds, but there was pleasure in pouring the wine down his throat and feeling the grateful warmth it brought to his stomach. The dinner proceeded.
“You gentlemen who have served on this station before must be acquainted with this,” said the captain, contemplating a steaming dish that had been laid before him. “A West Indian pepper pot—not as good as one finds in Trinidad, I fear. Mr. Hornblower, will you make your first essay? Come in!”
The last words were in response to a knock on the cabin door. A smartly dressed midshipman entered. His beautiful uniform, his elegant bearing, marked him as one of that class of naval officer in receipt of a comfortable allowance from home, or even of substantial means of his own. Some sprig of the nobility, doubtless, serving his legal time until favouritism and interest should whisk him up the ladder of promotion.
“I’m sent by the admiral, sir,” he announced.
Of course. Bush, his perceptions comfortably sensitised with wine, could see at once that with those clothes and that manner he must be on the admiral’s staff.
“And what’s your message?” asked Cogshill.
“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and he’d like Mr. Hornblower’s presence on board the flagship as soon as is convenient.”
“And dinner not half way finished!” commented Cogshill, looking at Hornblower. But an admiral’s request for something as soon as convenient meant immediately, convenient or not. Very likely it was a matter of no importance, either.
“I’d better leave, sir, if I may,” said Hornblower. He glanced at Buckland. “May I have a boat, sir?”
“Pardon me, sir,” interposed the midshipman. “The admiral said that the boat which brought me would serve to convey you to the flagship.”
“That settles it,” said Cogshill. “You’d better go, Mr. Hornblower. We’ll save some of this pepper pot for you against your return.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, rising.
As soon as he had left, the captain asked the inevitable question.
“What in the world does the admiral want with Hornblower?”
He looked round the table and received no verbal reply. There was a strained look on Buckland’s face, however, as Bush saw. It seemed as if in his misery Buckland was clairvoyant.
“Well, we’ll know in time,” said Cogshill. “The wine’s beside you, Mr. Buckland. Don’t let it stagnate.”
Dinner went on. The pepper pot rasped on Bush’s palate and inflamed his stomach, making the wine doubly grateful when he drank it. When the cheese was removed, and the cloth with it, the steward brought in fruit and nuts in silver dishes.
“Port,” said Captain Cogshill. “’79. A good year. About this brandy I know little, as one might expect in these times.”
Brandy could only come from France, smuggled, presumably, and as a result of trading with the enemy.
“But here,” went on the captain, “is some excellent Dutch geneva—I bought it at the prize sale after we took St. Eustatius. And here is another Dutch liquor—it comes from Curaçao, and if the orange flavour is not too sickly for your palates you might find it pleasant. Swedish schnapps, fiery but excellent, I fancy—that was after we captured Saba. The wise man does not mix grain and grape, so they say, but I understand schnapps is made from potatoes, and so does not come under the ban. Mr. Buckland?”
“Schnapps for me,” said Buckland a little thickly.
“Mr. Bush?”
“I’ll drink along with you, sir.”
That was the easiest way of deciding.
“Then let us make it brandy. Gentlemen, may Boney grow bonier than ever.”
They drank the toast, and the brandy went down to warm Bush’s interior to a really comfortable pitch. He was feeling happy and relaxed, and two toasts later he was feeling better than he had felt since the Renown left Plymouth.
“Come in!” said the captain.
The door opened slowly, and Hornblower stood framed in the opening. There was the old look of strain in his face; Bush could see it even though Hornblower’s figure seemed to waver a little before his eyes—the way objects appeared over the rack of redhot cannonballs at Samaná—and although Hornblower’s countenance seemed to be a little fuzzy round the edges.
“Come in, come in, man,” said the captain. “The toasts are just beginning. Sit in your old place. Brandy for heroes, as Johnson said in his wisdom. Mr. Bush!”
“Vvictorious war. Ooceans of gore. Pprizes galore. Bbbeauty ashore. Hic,” said Bush, inordinately proud of himself that he had remembered that toast and had it ready when called upon.
“Drink fair, Mr. Hornblower,” said the captain, “we have a start of you already. A stern chase is a long chase.”
Hornblower put his glass to his lips again.
“Mr. Buckland!”
“Jollity and—jollity and—jollity and—and—and—mirth,” said Buckland, managing to get the last word out at last. His face was as red as a beetroot and seemed to Bush’s heated imagination to fill the entire cabin like the setting sun; most amusing.
“You’ve come back from the admiral, Mr. Hornblower,” said the captain with sudden recollection.
“Yes, sir.”
The curt reply seemed out of place in the general atmosphere of goodwill; Bush was distinctly conscious of it, and of the pause which followed.
“Is all well?” asked the captain at length, apologetic about prying into someone else’s business and yet led to do so by the silence.
“Yes, sir.” Hornblower was turning his glass round and round on the table between long nervous fingers, every finger a foot long, it seemed to Bush. “He has made me commander into Retribution.”
The words were spoken quietly, but they had the impact of pistol shots in the silence of the room.
“God bless my soul!” said the captain. “Then that’s our new toast. To the new commander, and a cheer for him too!”
Bush cheered lustily and downed his brandy.
“Good old Hornblower!” he said. “Good old Hornblower!”
To him it was really excellent news; he leaned over and patted Hornblower’s shoulder. He knew his face was one big smile, and he put his head on one side and his shoulder on the table so that Hornblower should get the full benefit of it.
Buckland put his glass down on the table with a sharp tap.
“Damn you!” he said. “Damn you! Damn you to Hell!”
“Easy there!” said the captain hastily. “Let’s fill the glasses. A brimmer there, Mr. Buckland. Now, our country! Noble England! Queen of the waves!”
Buckland’s anger was drowned in the fresh flood of liquor, yet later in the session his sorrows overcame him and he sat at the table weeping quietly, with the tears running down his cheeks; but Bush was too happy to allow Buckland’s misery to affect him. He always remembered that afternoon as one of the most successful dinners he had ever attended. He could also remember Hornblower’s smile at the end of dinner.
“We can’t send you back to the hospital today,” said Hornblower. “You’d better sleep in your own cot tonight. Let me take you there.”
That was very agreeable. Bush put both arms round Hornblower’s shoulders and walked with dragging feet. It did not matter that his feet dragged and his legs would not function while he had this support; Hornblower was the best man in the world and Bush could announce it by singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ while lurching along the alleyway. And Hornblower lowered him on to the heaving cot and grinned down at him as he clung to the edges of the cot; Bush was a little astonished that the ship should sway like this while at anchor.