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Title: Lieutenant Hornblower
Author: Forester, C. S. [Cecil Scott]
   [Smith, Cecil Louis Troughton] (1899-1966]
Date of first publication: 1952
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Michael Joseph, 1952
   [first U.K. edition]
Date first posted: 12 August 2017
Date last updated: 12 August 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1459

This ebook was produced by Iona Vaughan, Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






LIEUTENANT HORNBLOWER

by C. S. Forester



                                   I


Lieutenant William Bush came on board H.M.S. _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--acting-gunner, 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 boat-action, 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 sea-chest 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 flickered 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 sea-chest 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.




                                   II


H.M.S. _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 north-east 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 round 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 heel 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 practised 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 good-bye 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 post-chaise charges. The _Renown_ had been in all the flurry of
completing for the West Indian station, and during the thirty-six hours
that elapsed before she sailed Bush had hardly had 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 turning 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 station-bills in their pockets to make sure that
the reorganised crew were properly at their stations. The captain's
orders pealed against the wind. Halbards 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 big 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 top-brim. Hands to the weather-braces.
After guard! Haul in the weather main brace! Haul together, men! Well
with the foreyard! 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 two-gallon 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 silver-mounted 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 re-echoed 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
disorganisation 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 onto 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
half-hour 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 half-hour 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 half-hour 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 anxiety-sharpened 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 dirty-minded 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 mid-stride beside Wellard and
went on talking; his tone now was higher-pitched.

"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 deep-laid
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 coat-tails 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 spanker-boom."

"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's-head 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 ages-old 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 be 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 too 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.




                                  III


It was Sunday morning. The _Renown_ had caught the north-east 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 blockade-runner 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 snow-white decks, the bright
paintwork, the exact and orderly arrangement of the lines and ropes and
spars, were proofs of the diligence of their work; and when the time
should come 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, sail-maker 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 bare-headed 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 all-embracing 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 court-martial, 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 Twenty-Second 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 the
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.

"Rope-yarn 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
rope-yarn 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
lower-deck 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 half-deck 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.

"Rope-yarn 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 nothing. 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 well-remembered 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 acting-gunner.

"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 court-martial 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.




                                   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 self-conscious 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 yard-arms.

"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 court-martial" 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 no 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."

"Twenty-two 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
court-martial 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 the 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
there. 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 close-hung 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
acting-gunner, 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 acting-warrant 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
non-commissioned 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 court-martial 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, white-faced, hurrying.

"Pass the word for the doctor. Call Dr. Clive."

"Who's hurt, Wellard?" asked Bush.

"The c-captain, 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 his 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
shot-torn 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."

"Captain's down there unconscious. There are two marines guarding him"
said Hornblower to Clive, pointing down the hatchway, and Clive swung
his bulk painfully onto the ladder and descended.

"Now, corporal" said Hornblower, "tell the first lieutenant all you know
about this."

The corporal stood stiffly at 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 gennelmen.
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 carrying-plank 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 six-foot 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 'atchway, sir."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to turn 'im over, sir. 'Is face was all bloody-like. '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 self-consciously 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 mummy-like 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 court-martial--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."

"Yessir."

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 half-moon 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 level-headed, 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.




                                   V


Breakfast was being served in the wardroom. It was a more silent and
less cheerful meal even than breakfast there usually was. The master,
the purser, the captain of marines, had said their conventional "good
mornings" and had sat down to eat without further conversation. They had
heard--as had everyone in the ship--that the captain was recovering
consciousness.

Through the scuttles in the side of the ship came two long shafts of
sunlight, illuminating the crowded little place, and swinging back and
forward across the wardroom with the easy motion of the ship; the fresh,
delightful air of the northeast trades came in through the hooked-open
door. The coffee was hot; the biscuit, only three weeks on board, could
not have been more than a month or two in store before that, because it
had hardly any weevils in it. The wardroom cook had intelligently taken
advantage of the good weather to fry the remains of last night's salt
pork with some of the ship's dwindling store of onions. A breakfast of
fried slivers of salt pork with onions, hot coffee and good biscuit,
fresh air and sunshine and fair weather; the wardroom should have been a
cheerful place. Instead there was brooding anxiety, apprehension, tense
uneasiness. Bush looked across the table at Hornblower, drawn and pale
and weary; there were many things Bush wanted to say to him but they had
to remain unsaid, at least at present, while the shadow of the captain's
madness darkened the sunlit ship.

Buckland came walking into the wardroom with the surgeon following him,
and everyone looked up questioningly--practically everyone stood up to
hear the news.

"He's conscious" said Buckland, and looked round at Clive for him to
elaborate on that statement.

"Weak" said Clive.

Bush looked round at Hornblower hoping that he would ask the questions
that Bush wanted asked. Hornblower's face was set in a mask without
expression. His glance was fixed penetratingly on Clive, but he did not
open his mouth. It was Lomax, the purser, who asked the question in the
end.

"Is he sensible?"

"Well----" said Clive, glancing sidelong at Buckland. Clearly the last
thing Clive wanted to do was to commit himself definitely regarding the
captain's sanity. "He's too weak at present to be sensible."

Lomax fortunately was inquisitive enough and bullheaded enough not to be
deterred by Clive's reluctance.

"What about this concussion?" he asked. "What's it done to him?"

"The skull is intact" said Clive. "There are extensive scalp
lacerations. The nose is broken. The clavicle--that's the
collar-bone--and a couple of ribs. He must have fallen headfirst down
the hatchway, as might be expected if he tripped over the coaming."

"But how on earth did he come to do that?" asked Lomax.

"He has not said" answered Clive. "I think he does not remember."

"What?"

"That is a usual state of affairs" said Clive. "One might almost call it
symptomatic. After a severe concussion the patient usually displays a
lapse of memory, extending back to many hours before the injury."

Bush stole a glance at Hornblower again. His face was still
expressionless, and Bush tried to follow his example, both in betraying
no emotion and in leaving the questioning to others. And yet this was
great, glorious, magnificent news which could not be too much elaborated
on for Bush's taste.

"Where does he think he is?" went on Lomax.

"Oh, he knows he's in this ship" said Clive, cautiously.

Now Buckland turned upon Clive; Buckland was hollow-cheeked, unshaven,
weary, but he had seen the captain in his berth, and he was in
consequence a little more ready to force the issue.

"In your opinion is the captain fit for duty?" he demanded.

"Well----" said Clive again.

"Well?"

"Temporarily, perhaps not."

That was an unsatisfactory answer, but Buckland seemed to have exhausted
all his resolution in extracting it. Hornblower raised a mask-like face
and stared straight at Clive.

"You mean he is incapable at present of commanding this ship?"

The other officers murmured their concurrence in this demand for a quite
definite statement, and Clive, looking round at the determined faces,
had to yield.

"At present, yes."

"Then we all know where we stand" said Lomax, and there was satisfaction
in his voice which was echoed by everyone in the wardroom except Clive
and Buckland.

To deprive a captain of his command was a business of terrible,
desperate importance. King and Parliament had combined to give Captain
Sawyer command of the _Renown_, and to reverse their appointment
savoured of treason, and anyone even remotely connected with the
transaction might be tainted for the rest of his life with the unsavoury
odour of insubordination and rebellion. Even the most junior master's
mate in later years applying for some new appointment might be
remembered as having been in the _Renown_ when Sawyer was removed from
his command and might have his application refused in consequence. It
was necessary that there should be the appearance of the utmost legality
in an affair which, under the strictest interpretation, could never be
entirely legal.

"I have here Corporal Greenwood's statement, sir" said Hornblower,
"signed with his mark and attested by Mr. Wellard and myself."

"Thank you" said Buckland, taking the paper; there was some slight
hesitation in Buckland's gesture as though the document were a
firecracker likely to go off unexpectedly. But only Bush, who was
looking for it, could have noticed the hesitation. It was only a few
hours since Buckland had been a fugitive in peril of his life, creeping
through the bowels of the ship trying to avoid detection, and the names
of Wellard and Greenwood, reminding him of this, were a shock to his
ears. And like a demon conjured up by the saying of his name, Wellard
appeared at that moment at the wardroom door.

"Mr. Roberts sent me down to ask for orders, sir" he said.

Roberts had the watch, and must be fretting with worry about what was
going on below decks. Buckland stood in indecision.

"Both watches are on deck, sir" said Hornblower, deferentially.

Buckland looked an inquiry at him.

"You could tell this news to the hands, sir" went on Hornblower.

He was making a suggestion, unasked, to his superior officer, and so
courting a snub. But his manner indicated the deepest respect, and
nothing besides but eagerness to save his superior all possible trouble.

"Thank you" said Buckland.

Anyone could read in his face the struggle that was going on within him;
he was still shrinking from committing himself too deeply--as if he was
not already committed!--and he was shrinking from the prospect of making
a speech to the assembled hands, even while he realised the necessity of
doing so. And the necessity grew greater the more he thought about
it--rumours must be flying about the lower deck, where the crew, already
unsettled by the captain's behaviour, must be growing more restive still
in the prevailing uncertainty. A hard, definite statement must be made
to them; it was vitally necessary. Yet the greater the necessity the
greater the responsibility that Buckland bore, and he wavered obviously
between these two frightening forces.

"All hands, sir?" prompted Hornblower, very softly.

"Yes" said Buckland, desperately taking the plunge.

"Very well, Mr. Wellard" said Hornblower.

Bush caught the look that Hornblower threw to Wellard with the words.
There was a significance in it which might be interpreted as of a nature
only to be expected when one junior officer was telling another to do
something quickly before a senior could change his mind--that was how an
uninitiated person would naturally interpret it--but to Bush,
clairvoyant with fatigue and worry, there was some other significance in
that glance. Wellard was pale and weak with fatigue and worry too; he
was being reassured. Possibly he was being told that a secret was still
safe.

"Aye aye, sir" said Wellard, and departed.

The pipes twittered through the ship.

"All hands! All hands!" roared the bosun's mates. "All hands fall in
abaft the mainmast! All hands!"

Buckland went nervously up on deck, but he acquitted himself well enough
at the moment of trial. In a harsh expressionless voice he told the
assembled hands that the accident to the captain, which they all must
have heard about, had rendered him incapable at present of continuing in
command.

"But we'll all go on doing our duty" said Buckland, staring down at the
level plain of upturned faces.

Bush, looking with him, picked out the grey head and paunchy figure of
Hobbs, the acting-gunner, the captain's toady and informer. Things would
be different for Mr. Hobbs in future--at least as long as the captain's
disability endured. That was the point; as long as the captain's
disability endured. Bush looked down at Hobbs and wondered how much he
knew, how much he guessed--how much he would swear to at a
court-martial. He tried to read the future in the fat old man's face,
but his clairvoyance failed him. He could guess nothing.

When the hands were dismissed there was a moment of bustle and
confusion, as the watches resumed their duties and the idlers streamed
off below. It was there, in the noise and confusion of a crowd, that
momentary privacy and freedom from observation could best be found. Bush
intercepted Hornblower by the mizzenmast bitts and could ask the
question that he had been wanting to ask for hours; the question on
which so much depended.

"How did it happen?" asked Bush.

The bosun's mates were bellowing orders; the hands were scurrying hither
and thither; all round the two of them was orderly confusion, a mass of
people intent on their own business, while they stood face to face,
isolated, with the beneficent sunshine streaming down on them, lighting
up the set face which Hornblower turned towards his questioner.

"How did _what_ happen, Mr. Bush?" said Hornblower.

"How did the captain fall down the hatchway?"

As soon as he had said the words Bush glanced back over his shoulder in
sudden fright lest he should have been overheard. These might be hanging
words. When he looked back Hornblower's face was quite expressionless.

"I think he must have overbalanced" he said, evenly, looking straight
into Bush's eyes; and then he went on, "If you will excuse me, sir, I
have some duties to attend to."

Later in the day every wardroom officer was introduced in turn to the
captain's cabin to see with his own eyes what sort of wreck lay there.
Bush saw only a feeble invalid, lying in the half-light of the cabin,
the face almost covered with bandages, the fingers of one hand moving
minutely, the other hand concealed in a sling.

"He's under an opiate" explained Clive in the wardroom. "I had to
administer a heavy dose to enable me to try and set the fractured nose."

"I expect it was spread all over his face" said Lomax brutally. "It was
big enough."

"The fracture was very extensive and comminuted" agreed Clive.

There were screams the next morning from the captain's cabin, screams of
terror as well as of pain, and Clive and his mates emerged eventually
sweating and worried. Clive went instantly to report confidentially to
Buckland, but everyone in the ship had heard those screams or had been
told about them by men who had; the surgeon's mates, questioned eagerly
in the gunroom by the other warrant officers, could not maintain the
monumental discretion that Clive aimed at in the wardroom. The wretched
invalid was undoubtedly insane; he had fallen into a paroxysm of terror
when they had attempted to examine the fractured nose, flinging himself
about with a madman's strength so that, fearing damage to the other
broken bones, they had had to swathe him in canvas as in a
strait-jacket, leaving only his left arm out. Laudanum and an extensive
bleeding had reduced him to insensibility in the end, but later in the
day when Bush saw him he was conscious again, a weeping, pitiful object,
shrinking in fear from every face that he saw, persecuted by shadows,
sobbing--it was a dreadful thing to see that burly man sobbing like a
child--over his troubles, and trying to hide his face from a world which
to his tortured mind held no friendship at all and only grim enmity.

"It frequently happens" said Clive pontifically--the longer the
captain's illness lasted the more freely he would discuss it--"that an
injury, a fall, or a burn, or a fracture, will completely unbalance a
mind that previously was a little unstable."

"A little unstable!" said Lomax. "Did he turn out the marines in the
middle watch to hunt for mutineers in the hold? Ask Mr. Hornblower here,
ask Mr. Bush, if they thought he was a little unstable. He had
Hornblower doing watch and watch, and Bush and Roberts and Buckland
himself out of bed every hour day and night. He was as mad as a hatter
even then."

It was extraordinary how freely tongues wagged now in the ship, now that
there was no fear of reports being made to the captain.

"At least we can make seamen out of the crew now" said Carberry, the
master, with a satisfaction in his voice that was echoed round the
wardroom. Sail drill and gun drill, tautened discipline and hard work,
were pulling together a crew that had fast been disintegrating. It was
what Buckland obviously delighted in, what he had been itching to do
from the moment they had left the Eddystone behind, and exercising the
crew helped to lift his mind out of the other troubles that beset it.

For now there was a new responsibility, that all the wardroom discussed
freely in Buckland's absence--Buckland was already fenced in by the
solitude that surrounds the captain of a ship of war. This was
Buckland's sole responsibility, and the wardroom could watch Buckland
wrestling with it, as they would watch a prizefighter in the ring; there
even were bets laid on the result, as to whether or not Buckland would
take the final plunge, whether or not he would take the ultimate step
that would proclaim himself as in command of the _Renown_ and the
captain as incurable.

Locked in the captain's desk were the captain's papers, and among those
papers were the secret orders addressed to him by the Lords of the
Admiralty. No other eyes than the captain's had seen those orders as
yet; not a soul in the ship could make any guess at their contents. They
might be merely routine orders, directing the _Renown_ perhaps to join
Admiral Bickerton's squadron; but also they might reveal some vital
diplomatic secret of the kind that no mere lieutenant could be entrusted
with. On the one hand Buckland could continue to head for Antigua, and
there he could turn over his responsibilities to whoever was the senior
officer. There might be some junior captain who could be transferred to
the _Renown_; to read the orders and carry off the ship on whatever
mission was allotted her. On the other hand Buckland could read the
orders now; they might deal with some matter of the greatest urgency.
Antigua was a convenient landfall for ships to make from England, but
from a military point of view it was not so desirable, being
considerably to leeward of most of the points of strategic importance.

If Buckland took the ship down to Antigua and then she had to beat back
to windward he might be sharply rapped on the knuckles by My Lords of
the Admiralty; yet if he read the secret orders on that account he might
be reprimanded for his presumption. The wardroom could guess at his
predicament and each individual officer could congratulate himself upon
not being personally involved while wondering what Buckland would do
about it.

Bush and Hornblower stood side by side on the poop, feet wide apart on
the heaving deck, as they steadied themselves and looked through their
sextants at the horizon. Through the darkened glass Bush could see the
image of the sun reflected from the mirror. With infinite pains he moved
the arm round, bringing the image down closer and closer to the horizon.
The pitch of the ship over the long blue rollers troubled him, but he
persevered, decided in the end that the image of the sun was just
sitting on the horizon, and clamped the sextant. Then he could read and
record the measurement. As a concession to new-fangled prejudices, he
decided to follow Hornblower's example and observe the altitude also
from the opposite point of the horizon. He swung round and did so, and
as he recorded his reading he tried to remember what he had to do about
half the difference between the two readings. And the index error, and
the "dip". He looked round to find that Hornblower had already finished
his observation and was standing waiting for him.

"That's the greatest altitude I've ever measured" remarked Hornblower.
"I've never been as far south as this before. What's your result?"

They compared readings.

"That's accurate enough" said Hornblower. "What's the difficulty?"

"Oh, I can shoot the sun" said Bush. "No trouble about that. It's the
calculations that bother me--those damned corrections."

Hornblower raised an eyebrow for a moment. He was accustomed to taking
his own observations each noon and making his own calculations of the
ship's position, in order to keep himself in practice. He was aware of
the mechanical difficulty of taking an accurate observation in a moving
ship, but--although he knew of plenty of other instances--he still could
not believe that any man could really find the subsequent mathematics
difficult. They were so simple to him that when Bush had asked him if he
could join him in their noontime exercise for the sake of improving
himself he had taken it for granted that it was only the mechanics of
using a sextant that troubled Bush. But he politely concealed his
surprise.

"They're easy enough" he said, and then he added "sir." A wise officer,
too, did not make too much display of his superior ability when speaking
to his senior. He phrased his next speech carefully.

"If you were to come below with me, sir, you could check through my
calculations."

Bush listened in patience to Hornblower's explanations. They made the
problem perfectly clear for the moment--it was by a hurried last-minute
reading up that Bush had been able to pass his examination for
lieutenant, although it was seamanship and not navigation that got him
through--but Bush knew by bitter experience that tomorrow it would be
hazy again.

"Now we can plot the position" said Hornblower, bending over the chart.

Bush watched as Hornblower's capable fingers worked the parallel rulers
across the chart; Hornblower had long bony hands with something of
beauty about them, and it was actually fascinating to watch them doing
work at which they were so supremely competent. The powerful fingers
picked up the pencil and ruled a line.

"There's the point of interception" said Hornblower. "Now we can check
against the dead reckoning."

Even Bush could follow the simple steps necessary to plot the ship's
course by dead reckoning since noon yesterday. The pencil in the steady
fingers made a tiny _x_ on the chart.

"We're still being set to the s'uth'ard, you see" said Hornblower.
"We're not far enough east yet for the Gulf Stream to set us to the
nor'ard."

"Didn't you say you'd never navigated these waters before?" asked Bush.

"Yes."

"Then how----? Oh, I suppose you've been studying."

To Bush it was as strange that a man should read up beforehand and be
prepared for conditions hitherto unknown as it was strange to Hornblower
that a man should find trouble in mathematics.

"At any rate, there we are" said Hornblower, tapping the chart with the
pencil.

"Yes" said Bush.

They both looked at the chart with the same thought in mind.

"What d'ye think Number One'll do?" asked Bush.

Buckland might be legally in command of the ship, but it was too early
yet to speak of him as the captain--"the captain" was still that weeping
figure swathed in canvas on the cot in the cabin.

"Can't tell" answered Hornblower, "but he makes up his mind now or
never. We lose ground to loo'ard every day from now, you see."

"What'd _you_ do?" Bush was curious about this junior lieutenant who had
shown himself ready of resources and so guarded in speech.

"I'd read those orders" said Hornblower instantly. "I'd rather be in
trouble for having done something than for not having done anything."

"I wonder" said Bush. On the other hand a definite action could be made
the subject of a court-martial charge far more easily than the omission
to do something; Bush felt this, but he had not the facility with words
to express it easily.

"Those orders may detach us on independent service" went on Hornblower.
"God, what a chance for Buckland!"

"Yes" said Bush.

The eagerness in Hornblower's expression was obvious. If ever a man
yearned for an independent command and the consequent opportunity to
distinguish himself it was Hornblower. Bush wondered faintly if he
himself was as anxious to have the responsibility of the command of a
ship of the line in troubled waters. He looked at Hornblower with an
interest which he knew to be constantly increasing. Hornblower was a man
always ready to adopt the bold course, a man who infinitely preferred
action to inaction; widely read in his profession and yet a practical
seaman, as Bush had already had plenty of opportunity to observe. A
student yet a man of action; a fiery spirit and yet discreet--Bush
remembered how tactfully he had acted during the crisis following the
captain's injury and how dexterously he had handled Buckland.

And--and--what was the truth about that injury to the captain? Bush
darted a more searching glance than ever at Hornblower as he followed up
that train of thought. Bush's mind did not consciously frame the words
"motive" and "opportunity" to itself--it was not that type of mind--but
it felt its way along an obscure path of reasoning which might well have
been signposted with those words. He wanted to ask again the question he
had asked once before, but to do so would not merely invite but would
merit a rebuff. Hornblower was established in a strong position and Bush
could be sure that he would never abandon it through indiscretion or
impatience. Bush looked at the lean eager face, at the long fingers
drumming on the chart. It was not right or fit or proper that he should
feel any admiration or even respect for Hornblower, who was not merely
his junior in age by a couple of years--that did not matter--but was his
junior as a lieutenant. The dates on their respective commissions really
did matter; a junior was someone for whom it should be impossible to
feel respect by the traditions of the service. Anything else would be
unnatural, might even savour of the equalitarian French ideas which they
were engaged in fighting. The thought of himself as infected with Red
Revolutionary notions made Bush actually uneasy, and yet as he stirred
uncomfortably in his chair he could not wholly discard those notions.

"I'll put these things away" said Hornblower, rising from his chair.
"I'm exercising my lower-deck guns' crews after the hands have had their
dinner. And I have the first dogwatch after that."




                                   VI


The lower-deck guns had been secured, and the sweating crews came
pouring up on deck. Now that the _Renown_ was as far south as 30 north
latitude the lower gundeck, even with the ports open for artillery
exercise, was a warm place, and hauling those guns in and running them
out was warm work. Hornblower had kept the crews hard at it, one hundred
and eighty men, who afterwards came pouring up into the sunshine and the
fresh air of the trade wind to receive the good-humoured chaff of the
rest of the crew who had not been working so hard but who knew perfectly
well that their turn would come soon.

The guns' crews wiped their steaming foreheads and flung jests--jagged
and unpolished like the flints in the soil from which they had
sprung--back at their tormentors. It was exhilarating to an officer to
see the high spirits of the men and to be aware of the good temper that
prevailed; in the three days that had elapsed since the change in
command the whole atmosphere of the ship had improved. Suspicion and
fear had vanished; after a brief sulkiness the hands had found that
exercise and regular work were stimulating and satisfactory.

Hornblower came aft, the sweat running down him, and touched his hat to
Roberts, who was officer of the watch, where he stood chatting with Bush
at the break of the poop. It was an unusual request that Hornblower
made, and Roberts and Bush stared at him with surprise.

"But what about the deck, Mr. Hornblower?" asked Roberts.

"A hand can swab it off in two minutes, sir" replied Hornblower, wiping
his face and looking at the blue sea overside with a longing that was
obvious to the most casual glance. "I have fifteen minutes before I
relieve you, sir--plenty of time."

"Oh, very well, Mr. Hornblower."

"Thank you, sir" said Hornblower, and he turned eagerly away with
another touch of his hat, while Roberts and Bush exchanged glances which
were as much amused as puzzled. They watched Hornblower give his orders.

"Captain of the waist! Captain of the waist, there!"

"Sir?"

"Get the wash-deck pump rigged at once."

"Rig the wash-deck pump, sir?"

"Yes. Four men for the handles. One for the hose. Jump to it, now. I'll
be with you in two minutes."

"Aye aye, sir."

The captain of the waist set about obeying the strange order after a
glance at the receding figure. Hornblower was as good as his word; it
was only two minutes before he returned, but now he was naked except for
a towel draped sketchily round him. This was all very strange.

"Give away" he said to the men at the pump handles.

They were dubious about all this, but they obeyed the order, and in
alternate pairs they threw their weight upon the handles. Up--down,
up--down; clank--clank. The seaman holding the hose felt it stir in his
hands as the water from far overside came surging up along it; and next
moment a clear stream of water came gushing out of it.

"Turn it on me" said Hornblower, casting his towel aside and standing
naked in the sunshine. The hoseman hesitated.

"Hurry up, now!"

As dubiously as ever the hoseman obeyed orders, turning the jet upon his
officer, who rotated first this way and then that as it splashed upon
him; an amused crowd was gathering to watch.

"Pump, you sons of seacooks!" said Hornblower; and obediently the men at
the pump handles, now grinning broadly, threw all their weight on the
handles, with such enthusiasm that their feet left the deck as they
hauled down upon them and the clear water came hurtling out through the
hose with considerable force. Hornblower twirled round and round under
the stinging impact, his face screwed up in painful ecstasy.

Buckland had been standing aft at the taffrail, lost in thought and
gazing down at the ship's wake, but the clanking of the pump attracted
his attention and he strolled forward to join Roberts and Bush and to
look at the strange spectacle.

"Hornblower has some odd fancies" he remarked, but he smiled as he said
it--a rather pathetic smile, for his face bore the marks of the
anxieties he was going through.

"He seems to be enjoying himself, sir" said Bush.

Bush, looking at Hornblower revolving under the sparkling stream, was
conscious of a prickling under his shirt in his heavy uniform coat, and
actually had the feeling that it might be pleasurable to indulge in that
sort of shower bath, however injurious it might be to the health.

"'Vast pumping!" yelled Hornblower. "Avast, there!"

The hands at the pumps ceased their labours, and the jet from the hose
died away to a trickle, to nothing.

"Captain of the waist! Secure the pump. Get the deck swabbed."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower grabbed his towel and came trotting back along the maindeck.
He looked up at the group of officers with a grin which revealed his
exhilaration and high spirits.

"Dunno if it's good for discipline" commented Roberts, as Hornblower
disappeared; and then, with a tardy flash of insight, "I suppose it's
all right."

"I suppose so" said Buckland. "Let's hope he doesn't get himself a
fever, checking the perspiration like that."

"He showed no sign of one, sir" said Bush; lingering in Bush's mind's
eye was the picture of Hornblower's grin. It blended with his memory of
Hornblower's eager expression when they were discussing what Buckland
had best do in the dilemma in which he found himself.

"Ten minutes to eight bells, sir" reported the quartermaster.

"Very well" said Roberts.

The wet patch on the deck was now almost dry; a faint steam rose from it
as the sun, still fierce at four o'clock in the afternoon, beat on it.

"Call the watch" said Roberts.

Hornblower came running up to the quarterdeck with his telescope; he
must have pulled on his clothes with the orderly rapidity that marked
all his actions. He touched his hat to the quarterdeck and stood by to
relieve Roberts.

"You feel refreshed after your bath?" asked Buckland.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

Bush looked at the pair of them, the elderly, worried first lieutenant
and the young fifth lieutenant, the older man pathetically envying the
youngster's youth. Bush was learning something about personalities. He
would never be able to reduce the results of his observations to a
tabular system, and it would never occur to him to do so, but he could
learn without doing so; his experience and observations would blend with
his native wit to govern his judgments, even if he were too
self-conscious to philosophise over them. He was aware that naval
officers (he knew almost nothing of mankind on land) could be divided
into active individuals and passive individuals, into those eager for
responsibility and action and into those content to wait until action
was forced on them. Before that he had learned the simpler lesson that
officers could be divided into the efficient and the blunderers, and
also into the intelligent and the stupid--this last division was nearly
the same as the one immediately preceding, but not quite. There were the
officers who could be counted on to act quickly and correctly in an
emergency, and those who could not--again the dividing line did not
quite coincide with the preceding. And there were officers with
discretion and officers with none, patient officers and impatient ones,
officers with strong nerves and officers with weak nerves. In certain
cases Bush's estimates had to contend with his prejudices--he was liable
to be suspicious of brains and of originality of thought and of
eagerness for activity, especially because in the absence of some of the
other desirable qualities these things might be actual nuisances. The
final and most striking difference Bush had observed during ten years of
continuous warfare was that between the leaders and the led, but that
again was a difference of which Bush was conscious without being able to
express it in words, and especially not in words as succinct or as
definite as these; but he was actually aware of the difference even
though he was not able to bring himself to define it.

But he had that difference at the back of his mind, all the same, as he
looked at Buckland and Hornblower chatting together on the quarterdeck.
The afternoon watch had ended, and the first dogwatch had begun, with
Hornblower as officer of the watch. It was the traditional moment for
relaxation; the heat of the day had passed, and the hands collected
forward, some of them to gaze down at the dolphins leaping round the
bows, while the officers who had been dozing during the afternoon in
their cabins came up to the quarterdeck for air and paced up and down in
little groups deep in conversation.

A ship of war manned for active service was the most crowded place in
the world--more crowded than the most rundown tenement in Seven
Dials--but long and hard experience had taught the inhabitants how to
live even in those difficult conditions. Forward there were groups of
men yarning, men skylarking; there were solitary men who had each
preempted a square yard of deck for himself and sat, cross-legged, with
tools and materials about them, doing scrimshaw work--delicate carvings
on bone--or embroidery or whittling at models oblivious to the tumult
about them. Similarly aft on the crowded quarterdeck the groups of
officers strolled and chatted, avoiding the other groups without
conscious effort.

It was in accordance with the traditions of the service that these
groups left the windward side of the quarterdeck to Buckland as long as
he was on deck; and Buckland seemed to be making a long stay this
afternoon. He was deep in conversation with Hornblower, the two of them
pacing up and down beside the quarterdeck carronades, eight yards
forward, eight yards back again; long ago the navy had discovered that
when the walking distance was so limited conversation must not be
interrupted by the necessarily frequent turns. Every pair of officers
turned inwards as they reached the limits of their walk, facing each
other momentarily and continuing the conversation without a break, and
walking with their hands clasped behind them as a result of the training
they had all received as midshipmen not to put their hands in their
pockets.

So walked Buckland and Hornblower, and curious glances were cast at them
by the others, for even on this golden evening, with the blue-enamel sea
overside and the sun sinking to starboard with the promise of a
magnificent sunset, everyone was conscious that in the cabin just below
their feet lay a wretched insane man, half-swathed in a strait-jacket;
and Buckland had to make up his mind how to deal with him. Up and down,
up and down walked Buckland and Hornblower. Hornblower seemed to be as
deferential as ever, and Buckland seemed to be asking questions; but
some of the replies he received must have been unexpected, for more than
once Buckland stopped in the middle of a turn and stood facing
Hornblower, apparently repeating his question, while Hornblower seemed
to be standing his ground both literally and figuratively, sturdy and
yet respectful, as Buckland stood with the sun illuminating his haggard
features.

Perhaps it had been a fortunate chance that had made Hornblower decide
to take a bath under the wash-deck pump--this conversation had its
beginnings in that incident.

"Is that a council of war?" said Smith to Bush, looking across at the
pair.

"Not likely" said Bush.

A first lieutenant would not deliberately ask the advice or even the
opinion of one so junior. Yet--yet--it might be possible, starting with
idle conversation about different matters.

"Don't tell me they're discussing Catholic Emancipation" said Lomax.

It was just possible, Bush realised guiltily, that they were discussing
something else--that question as to how the captain had come to fall
down the hatchway. Bush found himself automatically looking round the
deck for Wellard when that thought occurred to him. Wellard was
skylarking in the main rigging with the midshipmen and master's mates as
if he had not a care in the world. But it could not be that question
which Buckland and Hornblower were discussing. Their attitudes seemed to
indicate that theories and not facts were the subject of the debate.

"Anyway, they've settled it" said Smith.

Hornblower was touching his hat to Buckland, and Buckland was turning to
go below again. Several curious pairs of eyes looked across at
Hornblower now that he was left solitary, and as he became conscious of
their regard he strolled over to them.

"Affairs of state?" asked Lomax, asking the question which everyone
wanted asked.

Hornblower met his gaze with a level glance.

"No" he said, and smiled.

"It certainly looked like matters of importance" said Smith.

"That depends on the definition" answered Hornblower.

He was still smiling, and his smile gave no clue at all regarding his
thoughts. It would be rude to press him further; it was possible that he
and Buckland had been discussing some private business. Nobody looking
at him could guess.

"Come off those hammocks, there!" bellowed Hornblower; the skylarking
midshipmen were not breaking one of the rules of the ship, but it was a
convenient moment to divert the conversation.

Three bells rang out; the first dogwatch was three-quarters completed.

"Mr. Roberts, sir!" suddenly called the sentry at the smokers' slow
match by the hatchway. "Passing the word for Mr. Roberts!"

Roberts turned from the group.

"Who's passing the word for me?" he asked, although with the captain ill
there could only be one man in the ship who could pass the word for the
second lieutenant.

"Mr. Buckland, sir. Mr. Buckland passing the word for Mr. Roberts."

"Very well" said Roberts, hurrying down the companion.

The others exchanged glances. This might be the moment of decision. Yet
on the other hand it might be only a routine matter. Hornblower took
advantage of the distraction to turn away from the group and continue
his walk on the weather side of the ship; he walked with his chin nearly
down on his breast, his drooping head balanced by the hands behind his
back. Bush thought he looked weary.

Now there came a fresh cry from below, repeated by the sentry at the
hatchway.

"Mr. Clive! Passing the word for Mr. Clive. Mr. Buckland passing the
word for Mr. Clive!"

"Oh-ho!" said Lomax in significant tones, as the surgeon hurried down.

"Something happens" said Carberry, the master.

Time went on without either the second lieutenant or the surgeon
reappearing. Smith, under his arm the telescope that was the badge of
his temporary office, touched his hat to Hornblower and prepared to
relieve him as officer of the watch as the second dogwatch was called.
In the east the sky was turning dark, and the sun was setting over the
starboard quarter in a magnificent display of red and gold; from the
ship towards the sun the surface of the sea was gilded and glittering,
but close overside it was the richest purple. A flying fish broke the
surface and went skimming along, leaving a transient, momentary furrow
behind it like a groove in enamel.

"Look at that!" exclaimed Hornblower to Bush.

"A flying fish" said Bush, indifferently.

"Yes! There's another!"

Hornblower leaned over to get a better view.

"You'll see plenty of them before this voyage is over" said Bush.

"But I've never seen one before."

The play of expression on Hornblower's face was curious. One moment he
was full of eager interest; the next he assumed an appearance of stolid
indifference as a man might pull on a glove. His service at sea so far,
varied though it might be, had been confined to European waters; years
of dangerous activity on the French and Spanish coasts in a frigate, two
years in the _Renown_ in the Channel fleet, and he had been eagerly
looking forward to the novelties he would encounter in tropical waters.
But he was talking to a man to whom these things were no novelty, and
who evinced no excitement at the sight of the first flying fish of the
voyage. Hornblower was _not_ going to be outdone in stolidity and
self-control; if the wonders of the deep failed to move Bush they were
not going to evoke any childish excitement in Hornblower, at least any
apparent excitement if Hornblower could suppress it. He was a veteran,
and he was not going to appear like a raw hand.

Bush looked up to see Roberts and Clive ascending the companionway in
the gathering night, and turned eagerly towards them. Officers came from
every part of the quarterdeck to hear what they had to say.

"Well, sir?" asked Lomax.

"He's done it" said Roberts.

"He's read the secret orders, sir?" asked Smith.

"As far as I know, yes."

"Oh!"

There was a pause before someone asked the inevitable silly question.

"What did they say?"

"They are secret orders" said Roberts, and now there was a touch of
pomposity in his voice--it might be to compensate for his lack of
knowledge, or it might be because Roberts was now growing more aware of
the dignity of his position as second in command. "If Mr. Buckland had
taken me into his confidence I still could not tell you."

"True enough" said Carberry.

"What did the captain do?" asked Lomax.

"Poor devil" said Clive. With all attention turned to him Clive grew
expansive. "We might be fiends from the pit! You should have seen him
cower away when we came in. Those morbid terrors grow more acute."

Clive awaited a request for further information, and even though none
was forthcoming he went on with his story.

"We had to find the key to his desk. You would have thought we were
going to cut his throat, judging by the way he wept and tried to hide.
All the sorrows of the world--all the terrors of hell torment that
wretched man."

"But you found the key?" persisted Lomax.

"We found it. And we opened his desk."

"And then?"

"Mr. Buckland found the orders. The usual linen envelope with the
Admiralty seal. The envelope had been already opened."

"Naturally" said Lomax. "Well?"

"And now, I suppose" said Clive, conscious of the anti-climax, "I
suppose he's reading them."

"And we are none the wiser."

There was a disappointed pause.

"Bless my soul!" said Carberry. "We've been at war since '93. Nearly ten
years of it. D'ye still expect to know what lies in store for you? The
West Indies today--Halifax tomorrow. We obey orders. Helm-a-lee--let go
and haul. A bellyful of grape or champagne in a captured flagship. Who
cares? We draw our four shillings a day, rain or shine."

"Mr. Carberry!" came the word from below. "Mr. Buckland passing the word
for Mr. Carberry."

"Bless my soul!" said Carberry again.

"Now you can earn your four shillings a day" said Lomax.

The remark was addressed to his disappearing back, for Carberry was
already hastening below.

"A change of course" said Smith. "I'll wager a week's pay on it."

"No takers" said Roberts.

It was the most likely new development of all, for Carberry, the master,
was the officer charged with the navigation of the ship.

Already it was almost full night, dark enough to make the features of
the speakers indistinct, although over to the westward there was still a
red patch on the horizon, and a faint red trail over the black water
towards the ship. The binnacle lights had been lit and the brighter
stars were already visible in the dark sky, with the mastheads seeming
to brush past them, with the motion of the ship, infinitely far over
their heads. The ship's bell rang out, but the group showed no tendency
to disperse. And then interest quickened. Here were Buckland and
Carberry returning, ascending the companionway; the group drew on one
side to clear them a passage.

"Officer of the watch!" said Buckland.

"Sir!" said Smith, coming forward in the darkness.

"We're altering course two points. Steer southwest."

"Aye aye, sir. Course southwest. Mr. Abbott, pipe the hands to the
braces."

The _Renown_ came round on her new course, with her sails trimmed to the
wind which was now no more than a point on her port quarter. Carberry
walked over to the binnacle and looked into it to make sure the helmsman
was exactly obeying his orders.

"Another pull on the weather forebrace, there!" yelled Smith. "Belay!"

The bustle of the change of course died away.

"Course sou'west, sir" reported Smith.

"Very good, Mr. Smith" said Buckland, by the rail.

"Pardon, sir" said Roberts, greatly daring, addressing him as he loomed
in the darkness. "Can you tell us our mission, sir?"

"Not our mission. That is still secret, Mr. Roberts."

"Very good, sir."

"But I'll tell you where we're bound. Mr. Carberry knows already."

"Where, sir?"

"Santo Domingo. Scotchman's Bay."

There was a pause while this information was being digested.

"Santo Domingo" said someone, meditatively.

"Hispaniola" said Carberry, explanatorily.

"Hayti" said Hornblower.

"Santo Domingo--Hayti--Hispaniola" said Carberry. "Three names for the
same island."

"Hayti!" exclaimed Roberts, some chord in his memory suddenly touched.
"That's where the blacks are in rebellion."

"Yes" agreed Buckland.

Anyone could guess that Buckland was trying to say that word in as
noncommittal a tone as possible; it might be because there was a
difficult diplomatic situation with regard to the blacks, and it might
be because fear of the captain was still a living force in the ship.




                                  VII


Lieutenant Buckland, in acting command of H.M.S. _Renown_, of
seventy-four guns, was on the quarterdeck of his ship peering through
his telescope at the low mountains of Santo Domingo. The ship was
rolling in a fashion unnatural and disturbing, for the long Atlantic
swell, driven by the northeast trades, was passing under her keel while
she lay hove-to to the final puffs of the land breeze which had blown
since midnight and was now dying away as the fierce sun heated the
island again. The _Renown_ was actually wallowing, rolling her lower
deck gunports under, first on one side and then on the other, for what
little breeze there was was along the swell and did nothing to stiffen
her as she lay with her mizzen topsail backed. She would lie right over
on one side, until the gun tackles creaked with the strain of holding
the guns in position, until it was hard to keep a foothold on the
steep-sloping deck; she would lie there for a few harrowing seconds, and
then slowly right herself, making no pause at all at the moment when she
was upright and her deck horizontal, and continue, with a clattering of
blocks and a rattle of gear in a sickening swoop until she was as far
over in the opposite direction, gun tackles creaking and unwary men
slipping and sliding, and lie there unresponsive until the swell had
rolled under her and she repeated her behaviour.

"For God's sake" said Hornblower, hanging on to a belaying pin in the
mizzen fife rail to save himself from sliding down the deck into the
scuppers, "can't he make up his mind?"

There was something in Hornblower's stare that made Bush look at him
more closely.

"Seasick?" he asked, with curiosity.

"Who wouldn't be?" replied Hornblower. "How she rolls!"

Bush's cast-iron stomach had never given him the least qualm, but he was
aware that less fortunate men suffered from seasickness even after weeks
at sea, especially when subjected to a different kind of motion. This
funereal rolling was nothing like the free action of the _Renown_ under
sail.

"Buckland has to see how the land lies" he said in an effort to cheer
Hornblower up.

"How much more does he want to see?" grumbled Hornblower. "There's the
Spanish colours flying on the fort up there. Everyone on shore knows now
that a ship of the line is prowling about, and the Dons won't have to be
very clever to guess that we're not here on a yachting trip. Now they've
all the time they need to be ready to receive us."

"But what else could he do?"

"He could have come in in the dark with the sea breeze. Landing parties
ready. Put them ashore at dawn. Storm the place before they knew there
was any danger. Oh, God!"

The final exclamation had nothing to do with what went before. It was
wrenched out of Hornblower by the commotion of his stomach. Despite his
deep tan there was a sickly green colour in his cheeks.

"Hard luck" said Bush.

Buckland still stood trying to keep his telescope trained on the coast
despite the rolling of the ship. This was Scotchman's Bay--the Bahia de
Escocesa, as the Spanish charts had it. To the westward lay a shelving
beach; the big rollers here broke far out and ran in creamy white up to
the water's edge with diminishing force, but to the eastward the shore
line rose in a line of tree-covered hills standing bluffly with their
feet in blue water; the rollers burst against them in sheets of spray
that climbed far up the cliffs before falling back in a smother of
white. For thirty miles those hills ran beside the sea, almost due east
and west; they constituted the Saman peninsula, terminating in Saman
Point. According to the charts the peninsula was no more than ten miles
wide; behind them, round Saman Point, lay Saman Bay, opening into the
Mona Passage and a most convenient anchorage for privateers and small
ships of war which could lie there, under the protection of the fort on
the Saman peninsula, ready to slip out and harass the West Indian
convoys making use of the Mona Passage. The _Renown_ had been given
orders to clear out this raiders' lair before going down to leeward to
Jamaica--everyone in the ship could guess that--but now that Buckland
confronted the problem he was not at all sure how to solve it. His
indecision was apparent to all the curious lookers-on who clustered on
the _Renown's_ deck.

The main topsail suddenly flapped like thunder, and the ship began to
turn slowly head to sea; the land breeze was expiring, and the trade
winds, blowing eternally across the Atlantic, were resuming their
dominion. Buckland shut his telescope with relief. At least that was an
excuse for postponing action.

"Mr. Roberts!"

"Sir!"

"Lay her on the port tack. Full and by!"

"Aye aye, sir."

The after guard came running to the mizzen braces, and the ship slowly
paid off. Gradually the topsails caught the wind, and she began to lie
over, gathering way as she did so. She met the next roller with her port
bow, thrusting boldly into it in a burst of spray. The tautened
weather-rigging began to sing a more cheerful note, blending with the
music of her passage through the water. She was a live thing again,
instead of rolling like a corpse in the trough. The roaring trade wind
pressed her over, and she went surging along, rising and swooping as if
with pleasure, leaving a creamy wake behind her on the blue water while
the sea roared under the bows.

"Better?" asked Bush of Hornblower.

"Better in one way" was the reply. Hornblower looked over at the distant
hills of Santo Domingo. "I could wish we were going into action and not
running away to think about it."

"What a fire-eater!" said Bush.

"A fire-eater? Me? Nothing like that--quite the opposite. I wish--oh, I
wish for too much, I suppose."

There was no explaining some people, thought Bush, philosophically. He
was content to bask in the sunshine now that its heat was tempered by
the ship's passage through the wind. If action and danger lay in the
future he could await it in stolid tranquillity; and he certainly could
congratulate himself that he did not have to carry Buckland's
responsibility of carrying a ship of the line and seven hundred and
twenty men into action. The prospect of action at least took one's mind
off the horrid fact that confined below lay an insane captain.

At dinner in the wardroom he looked over at Hornblower, fidgety and
nervous. Buckland had announced his intention of taking the bull by the
horns the next morning, of rounding Saman Point and forcing his way
straight up the bay. It would not take many broadsides from the _Renown_
to destroy any shipping that lay there at anchor. Bush thoroughly
approved of the scheme. Wipe out the privateers, burn them, sink them,
and then it would be time to decide what, if anything, should be done
next. At the meeting in the wardroom, when Buckland asked if any officer
had any questions, Smith had asked sensibly about the tides, and
Carberry had given him the information; Roberts had asked a question or
two about the situation on the south shore of the bay; but Hornblower at
the foot of the table had kept his mouth shut, although looking with
eager attention at each speaker in turn.

During the dogwatches Hornblower had paced the deck by himself, head
bent in meditation; Bush noticed the fingers of the hands behind his
back twisting and twining nervously, and he experienced a momentary
doubt. Was it possible that this energetic young officer was lacking in
physical courage? That phrase was not Bush's own--he had heard it used
maliciously somewhere or other years ago. It was better to use it now
than to tell himself outright that he suspected Hornblower might be a
coward. Bush was not a man of large tolerance; if a man were a coward he
wanted no more to do with him.

Half-way through next morning the pipes shrilled along the decks; the
drums of the marines beat a rousing roll.

"Clear the decks for action! Hands to quarters! Clear for action!"

Bush came down to the lower gundeck, which was his station for action;
under his command was the whole deck and the seventeen
twenty-four-pounders of the starboard battery, while Hornblower
commanded under him those of the port side. The hands were already
knocking down the screens and removing obstructions. A little group of
the surgeon's crew came along the deck; they were carrying a
strait-jacketed figure bound to a plank. Despite the jacket and the
lashings it writhed feebly and wept pitifully--the captain being carried
down to the safety of the cable tier while his cabin was cleared for
action. A hand or two in the bustle found time to shake their heads over
the unhappy figure, but Bush checked them soon enough. He wanted to be
able to report the lower gundeck cleared for action with creditable
speed.

Hornblower made his appearance, touched his hat to Bush, and stood by to
supervise his guns. Most of this lower deck was in twilight, for the
stout shafts of sunlight that came down the hatchways did little to
illuminate the farther parts of the deck with its sombre red paint. Half
a dozen ship's boys came along, each one carrying a bucket of sand,
which they scattered in handfuls over the deck. Bush kept a sharp eye on
them, because the guns' crews depended on that sand for firm foothold.
The water buckets beside each gun were filled; they served a dual
purpose, to dampen the swabs that cleaned out the guns and for immediate
use against fire. Round the mainmast stood a ring of extra fire buckets;
in tubs at either side of the ship smouldered the slow matches from
which the gun captains could rekindle their linstocks when necessary.
Fire and water. The marine sentries came clumping along the deck in
their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, the tops of their shakos
brushing the deck beams over their heads. Corporal Greenwood posted one
at each hatchway, bayonet fixed and musket loaded. Their duty was to see
that no unauthorised person ran down to take shelter in the safety of
that part of the ship comfortably below waterline. Mr. Hobbs, the
acting-gunner, with his mates and helpers made a momentary appearance on
their way down to the magazine. They were all wearing list slippers to
obviate any chance of setting off loose powder which would be bound to
be strewn about down there in the heat of action.

Soon the powder boys came running up, each with a charge for the guns.
The breechings of the guns were cast off and the crews stood by the
tackles, waiting for the word to open the ports and run out the guns.
Bush darted his glance along both sides. The gun captains were all at
their posts. Ten men stood by every gun on the starboard side, five by
every gun on the port side--maximum and minimum crews for
twenty-four-pounders. It was Bush's responsibility to see to it that
whichever battery came into action the guns were properly manned. If
both sides had to be worked at once he had to make a fair division, and
when the casualties began and guns were put out of service he had to
redistribute the crews. The petty officers and warrant officers were
reporting their subdivisions ready for action, and Bush turned to the
midshipman beside him whose duty was to carry messages.

"Mr. Abbott, report the lower deck cleared for action. Ask if the guns
should be run out."

"Aye aye, sir."

A moment before the ship had been full of noise and bustle, and now
everything down here was still and quiet save for the creaking of the
timbers; the ship was rising and swooping rhythmically over the
sea--Bush as he stood by the mainmast was automatically swaying with the
ship's motion. Young Abbott came running down the ladder again.

"Mr. Buckland's compliments, sir, and don't run the guns out yet."

"Very good."

Hornblower was standing farther aft, in line with the ringbolts of the
train tackles; he had looked round to hear what message Abbott bore, and
now he turned back again. He stood with his feet apart, and Bush saw him
put one hand into the other, behind his back, and clasp it firmly. There
was a rigidity about the set of his shoulders and in the way he held his
head that might be significant of anything, eagerness for action or the
reverse. A gun captain addressed a remark to Hornblower, and Bush
watched him turn to answer it. Even in the half-light of the lower deck
Bush could see there were signs of strain in his expression, and that
smile might be forced. Oh well, decided Bush, as charitably as he could,
men often looked like that before going into action.

Silently the ship sailed on; even Bush had his ears cocked, trying to
hear what was going on above him so as to draw deductions about the
situation. Faintly down the hatchway came the call of a seaman.

"No bottom, sir. No bottom with this line."

So there was a man in the chains taking casts with the lead, and they
must be drawing near the land; everyone down on the lower deck drew the
same conclusion and started to remark about it to his neighbour.

"Silence, there!" snapped Bush.

Another cry from the leadsman, and then a bellowed order. Instantly the
lower deck seemed to be filled solid with noise. The maindeck guns were
being run out; in the confined space below every sound was multiplied
and reverberated by the ship's timbers so that the gun-trucks rolling
across the planking made a noise like thunder. Everyone looked to Bush
for orders, but he stood steady; he had received none. Now a midshipman
appeared descending the ladder.

"Mr. Buckland's compliments, sir, and please to run your guns out."

He had squealed his message without ever setting foot on deck, and
everyone had heard it. There was an instant buzz round the deck, and
excitable people began to reach for the gunports to open them.

"Still!" bellowed Bush. Guiltily all movement ceased.

"Up ports!"

The twilight of the lower deck changed to daylight as the ports opened;
little rectangles of sunshine swayed about on the deck on the port side,
broadening and narrowing with the motion of the ship.

"Run out!"

With the ports open the noise was not so great; the crews flung their
weight on the tackles and the trucks roared as the guns thrust their
muzzles out. Bush stepped to the nearest gun and stooped to peer out
through the open port. There were the green hills of the island at
extreme gunshot distance; here the cliffs were not nearly so abrupt, and
there was a jungle-covered shelf at their feet.

"Hands wear ship!"

Bush could recognise Roberts' voice hailing from the quarterdeck. The
deck under his feet steadied to the horizontal, and the distant hills
seemed to swing with the vessel. The masts creaked as the yards came
round. That must be Saman Point which they were rounding. The motion of
the ship had changed far more than would be the result of mere
alteration of course. She was not only on an even keel but she was in
quiet water, gliding along into the bay. Bush squatted down on his heels
by the muzzle of a gun and peered at the shore. This was the south side
of the peninsula at which he was looking, presenting a coastline toward
the bay nearly as steep as the one on the seaward side. There was the
fort on the crest and the Spanish flag waving over it. The excited
midshipman came scuttling down the ladder like a squirrel.

"Sir! Sir! Will you try a ranging shot at the batteries when your guns
bear?"

Bush ran a cold eye over him.

"Whose orders?" he asked.

"M--Mr. Buckland's, sir."

"Then say so. Very well. My respects to Mr. Buckland, and it will be a
long time before my guns are within range."

"Aye aye, sir."

There was smoke rising from the fort, and not powder smoke either. Bush
realised with something like a quiver of apprehension that probably it
was smoke from a furnace for heating shot; soon the fort would be
hurling red-hot shot at them, and Bush could see no chance of
retaliation; he would never be able to elevate his guns sufficiently to
reach the fort, while the fort, from its commanding position on the
crest, could reach the ship easily enough. He straightened himself up
and walked over to the port side to where Hornblower, in a similar
attitude, was peering out beside a gun.

"There's a point running out here" said Hornblower. "See the shallows
there? The channel must bend round them. And there's a battery on the
point--look at the smoke. They're heating shot."

"I daresay" said Bush.

Soon they would be under a sharp crossfire. He hoped they would not be
subjected to it for too long. He could hear orders being shouted on
deck, and the masts creaked as the yards came round; they were working
the _Renown_ round the bend.

"The fort's opened fire, sir" reported the master's mate in charge of
the forward guns on the starboard side.

"Very well, Mr. Purvis." He crossed over and looked out. "Did you see
where the shot fell?"

"No, sir."

"They're firing on this side, too, sir" reported Hornblower.

"Very well."

Bush saw the fort spurting white cannon smoke. Then straight in the line
between his eye and the fort, fifty yards from the side of the ship, a
pillar of water rose up from the golden surface, and within the same
instant of time something crashed into the side of the ship just above
Bush's head. A ricochet had bounded from the surface and had lodged
somewhere in the eighteen inches of oak that constituted the ship's
side. Then followed a devil's tattoo of crashes; a well-aimed salvo was
striking home.

"I might just reach the battery on this side now, sir" said Hornblower.

"Then try what you can do."

Now here was Buckland himself, hailing fretfully down the hatchway.

"Can't you open fire yet, Mr. Bush?"

"This minute, sir."

Hornblower was standing by the centre twenty-four-pounder. The gun
captain slid the rolling handspike under the gun carriage, and heaved
with all his weight. Two men at each side tackle tugged under his
direction to point the gun true. With the elevating coign quite free
from the breech the gun was at its highest angle of elevation. The gun
captain flipped up the iron apron over the touchhole, saw that the hole
was filled with powder, and with a shout of "Stand clear" he thrust his
smouldering linstock into it. The gun bellowed loud in the confined
space; some of the smoke came drifting back through the port.

"Just below, sir" reported Hornblower, standing at the next port. "When
the guns are hot they'll reach it."

"Carry on, then."

"Open fire, first division!" yelled Hornblower.

The four foremost guns crashed out almost together.

"Second division!"

Bush could feel the deck heaving under him with the shock of the
discharge and the recoil. Smoke came billowing back into the confined
space, acrid, bitter; and the din was paralysing.

"Try again, men!" yelled Hornblower. "Division captains, see that you
point true!"

There was a frightful crash close beside Bush and something screamed
past him to crash into the deck beam near his head. Something flying
through an open gunport had struck a gun on its reinforced breech. Two
men had fallen close beside it, one lying still and the other twisting
and turning in agony. Bush was about to give an order regarding them
when his attention was drawn to something more important. There was a
deep gash in the deck beam by his head and from the depths of the gash
smoke was curling. It was a red-hot shot that had struck the breech of
the gun and had apparently flown into fragments. A large part--the
largest part--had sunk deep into the beam and already the wood was
smouldering.

"Fire buckets here!" roared Bush.

Ten pounds of red-hot glowing metal lodged in the dry timbers of the
ship could start a blaze in a few seconds. At the same time there was a
rush of feet overhead, the sound of gear being moved about, and then the
clank-clank of pumps. So on the maindeck they were fighting fires too.
Hornblower's guns were thundering on the port side, the gun-trucks
roaring over the planking. Hell was unchained, and the smoke of hell was
eddying about him.

The masts creaked again with the swing of the yards; despite everything
the ship had to be sailed up the tortuous channel. He peered out through
a port, but his eye told him, as he forced himself to gauge the distance
calmly, that the fort on the crest was still beyond range. No sense in
wasting ammunition. He straightened himself and looked round the murky
deck. There was something strange in the feel of the ship under his
feet. He teetered on his toes to put his wild suspicions to the test.
There was the slightest perceptible slope to the deck--a strange
rigidity and permanence about it. Oh my God! Hornblower was looking
round at him and making an urgent gesture downwards to confirm the awful
thought. The _Renown_ was aground. She must have run so smoothly and
slowly up a mudbank as to lose her speed without any jerk perceptible.
But she must have put her bows far up on the bank for the slope of the
deck to be noticeable. There were more rending crashes as other shots
from the shore struck home, a fresh hurrying and bustle as the fire
parties ran to deal with the danger. Hard aground, and doomed to be
slowly shot to pieces by those cursed forts, if the shots did not set
them on fire to roast alive on the mudbank. Hornblower was beside him,
his watch in his hand.

"Tide's still rising" he said. "It's an hour before high water. But I'm
afraid we're pretty hard aground."

Bush could only look at him and swear, pouring out filth from his mouth
as the only means of relieving his overwrought feelings.

"Steady there, Duff!" yelled Hornblower, looking away from him at a
gun's crew gathered round their gun. "Swab that out properly! D'ye want
your hands blown off when you load?"

By the time Hornblower looked round at Bush again the latter had
regained his self-control.

"An hour to high water, you say?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. According to Carberry's calculations."

"God help us!"

"My shot's just reaching the battery on that point, sir. If I can keep
the embrasures swept I'll slow their rate of fire even if I don't
silence them."

Another crash as a shot struck home, and another.

"But the one across the channel's out of range."

"Yes" said Hornblower.

The powder boys were running through all the bustle with fresh charges
for the guns. And here was the messenger-midshipman threading his way
through them.

"Mr. Bush, sir! Will you please report to Mr. Buckland, sir? And we're
aground, under fire, sir."

"Shut your mouth. I leave you in charge here, Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir."

The sunlight on the quarterdeck was blinding. Buckland was standing
hatless at the rail, trying to control the working of his features.
There was a roar and a spluttering of steam as someone turned the jet of
a hose on a fiery fragment lodged in the bulkhead. Dead men in the
scuppers; wounded being carried off. A shot, or the splinters it had
sent flying, must have killed the man at the wheel so that the ship,
temporarily out of control, had run aground.

"We have to kedge off" said Buckland.

"Aye aye, sir."

That meant putting out an anchor and heaving in on the cable with the
capstan to haul the ship off the mud by main force. Bush looked round
him to confirm what he had gathered regarding the ship's position from
his restricted view below. Her bows were on the mud; she would have to
be hauled off stern first. A shot howled close overhead, and Bush had to
exert his self-control not to jump.

"You'll have to get a cable out aft through a stern port."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Roberts'll take the stream anchor off in the launch."

"Aye aye, sir."

The fact that Buckland omitted the formal "Mister" was significant of
the strain he was undergoing and of the emergency of the occasion.

"I'll take the men from my guns, sir" said Bush.

"Very good."

Now was the time for discipline and training to assert themselves; the
_Renown_ was fortunate in having a crew more than half composed of
seasoned men drilled in the blockade of Brest. At Plymouth she had only
been filled up with pressed men. What had merely been a drill, an
evolution, when the _Renown_ was one of the Channel Fleet, was now an
operation on which the life of the ship depended, not something to be
done perfunctorily in competition with the rest of the squadron. Bush
gathered his guns' crews around him and set about the task of rousing
out a cable and getting it aft to a port, while overhead Roberts' men
were manning stay tackles and yard tackles to sway out the launch.

Down below the heat between the decks was greater even than above with
the sun glaring down. The smoke from Hornblower's guns was eddying thick
under the beams; Hornblower was holding his hat in his hand and wiping
his streaming face with his handkerchief. He nodded as Bush appeared;
there was no need for Bush to explain the duty on which he was engaged.
With the guns still thundering and the smoke still eddying, powder boys
still running with fresh charges and fire parties bustling with their
buckets, Bush's men roused out the cable. The hundred fathoms of it
weighed a trifle over a couple of tons; clear heads and skilled
supervision were necessary to get the unwieldy cable laid out aft, but
Bush was at his best doing work which called for single-minded attention
to a single duty. He had it clear and faked down along the deck by the
time the cutter was under the stern to receive the end, and then he
watched the vast thing gradually snake out through the after port
without a hitch. The launch came into his line of vision as he stood
looking out, with the vast weight of the stream anchor dangling astern;
it was a relief to know that the tricky business of getting the anchor
into her had been successfully carried out. The second cutter carried
the spring cable from the hawsehole. Roberts was in command; Bush heard
him hail the cutter as the three boats drew off astern. There was a
sudden jet of water among the boats; one or other, if not both, of the
batteries ashore had shifted targets; a shot now into the launch would
be a disaster, and one into a cutter would be a serious setback.

"Pardon, sir" said Hornblower's voice beside him, and Bush turned back
from looking out over the glittering water.

"Well?"

"I could take some of the foremost guns and run 'em aft" said
Hornblower. "Shifting the weight would help."

"So it would" agreed Bush; Hornblower's face was streaked and grimy with
his exertions, as Bush noted while he considered if he had sufficient
authority to give the order on his own responsibility. "Better get
Buckland's permission. Ask him in my name if you like."

"Aye aye, sir."

These lower-deck twenty-four-pounders weighed more than two tons each;
the transfer of some from forward aft would be an important factor in
getting the bows off the mudbank. Bush took another glance through the
port. James, the midshipman in the first cutter, was turning to look
back to check that the cable was out in exact line with the length of
the ship. There would be a serious loss of tractive effort if there was
an angle in the cable from anchor to capstan. Launch and cutter were
coming together in preparation for dropping the anchor. All round them
the water suddenly boiled to a salvo from the shore; the skipping jets
of the ricochets showed that it was the fort on the hill that was firing
at them--and making good practice for that extreme range. The sun caught
an axe blade as it turned in the air in the sternsheets of the launch;
Bush saw the momentary flash. They were letting the anchor drop from
where it hung from the gallows in the stern. Thank God.

Hornblower's guns were still bellowing out, making the ship tremble with
their recoil, and at the same time a splintering crash over his head
told him that the other battery was still firing on the ship and still
scoring hits. Everything was still going on at once; Hornblower had a
gang of men at work dragging aft the foremost twenty-four-pounder on the
starboard side--a ticklish job with the rolling handspike under the
transom of the carriage. The trucks squealed horribly as the men
struggled to turn the cumbersome thing and thread their way along the
crowded deck. But Bush could spare Hornblower no more than a glance as
he hurried up to the maindeck to see for himself what was happening at
the capstan.

The men were already taking their places at the capstan bars under the
supervision of Smith and Booth; the maindeck guns were being stripped of
the last of their crews to supply enough hands. Naked to the waist, the
men were spitting on their hands and testing their foothold--there was
no need to tell them how serious the situation was; no need for Booth's
knotted rattan.

"Heave away!" hailed Buckland from the quarterdeck.

"Heave away!" yelled Booth. "Heave, and wake the dead!"

The men flung their weight on the bars and the capstan came round, the
pawls clanking rapidly as the capstan took up the slack. The boys with
the nippers at the messenger had to hurry to keep pace. Then the
intervals between the clanking of the pawls became longer as the capstan
turned more slowly. More slowly; clank--clank--clank. Now the strain was
coming; the bitts creaked as the cable tightened. Clank--clank. That was
a new cable, and it could be expected to stretch a trifle.

The sudden howl of a shot--what wanton fate had directed it here of all
places in the ship? Flying splinters and prostrate men; the shot had
ploughed through the whole crowded mass. Red blood was pouring out,
vivid in the sunshine; in understandable confusion the men drew away
from the bloody wrecks.

"Stand to your posts!" yelled Smith. "You, boys! Get those men out of
the way. Another capstan bar here! Smartly now!"

The ball which had wrought such fearful havoc had not spent all its
force on human flesh; it had gone on to shatter the cheekpiece of a gun
carriage and then to lodge in the ship's side. Nor had human blood
quenched it; smoke was rising on the instant from where it rested. Bush
himself seized a fire bucket and dashed its contents on the glowing
ball; steam blended with the smoke and the water spat and sputtered. No
single fire bucket could quench twenty-four pounds of red-hot iron, but
a fire party came running up to flood the smouldering menace.

The dead and the wounded had been dragged away and the men were at the
capstan bars again.

"Heave!" shouted Booth. Clank--clank--clank. Slowly and more slowly
still turned the capstan. Then it came to a dead stop while the bitts
groaned under the strain.

"Heave! Heave!"

Clank! Then reluctantly, and after a long interval, clank! Then no more.
The merciless sun beat down upon the men's straining backs; their horny
feet sought for a grip against the cleats on the deck as they shoved and
thrust against the bars. Bush went below again, leaving them straining
away; he could, and did, send plenty of men up from the lower gundeck to
treble-bank the capstan bars. There were men still hard at work in the
smoky twilight hauling the last possible gun aft, but Hornblower was
back among his guns supervising the pointing. Bush set his foot on the
cable. It was not like a rope, but like a wooden spar, as rigid and
unyielding. Then through the sole of his shoe Bush felt the slightest
tremor, the very slightest; the men at the capstan were putting their
reinforced strength against the bars. The clank of one more pawl gained
reverberated along the ship's timbers; the cable shuddered a trifle more
violently and then stiffened into total rigidity again. It did not creep
over an eighth of an inch under Bush's foot, although he knew that at
the capstan a hundred and fifty men were straining their hearts out at
the bars. One of Hornblower's guns went off; Bush felt the jar of the
recoil through the cable. Faintly down the hatchways came the shouts of
encouragement from Smith and Booth at the capstan, but not an inch of
gain could be noted at the cable. Hornblower came and touched his hat to
Bush.

"D'you notice any movement when I fire a gun, sir?" As he asked the
question he turned and waved to the captain of a midship gun which was
loaded and run out. The gun captain brought the linstock down on the
touchhole, and the gun roared out and came recoiling back through the
smoke. Bush's foot on the cable recorded the effect.

"Only the jar--no--yes." Inspiration came to Bush. To the question he
asked Bush already knew the answer Hornblower would give. "What are you
thinking of?"

"I could fire all my guns at once. That might break the suction, sir."

So it might, indeed. The _Renown_ was lying on mud, which was clutching
her in a firm grip. If she could be severely shaken while the hawser was
maintained at full tension the grip might be broken.

"I think it's worth trying, by God" said Bush.

"Very good, sir. I'll have my guns loaded and ready in three minutes,
sir." Hornblower turned to his battery and funnelled his hands round his
mouth. "Cease fire! Cease fire, all!"

"I'll tell 'em at the capstan" said Bush.

"Very good, sir." Hornblower went on giving his orders. "Load and
double-shot your guns. Prime and run out."

That was the last that Bush heard for the moment as he went up on the
maindeck and made his suggestion to Smith, who nodded in instant
agreement.

"'Vast heaving!" shouted Smith, and the sweating men at the bars eased
their weary backs.

An explanation was necessary to Buckland on the quarterdeck; he saw the
force of the argument. The unfortunate man, who was watching the failure
of his first venture in independent command, and whose ship was in such
deadly peril, was gripping at the rail and wringing it with his two
hands as if he would twist it like a corkscrew. In the midst of all this
there was a piece of desperately important news that Smith had to give.

"Roberts is dead" he said, out of the side of his mouth.

"No!"

"He's dead. A shot cut him in two in the launch."

"Good God!"

It was to Bush's credit that he felt sorrow at the death of Roberts
before his mind recorded the fact that he was now first lieutenant of a
ship of the line. But there was no time now to think of either sorrow or
rejoicing, not with the _Renown_ aground and under fire. Bush hailed
down the hatchway.

"Below, there! Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!"

"Are your guns ready?"

"Another minute, sir."

"Better take the strain" said Bush to Smith; and then, louder, down the
hatchway, "Await my order, Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir."

The men settled themselves at the capstan bars again, braced their feet,
and heaved.

"Heave!" shouted Booth. "Heave!"

The men might be pushing at the side of a church, so little movement did
they get from the bars after the first inch.

"Heave!"

Bush left them and ran below. He set his foot on the rigid cable and
nodded to Hornblower. The fifteen guns--two had been dragged aft from
the port side--were run out and ready, the crews awaiting orders.

"Captains, take your linstocks!" shouted Hornblower. "All you others,
stand clear! Now, I shall give you the words 'one, two, three'. At
'three' you touch your linstocks down. Understand?"

There was a buzz of agreement.

"All ready? All linstocks glowing?" The gun captains swung them about to
get them as bright as possible. "Then one--two--three!"

Down came the linstocks on the touchholes, and almost simultaneously the
guns roared out; even with the inevitable variation in the amounts of
powder in the touchholes there was not a second between the first and
the last of the fifteen explosions. Bush, his foot on the cable, felt
the ship heave with the recoil--double-shotting the guns had increased
the effect. The smoke came eddying into the sweltering heat, but Bush
had no attention to give to it. The cable moved under his foot with the
heave of the ship. Surely it was moving along. It was! He had to shift
the position of his foot. The clank of a newly gained pawl on the
windlass could be heard by everyone. Clank--clank. Someone in the smoke
started to cheer and others took it up.

"Silence!" bellowed Hornblower.

Clank--clank--clank. Reluctant sounds; but the ship was moving. The
cable was coming in slowly, like a mortally wounded monster. If only
they could keep her on the move! Clank--clank--clank. The interval
between the sounds was growing shorter--even Bush had to admit that to
himself. The cable was coming in faster--faster.

"Take charge here, Mr. Hornblower" said Bush, and sprang for the
maindeck. If the ship were free there would be urgent matters for the
first lieutenant to attend to. The capstan pawls seemed almost to be
playing a merry tune, so rapidly did they sound as the capstan turned.

Undoubtedly there was much to be attended to on deck. There were
decisions which must be made at once. Bush touched his hat to Buckland.

"Any orders, sir?"

Buckland turned unhappy eyes on him.

"We've lost the flood" he said.

This must be the highest moment of the tide; if they were to touch
ground again, kedging off would not be so simple an operation.

"Yes, sir" said Bush.

The decision could only lie with Buckland; no one else could share the
responsibility. But it was terribly hard for a man to have to admit
defeat in his very first command. Buckland looked as if for inspiration
round the bay, where the red-and-gold flags of Spain flew above the
banked-up powder smoke of the batteries--no inspiration could be found
there.

"We can only get out with the land breeze" said Buckland.

"Yes, sir."

There was almost no longer for the land breeze to blow, either, thought
Bush; Buckland knew it as well as he did. A shot from the fort on the
hill struck into the main chains at that moment, with a jarring crash
and a shower of splinters. They heard the call for the fire party, and
with that Buckland reached the bitter decision.

"Heave in on the spring cable" he ordered. "Get her round head to sea."

"Aye aye, sir."

Retreat--defeat; that was what that order meant. But defeat had to be
faced; even with that order given there was much that had to be done to
work the ship out of the imminent danger in which she lay. Bush turned
to give the orders.

"'Vast heaving at the capstan, there!"

The clanking ceased and the _Renown_ rode free in the muddy, churned-up
waters of the bay. To retreat she would have to turn tail, reverse
herself in that confined space, and work her way out to sea. Fortunately
the means were immediately available: by heaving in on the bow cable
which had so far lain idle between hawsehole and anchor the ship could
be brought short round.

"Cast off the stern cable messenger!"

The orders came quickly and easily; it was a routine piece of
seamanship, even though it had to be carried out under the fire of
red-hot shot. There were the boats still manned and afloat to drag the
battered vessel out of harm's way if the precarious breeze should die
away. Round came the _Renown's_ bows under the pull of the bow cable as
the capstan set to work upon it. Even though the wind was dying away to
a sweltering calm movement was obvious--but the shock of defeat and the
contemplation of that accursed artillery! While the capstan was dragging
the ship up to her anchor the necessity for keeping the ship on the move
occurred to Bush. He touched his hat to Buckland again.

"Shall I warp her down the bay, sir?"

Buckland had been standing by the binnacle staring vacantly at the fort.
It was not a question of physical cowardice--that was obvious--but the
shock of defeat and the contemplation of the future had made the man
temporarily incapable of logical thought. But Bush's question prodded
him back into dealing with the current situation.

"Yes" said Buckland, and Bush turned away, happy to have something
useful to do which he well knew how to do.

Another anchor had to be cockbilled at the port bow, another cable
roused out. A hail to James, in command of the boats since Roberts'
death, told him of the new evolution and called him under the bows for
the anchor to be lowered down to the launch--the trickiest part of the
whole business. Then the launch's crew bent to their oars and towed
ahead, their boat crank with the ponderous weight that it bore dangling
aft and with the cable paying out astern of it. Yard by yard, to the
monotonous turning of the capstan, the _Renown_ crept up to her first
anchor, and when that cable was straight up and down the flutter of a
signal warned James, now far ahead in the launch, to drop the anchor his
boat carried and return for the stream anchor which was about to be
hauled up. The stern cable, now of no more use, had to be unhitched and
got in, the effort of the capstan transferred from one cable to the
other, while the two cutters were given lines by which they could
contribute their tiny effort to the general result, towing the ponderous
ship and giving her the smallest conceivable amount of motion which yet
was valuable when it was a matter of such urgency to withdraw the ship
out of range.

Down below Hornblower was at work dragging forward the guns he had
previously dragged aft; the rumble and squeal of the trucks over the
planking was audible through the ship over the monotonous clanking of
the capstan. Overhead blazed the pitiless sun, softening the pitch in
the seams, while yard after painful yard, cable's length after cable's
length, the ship crept on down the bay out of range of the red-hot shot,
over the glittering still water; down the bay of Saman until at last
they were out of range, and could pause while the men drank a niggardly
half-pint of warm odorous water before turning back to their labours. To
bury the dead, to repair the damages, and to digest the realisation of
defeat. Maybe to wonder if the captain's malign influence still
persisted, mad and helpless though he was.




                                  VIII


When the tropic night closed down upon the battered _Renown_, as she
stood off the land under easy sail, just enough to stiffen her to ride
easily over the Atlantic rollers that the trade wind, reinforced by the
sea breeze, sent hurrying under her bows, Buckland sat anxiously
discussing the situation with his new first lieutenant. Despite the
breeze, the little cabin was like an oven; the two lanterns which hung
from the deck beams to illuminate the chart on the table seemed to heat
the room unbearably. Bush felt the perspiration prickling under his
uniform, and his stock constricted his thick neck so that every now and
again he put two fingers into it and tugged, without relief. It would
have been the simplest matter in the world to take off his heavy uniform
coat and unhook his stock, but it never crossed his mind that he should
do so. Bodily discomfort was something that one bore without complaint
in a hard world; habit and pride both helped.

"Then you think we should bear up for Jamaica?" asked Buckland.

"I wouldn't go as far as to advise it, sir" replied Bush, cautiously.

The responsibility was Buckland's, entirely Buckland's, by the law of
the navy, and Bush was a little irked at Buckland's trying to share it.

"But what else can we do?" asked Buckland. "What do you suggest?"

Bush remembered the plan of campaign Hornblower had sketched out to him,
but he did not put it instantly forward; he had not weighed it
sufficiently in his mind--he did not even know if he thought it
practicable. Instead he temporised.

"If we head for Jamaica it'll be with our tail between our legs, sir" he
said.

"That's perfectly true" agreed Buckland, with a helpless gesture.
"There's the captain----"

"Yes" said Bush. "There's the captain."

If the _Renown_ were to report to the admiral at Kingston with a
resounding success to her record there might not be too diligent an
inquiry into past events; but if she came limping in, defeated,
battered, it would be far more likely that inquiry might be made into
the reasons why her captain had been put under restraint, why Buckland
had read the secret orders, why he had taken upon himself the
responsibility of making the attack upon Saman.

"It was young Hornblower who said the same thing to me" complained
Buckland pettishly. "I wish I'd never listened to him."

"What did you ask him, sir?" asked Bush.

"Oh, I can't say that I asked him anything" replied Buckland, pettishly
again. "We were yarning together on the quarterdeck one evening. It was
his watch."

"I remember, sir" prompted Bush.

"We talked. The infernal little whippersnapper said just what you were
saying--I don't remember how it started. But then it was a question of
going to Antigua. Hornblower said that it would be better if we had the
chance to achieve something before we faced an inquiry about the
captain. He said it was my opportunity. So it was, I suppose. My great
chance. But with Hornblower talking you'd think I was going to be posted
captain tomorrow. And now----"

Buckland's gesture indicated how much chance he thought he had of ever
being posted captain now.

Bush thought about the report Buckland would have to make: nine killed
and twenty wounded; the _Renown's_ attack ignominiously beaten off;
Saman Bay as safe a refuge for privateers as ever. He was glad he was
not Buckland, but at the same time he realised that there was grave
danger of his being tarred with the same brush. He was first lieutenant
now, he was one of the officers who had acquiesced, if nothing more, in
the displacement of Sawyer from command, and it would take a victory to
invest him with any virtue at all in the eyes of his superiors.

"Damn it" said Buckland in pathetic self-defence, "we did our best.
Anyone could run aground in that channel. It wasn't our fault that the
helmsman was killed. Nothing could get up the bay under that crossfire."

"Hornblower was suggesting a landing on the seaward side. In Scotchman's
Bay, sir." Bush was speaking as cautiously as he could.

"Another of Hornblower's suggestions?" said Buckland.

"I think that's what he had in mind from the start, sir. A landing and a
surprise attack."

Probably it was because the attempt had failed, but Bush now could see
the unreason of taking a wooden ship into a situation where red-hot
cannon balls could be fired into her.

"What do _you_ think?"

"Well, sir----"

Bush was not sure enough about what he thought to be able to express
himself with any clarity. But if they had failed once they might as well
fail twice; as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Bush was a
sturdy soul; it went against his grain to yield in face of difficulties,
and he was irritated at the thought of a tame retreat after a single
repulse. The difficulty was to devise an alternative plan of campaign.
He tried to say all these things to Buckland, and was sufficiently
carried away to be incautious.

"I see" said Buckland. In the light of the swaying lamps the play of the
shadows on his face accentuated the struggle in his expression. He came
to a sudden decision. "Let's hear what he has to say."

"Aye aye, sir. Smith has the watch. Hornblower has the middle--I expect
he has turned in until he's called."

Buckland was as weary as anyone in the ship--wearier than most, it
seemed likely. The thought of Hornblower stretched at ease in his cot
while his superiors sat up fretting wrought Buckland up to a pitch of
decision that he might not otherwise have reached, determining him to
act at once instead of waiting till the morrow.

"Pass the word for him" he ordered.

Hornblower came into the cabin with commendable promptitude, his hair
tousled and his clothes obviously hastily thrown on. He threw a nervous
glance round the cabin as he entered; obviously he suffered from not
unreasonable doubts as to why he had been summoned thus into the
presence of his superiors.

"What plan is this I've been hearing about?" asked Buckland. "You had
some suggestion for storming the fort, I understand, Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower did not answer immediately; he was marshalling his arguments
and reconsidering his first plan in the light of the new situation--Bush
could see that it was hardly fair that Hornblower should be called upon
to state his plan now that the _Renown_ had made one attempt and had
failed after sacrificing the initial advantage of surprise. But Bush
could see that he was reordering his ideas.

"I thought a landing might have more chance, sir" he said. "But that was
before the Dons knew there was a ship of the line in the neighbourhood."

"And now you don't think so?"

Buckland's tone was a mixture of relief and disappointment--relief that
he might not have to reach any further decisions, and disappointment
that some easy way of gaining success was not being put forward. But
Hornblower had had time now to sort out his ideas, and to think about
times and distances. That showed in his face.

"I think something might well be tried, sir, as long as it was tried at
once."

"At once?" This was night, the crew were weary, and Buckland's tone
showed surprise at the suggestion of immediate activity. "You don't mean
tonight?"

"Tonight might be the best time, sir. The Dons have seen us driven off
with our tail between our legs--excuse me, sir, but that's how it'll
look to them, at least. The last they saw of us was beating out of
Saman Bay at sunset. They'll be pleased with themselves. You know how
they are, sir. An attack at dawn from another quarter, overland, would
be the last thing they'd expect."

That sounded like sense to Bush, and he made a small approving noise,
the most he would venture towards making a contribution to the debate.

"How would you make this attack, Mr. Hornblower?" asked Buckland.

Hornblower had his ideas in order now; the weariness disappeared and
there was a glow of enthusiasm in his face.

"The wind's fair for Scotchman's Bay, sir. We could be back there in
less than two hours--before midnight. By the time we arrive we can have
the landing party told off and prepared. A hundred seamen and the
marines. There's a good landing beach there--we saw it yesterday. The
country inland must be marshy, before the hills of the peninsula start
again, but we can land on the peninsula side of the marsh. I marked the
place yesterday, sir."

"Well?"

Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not
to be able to continue from that point with a single leap of his
imagination.

"The landing party can make their way up to the crest without
difficulty, sir. There's no question of losing their way--the sea one
side and Saman Bay on the other. They can move forward along the crest.
At dawn they can rush the fort. What with the marsh and the cliffs the
Dons'll keep a poor lookout on that side, I fancy, sir."

"You make it sound very easy, Mr. Hornblower. But--a hundred and eighty
men?"

"Enough, I think, sir."

"What makes you think so?"

"There were six guns firing at us from the fort, sir. Ninety men at
most--sixty more likely. Ammunition party; men to heat the furnaces. A
hundred and fifty men altogether; perhaps as few as a hundred."

"But why should that be all they had?"

"The Dons have nothing to fear on that side of the island. They're
holding out against the blacks, and the French, maybe, and the English
in Jamaica. There's nothing to tempt the blacks to attack 'em across the
marshes. It's south of Saman Bay that the danger lies. The Don'll have
every man that can carry a musket on that side. That's where the cities
are. That's where this fellow Toussaint, or whatever his name is, will
be threatening 'em, sir."

The last word of this long speech came as a fortunate afterthought;
Hornblower clearly was restraining himself from pointing out the obvious
too didactically to his superior officer. And Bush could see Buckland
squirm in discomfort at this casual mention of blacks and French. Those
secret orders--which Bush had not been allowed to read--must lay down
some drastic instructions regarding the complicated political situation
in Santo Domingo, where the revolted slaves, the French, and the
Spaniards (nominal allies though these last might be, elsewhere in the
world) all contended for the mastery.

"We'll leave the blacks and the French out of this" said Buckland,
confirming Bush's suspicions.

"Yes, sir. But the Dons won't" said Hornblower, not very abashed.
"They're more afraid of the blacks than of us at present."

"So you think this attack might succeed?" asked Buckland, desperately
changing the subject.

"I think it might, sir. But time's getting on."

Buckland sat looking at his two juniors in painful indecision, and Bush
felt full sympathy for him. A second bloody repulse--possibly something
even worse, the cutting off and capitulation of the entire landing party
would be Buckland's certain ruin.

"With the fort in our hands, sir" said Hornblower, "we can deal with the
privateers up the bay. They could never use it as an anchorage again."

"That's true" agreed Buckland. It would be a neat and economical
fulfilment of his orders; it would restore his credit.

The timbers of the ship creaked rhythmically as the _Renown_ rode over
the waves. The trade wind came blowing into the cabin, relieving it of
some of its stuffiness, breathing cooler air on Bush's sweaty face.

"Damn it" said Buckland with sudden reckless decision, "let's do it."

"Very good, sir" said Hornblower.

Bush had to restrain himself from saying something that would express
his pleasure; Hornblower had used a neutral tone--too obvious pushing of
Buckland along the path of action might have a reverse effect and goad
him into reversing his decision even now.

And although this decision had been reached there was another one,
almost equally important, which had to be reached at once.

"Who will be in command?" asked Buckland. It could only be a rhetorical
question; nobody except Buckland could possibly supply the answer, and
to Bush and Hornblower this was obvious. They could only wait.

"It'd be poor Roberts' duty if he had lived" said Buckland, and then he
turned to look at Bush.

"Mr. Bush, you will take command."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush got up from his chair and stood with his head bowed uneasily under
the deck timbers above.

"Who do you want to take with you?"

Hornblower had been on his feet during the whole interview; now he
shifted his weight self-consciously from one foot to the other.

"Do you require me any more, sir?" he said to Buckland.

Bush could not tell by looking at him what emotions were at work in him;
he had the pose merely of a respectful, attentive officer. Bush thought
about Smith, the remaining lieutenant in the ship. He thought about
Whiting, the captain of marines, who would certainly have to take part
in the landing. There were midshipmen and master's mates to be used as
subordinate officers. He was going to be responsible for a risky and
desperate operation of war--now it was his own credit, as well as
Buckland's, that was at stake. Whom did he want at his side at this, one
of the most important moments in his career? Another lieutenant, if he
asked for one, would be second in command, might expect to have a voice
in the decisions to be made.

"Do we need Mr. Hornblower any more, Mr. Bush?" asked Buckland.

Hornblower would be an active subordinate in command. A restless one,
would be another way of expressing it. He would be apt to criticise, in
thought at least. Bush did not think he cared to exercise command with
Hornblower listening to his every order. This whole internal debate of
Bush's did not take definite shape, with formal arguments pro and con;
it was rather a conflict of prejudices and instincts, the result of
years of experience, which Bush could never have expressed in words. He
decided he needed neither Hornblower nor Smith at the moment before he
looked again at Hornblower's face. Hornblower was trying to remain
impassive; but Bush could see, with sympathetic insight, how desperately
anxious he was to be invited to join in the expedition. Any officer
would want to go, of course, would yearn to be given an opportunity to
distinguish himself, but actuating Hornblower was some motive more
urgent than this. Hornblower's hands were at his sides, in the
"attention" position, but Bush noticed how the long fingers tapped
against his thighs, restrained themselves, and then tapped again
uncontrollably. It was not cool judgment that finally brought Bush to
his decision, but something quite otherwise. It might be called
kindliness; it might be called affection. He had grown fond of this
volatile, versatile young man, and he had no doubts now as to his
physical courage.

"I'd like Mr. Hornblower to come with me, sir" he said; it seemed almost
without his volition that the words came from his mouth; a softhearted
elder brother might have said much the same thing, burdening himself
with the presence of a much younger brother out of kindness of heart
when contemplating some pleasant day's activities.

And as he spoke he received a glance in return from Hornblower that
stifled at birth any regrets he may have felt at allowing his sentiments
to influence his judgment. There was so much of relief, so much of
gratitude, in the way Hornblower looked at him that Bush experienced a
kindly glow of magnanimity; he felt a bigger and better man for what he
had done. Naturally he did not for a moment see anything incongruous
about Hornblower's being grateful for a decision that would put him in
peril of his life.

"Very well, Mr. Bush" said Buckland; typically, he wavered for a space
after agreeing. "That will leave me with only one lieutenant."

"Carberry could take watch, sir" replied Bush. "And there are several
among the master's mates who are good watch-keeping officers."

It was as natural for Bush to argue down opposition once he had
committed himself as it might be for a fish to snap at a lure.

"Very well" said Buckland again, almost with a sigh. "And what is it
that's troubling you, Mr. Hornblower?"

"Nothing, sir."

"There was something you wanted to say. Out with it."

"Nothing important, sir. It can wait. But I was wondering about altering
course, sir. We can head for Scotchman's Bay now and waste no time."

"I suppose we can." Buckland knew as well as any officer in the navy
that the whims of wind and weather were unpredictable, and that action
upon any decision at sea should in consequence never be delayed, but he
was likely to forget it unless he were prodded. "Oh, very well. We'd
better get her before the wind, then. What's the course?"

After the bustle of wearing the ship round had died away Buckland led
the way back to his cabin and threw himself wearily into his chair
again. He put on a whimsical air to conceal the anxiety which was now
consuming him afresh.

"We've satisfied Mr. Hornblower for a moment" he said. "Now let's hear
what you need, Mr. Bush."

The discussion regarding the proposed expedition proceeded along normal
lines; the men to be employed, the equipment that was to be issued to
them, the rendezvous that had to be arranged for next morning.
Hornblower kept himself studiously in the background as these points
were settled.

"Any suggestions, Mr. Hornblower?" asked Bush at length. Politeness, if
not policy as well, dictated the question.

"Only one, sir. We might have with us some boat grapnels with lines
attached. If we have to scale the walls they might be useful."

"That's so" agreed Bush. "Remember to see that they're issued."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Do you need a messenger, Mr. Hornblower?" asked Buckland.

"It might be better if I had one, sir."

"Anyone in particular?"

"I'd prefer to have Wellard, sir, if you've no objection. He's
cool-headed and thinks quickly."

"Very well." Buckland looked hard at Hornblower at the mention of
Wellard's name, but said nothing more on the subject for the moment.

"Anything else? No? Mr. Bush? All settled?"

"Yes, sir" said Bush.

Buckland drummed with his fingers on the table. The recent alteration of
course had not been the decisive move; it did not commit him to
anything. But the next order would. If the hands were roused out, arms
issued to them, instructions given for a landing, he could hardly draw
back. Another attempt; maybe another failure; maybe a disaster. It was
not in his power to command success, while it was certainly in his power
to obviate failure by simply not risking it. He looked up and met the
gaze of his two subordinates turned on him remorselessly. No, it was too
late now--he had been mistaken when he thought he could draw back. He
could not.

"Then it only remains to issue the orders" he said. "Will you see to it,
if you please?"

"Aye aye, sir" said Bush.

He and Hornblower were about to leave the cabin when Buckland asked the
question he had wanted to ask for so long. It necessitated an abrupt
change of subject, even though the curiosity that inspired the question
had been reawakened by Hornblower's mention of Wellard. But Buckland,
full of the virtuous glow of having reached a decision, felt emboldened
to ask the question; it was a moment of exaltation in any case, and
confidences were possible.

"By the way, Mr. Hornblower" he said, and Hornblower halted beside the
door, "how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?"

Bush saw the expressionless mask take the place of the eager look on
Hornblower's face. The answer took a moment or two to come.

"I think he must have overbalanced, sir" said Hornblower, with the
utmost respect and a complete absence of feeling in his voice. "The ship
was lively that night, you remember, sir."

"I suppose she was" said Buckland; disappointment and perplexity were
audible in his tone. He stared at Hornblower, but there was nothing to
be gleaned from that face. "Oh, very well then. Carry on."

"Aye aye, sir."




                                   IX


The sea breeze had died away with the cooling of the land, and it was
that breathless time of night when air pressures over island and ocean
were evenly balanced. Not many miles out at sea the trade winds could
blow, as they blew eternally, but here on the beach a humid calm
prevailed. The long swell of the Atlantic broke momentarily at the first
hint of shallows far out, but lived on, like some once vigorous man now
feeble after an illness, to burst rhythmically in foam on the beach to
the westward; here, where the limestone cliffs of the Saman peninsula
began, there was a sheltered corner where a small watercourse had worn a
wide gully in the cliff, at the most easterly end of the wide beach. And
sea and surf and beach seemed to be afire; in the dark night the
phosphorescence of the water was vividly bright, heaving up with the
surf, running up the beach with the breakers, and lighting up the oar
blades as the launches pulled to shore. The boats seemed to be floating
on fire which derived new life from their passage; each launch left a
wake of fire behind it, with a vivid streak on either side where the oar
blades had bitten into the water.

Both landing and ascent were easy at the foot of the gully; the launches
nuzzled their bows into the sand and the landing party had only to climb
out, thigh-deep in the water--thigh-deep in liquid fire--holding their
weapons and cartridge boxes high to make sure they were not wetted. Even
the experienced seamen in the party were impressed by the brightness of
the phosphorescence; the raw hands were excited by it enough to raise a
bubbling chatter which called for a sharp order to repress it. Bush was
one of the earliest to climb out of his launch; he splashed ashore and
stood on the unaccustomed solidity of the beach while the others
followed him; the water streamed down out of his soggy trouser legs.

A dark figure appeared before him, coming from the direction of the
other launch.

"My party is all ashore, sir" it reported.

"Very good, Mr. Hornblower."

"I'll start up the gully with the advanced guard then, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Hornblower. Carry out your orders."

Bush was tense and excited, as far as his stoical training and
phlegmatic temperament would allow him to be; he would have liked to
plunge into action at once, but the careful scheme worked out in
consultation with Hornblower did not allow it. He stood aside while his
own party was being formed up and Hornblower called the other division
to order.

"Starbowlines! Follow me closely. Every man is to keep in touch with the
man ahead of him. Remember your muskets aren't loaded--it's no use
snapping them if we meet an enemy. Cold steel for that. If any one of
you is fool enough to load and fire he'll get four dozen at the gangway
tomorrow. That I promise you. Woolton!"

"Sir!"

"Bring up the rear. Now follow me, you men, starting from the right of
the line."

Hornblower's party filed off into the darkness. Already the marines were
coming ashore, their scarlet tunics black against the phosphorescence.
The white crossbelts were faintly visible side by side in a rigid
two-deep line as they formed up, the non-commissioned officers snapping
low-voiced orders at them. With his left hand still resting on his sword
hilt Bush checked once more with his right hand that his pistols were in
his belt and his cartridges in his pocket. A shadowy figure halted
before him with a military click of the heels.

"All present and correct, sir. Ready to march off" said Whiting's voice.

"Thank you. We may as well start. Mr. Abbott!"

"Sir!"

"You have your orders. I'm leaving with the marine detachment now.
Follow us."

"Aye aye, sir."

It was a long hard climb up the gully; the sand soon was replaced by
rock, flat ledges of limestone, but even among the limestone there was a
sturdy vegetation, fostered by the tropical rains which fell profusely
on this northern face. Only in the bed of the watercourse itself, dry
now with all the water having seeped into the limestone, was there a
clear passage, if clear it could be called, for it was jagged and
irregular, with steep ledges up which Bush had to heave himself. In a
few minutes he was streaming with sweat, but he climbed on stubbornly.
Behind him the marines followed clumsily, boots clashing, weapons and
equipment clinking, so that anyone might think the noise would be heard
a mile away. Someone slipped and swore.

"Keep a still tongue in yer 'ead!" snapped a corporal.

"Silence!" snarled Whiting over his shoulder.

Onward and upward; here and there the vegetation was lofty enough to cut
off the faint light from the stars, and Bush had to grope his way along
over the rock, his breath coming with difficulty, powerfully built man
though he was. Fireflies showed here and there as he climbed; it was
years since he had seen fireflies last, but he paid no attention to them
now. They excited irrepressible comment among the marines following him,
though; Bush felt a bitter rage against the uncontrolled louts who were
imperilling everything--their own lives as well as the success of the
expedition--by their silly comments.

"I'll deal with 'em, sir" said Whiting, and dropped back to let the
column overtake him.

Higher up a squeaky voice, moderated as best its owner knew how, greeted
him from the darkness ahead.

"Mr. Bush, sir?"

"Yes."

"This is Wellard, sir. Mr. Hornblower sent me back here to act as guide.
There's grassland beginning just above here."

"Very well" said Bush.

He halted for a space, wiping his streaming face with his coat sleeve,
while the column closed up behind him. It was not much farther to climb
when he moved on again; Wellard led him past a clump of shadowy trees,
and, sure enough, Bush felt grass under his feet, and he could walk more
freely, uphill still, but only a gentle slope compared with the gully.
There was a low challenge ahead of them.

"Friend" said Wellard. "This is Mr. Bush here."

"Glad to see you, sir" said another voice--Hornblower's.

Hornblower detached himself from the darkness and came forward to make
his report.

"My party is formed up just ahead, sir. I've sent Saddler and two
reliable men on as scouts."

"Very good" said Bush, and meant it.

The marine sergeant was reporting to Whiting.

"All present, sir, 'cept for Chapman, sir. 'E's sprained 'is ankle, or
'e says 'e 'as, sir. Left 'im be'ind back there, sir."

"Let your men rest, Captain Whiting" said Bush.

Life in the confines of a ship of the line was no sort of training for
climbing cliffs in the tropics, especially as the day before had been
exhausting. The marines lay down, some of them with groans of relief
which drew the unmistakable reproof of savage kicks from the sergeant's
toe.

"We're on the crest here, sir" said Hornblower. "You can see over into
the bay from that side there."

"Three miles from the fort, d'ye think?"

Bush did not mean to ask a question, for he was in command, but
Hornblower was so ready with his report that Bush could not help doing
so.

"Perhaps. Less than four, anyway, sir. Dawn in four hours from now, and
the moon rises in half an hour."

"Yes."

"There's some sort of track or path along the crest, sir, as you'd
expect. It should lead to the fort."

"Yes."

Hornblower was a good subordinate, clearly. Bush realised now that there
would naturally be a track along the crest of the peninsula--that would
be the obvious thing--but the probability had not occurred to him until
that moment.

"If you will permit me, sir" went on Hornblower, "I'll leave James in
command of my party and push on ahead with Saddler and Wellard and see
how the land lies."

"Very good, Mr. Hornblower."

Yet no sooner had Hornblower left than Bush felt a vague irritation. It
seemed that Hornblower was taking too much on himself. Bush was not a
man who would tolerate any infringement upon his authority. However,
Bush was distracted from this train of thought by the arrival of the
second division of seamen, who came sweating and gasping up to join the
main body. With the memory of his own weariness when he arrived still
fresh in his mind Bush allowed them a rest period before he should push
on with his united force. Even in the darkness a cloud of insects had
discovered the sweating force, and a host of them sang round Bush's ears
and bit him viciously at every opportunity. The crew of the _Renown_ had
been long at sea and were tender and desirable in consequence. Bush
slapped at himself and swore, and every man in his command did the same.

"Mr. Bush, sir?"

It was Hornblower back again.

"Yes?"

"It's a definite trail, sir. It crosses a gully just ahead, but it's not
a serious obstacle."

"Thank you, Mr. Hornblower. We'll move forward. Start with your
division, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir."

The advance began. The domed limestone top of the peninsula was covered
with long grass, interspersed with occasional trees. Off the track
walking was a little difficult on account of the toughness and
irregularity of the bunches of high grass, but on the track it was
comparatively easy. The men could move along it in something like a
solid body, well closed up. Their eyes, thoroughly accustomed to the
darkness, could see in the starlight enough to enable them to pick their
way. The gully that Hornblower had reported was only a shallow
depression with easily sloping sides and presented no difficulty.

Bush plodded on at the head of the marines with Whiting at his side, the
darkness all about him like a warm blanket. There was a kind of
dreamlike quality about the march, induced perhaps by the fact that Bush
had not slept for twenty-four hours and was stupid with the fatigues he
had undergone during that period. The path was ascending
gently--naturally, of course, since it was rising to the highest part of
the peninsula where the fort was sited.

"Ah!" said Whiting suddenly.

The path had wandered to the right, away from the sea and towards the
bay, and now they had crossed the backbone of the peninsula and opened
up the view over the bay. On their right they could see clear down the
bay to the sea, and there it was not quite dark, for above the horizon a
little moonlight was struggling through the clouds that lay at the lower
edge of the sky.

"Mr. Bush, sir?"

This was Wellard, his voice more under command this time.

"Here I am."

"Mr. Hornblower sent me back again, sir. There's another gully ahead,
crossing the path. An' we've come across some cattle, sir. Asleep on the
hill. We disturbed 'em, and they're wandering about."

"Thank you, I understand" said Bush.

Bush had the lowest opinion of the ordinary man and the subordinary man
who constituted the great bulk of his command. He knew perfectly well
that if they were to blunder into cattle along this path they would
think they were meeting the enemy. There would be excitement and noise,
even if there was no shooting.

"Tell Mr. Hornblower I am going to halt for fifteen minutes."

"Aye aye, sir."

A rest and opportunity to close up the column were desirable for the
weary men in any case, as long as there was time to spare. And during
the rest the men could be personally and individually warned about the
possibility of encountering cattle. Bush knew that merely to pass the
word back down the column would be unsatisfactory, actually unsafe, with
these tired and slow-witted men. He gave the order and the column came
to a halt, of course with sleepy men bumping into the men in front of
them with a clatter and a murmur that the whispered curses of the petty
officers with difficulty suppressed. While the warning was being
circulated among the men lying in the grass another trouble was reported
to Bush by a petty officer.

"Seaman Black, sir. 'E's drunk."

"Drunk?"

"'E must 'ave 'ad sperrits in 'is canteen, sir. You can smell it on 'is
breff. Dunno 'ow 'e got it, sir."

With a hundred and eighty seamen and marines under his command one man
at least was likely to be drunk. The ability of the British sailor to
get hold of liquor and his readiness to over-indulge in it were part of
his physical make-up, like his ears or his eyes.

"Where is he now?"

"'E made a noise, sir, so I clipped 'im on the ear'ole an' 'e's quiet
now, sir."

There was much left untold in that brief sentence, as Bush could guess,
but he had no reason to make further inquiry while he thought of what to
do.

"Choose a steady seaman and leave him with Black when we go on."

"Aye aye, sir."

So the landing party was the weaker now by the loss of the services not
only of the drunken Black but of the man who must be left behind to keep
him out of mischief. But it was lucky that there were not more
stragglers than there had been up to now.

As the column moved forward again Hornblower's unmistakable gangling
figure showed up ahead, silhouetted against the faint moonlight. He fell
into step beside Bush and made his report.

"I've sighted the fort, sir."

"You have?"

"Yes, sir. A mile ahead from here, or thereabouts, there's another
gully. The fort's beyond that. You can see it against the moon. Maybe
half a mile, beyond, maybe less. I've left Wellard and Saddler at the
gully with orders to halt the advance there."

"Thank you."

Bush plodded on over the uneven surface. Now despite his fatigue he was
growing tense again, as the tiger having scented his prey braces his
muscles for the spring. Bush was a fighting man, and the thought of
action close ahead acted as a stimulant to him. Two hours to sunrise;
time and to spare.

"Half a mile from the gully to the fort?" he asked.

"Less than that, I should say, sir."

"Very well. I'll halt there and wait for daylight."

"Yes, sir. May I go on to join my division?"

"You may, Mr. Hornblower."

Bush and Whiting were holding down the pace of the march to a slow
methodical step, adapted to the capacity of the slowest and clumsiest
man in the column; Bush at this moment was checking himself from
lengthening his stride under the spur of the prospect of action.
Hornblower went plunging ahead; Bush could see his awkward gait but
found himself approving of his subordinate's overflowing energy. He
began to discuss with Whiting plans for the final assault.

There was a petty officer waiting for them at the approach to the gully.
Bush passed the word back for the column to be ready to halt, and then
halted it. He went forward to reconnoitre; with Whiting and Hornblower
beside him he stared forward at the square silhouette of the fort
against the sky. It even seemed possible to see the dark line of the
flagpole. Now his tenseness was eased; the scowl that had been on his
face in the last stages of the advance had softened into an expression
of good humour, which was wasted in the circumstances.

The arrangements were quickly made, the orders whispered back and forth,
the final warnings given. It was the most dangerous moment so far, as
the men had to be moved up into the gully and deployed ready for a rush.
One whisper from Whiting called for more than a moment's cogitation from
Bush.

"Shall I give permission for the men to load, sir?"

"No" answered Bush at length. "Cold steel."

It would be too much of a risk to allow all those muskets to be loaded
in the dark. There would not only be the noise of the ramrods, but there
was also the danger of some fool pulling a trigger. Hornblower went off
to the left, Whiting with his marines to the right, and Bush lay down in
the midst of his division in the centre. His legs ached with their
unaccustomed exercise, and as he lay his head was inclined to swim with
fatigue and lack of sleep. He roused himself and sat up so as to bring
himself under control again. Except for his weariness he did not find
the waiting period troublesome to him; years of life at sea with its
uncounted eventless watches, and years of war with its endless periods
of boredom, had inured him to waiting. Some of the seamen actually slept
as they lay in the rocky gully; more than once Bush heard snores begin,
abruptly cut off by the nudges of the snorers' neighbours.

Now there, at last, right ahead, beyond the fort--was the sky a little
paler? Or was it merely that the moon had climbed above the cloud? All
round about save there the sky was like purple velvet, still spangled
with stars. But there--there--undoubtedly there was a pallor in the sky
which had not been there before. Bush stirred and felt again at the
uncomfortable pistols in his belt. They were at half-cock; he must
remember to pull the hammers back. On the horizon there was a suspicion,
the merest suggestion, of a redness mingled with the purple of the sky.

"Pass the word down the line" said Bush. "Prepare to attack."

He waited for the word to pass, but in less time than was possible for
it to have reached the ends of the line there were sounds and
disturbances in the gully. The damned fools who were always to be found
in any body of men had started to rise as soon as the word had reached
them, probably without even bothering to pass the word on themselves.
But the example would be infectious, at least; beginning at the wings,
and coming back to the centre where Bush was, a double ripple of men
rising to their feet went along the line. Bush rose too. He drew his
sword, balanced it in his hand, and when he was satisfied with his grip
he drew a pistol with his left hand and pulled back the hammer. Over on
the right there was a sudden clatter of metal; the marines were fixing
their bayonets. Bush could see the faces now of the men to right and to
left of him.

"Forward!" he said, and the line came surging up out of the gully.
"Steady, there!"

He said the last words almost loudly; sooner or later the hotheads in
the line would start to run, and later would be better than sooner. He
wanted his men to reach the fort in a single wave, not in a succession
of breathless individuals. Out on the left he heard Hornblower's voice
saying "Steady" as well. The noise of the advance must reach the fort
now, must attract the attention even of sleepy, careless Spanish
sentries. Soon a sentry would call for his sergeant, the sergeant would
come to see, would hesitate a moment, and then give the alarm. The fort
bulked square in front of Bush, still shadowy black against the newly
red sky; he simply could not restrain himself from quickening his step,
and the line came hurrying forward along with him. Then someone raised a
shout, and then the other hotheads shouted, and the whole line started
to run, Bush running with them.

Like magic, they were at the edge of the ditch, a six-foot scarp, almost
vertical, cut in the limestone.

"Come on!" shouted Bush.

Even with his sword and his pistol in his hands he was able to
precipitate himself down the scarp, turning his back to the fort and
clinging to the edge with his elbows before allowing himself to drop.
The bottom of the dry ditch was slippery and irregular, but he plunged
across it to the opposite scarp. Yelling men clustered along it, hauling
themselves up.

"Give me a hoist!" shouted Bush to the men on either side of him, and
they put their shoulders to his thighs and almost threw him up bodily.
He found himself on his face, lying on the narrow shelf above the ditch
at the foot of the ramparts. A few yards along a seaman was already
trying to fling his grapnel up to the top. It came thundering down,
missing Bush by no more than a yard, but the seaman without a glance at
him snatched it back, poised himself again, and flung the grapnel up the
ramparts. It caught, and the seaman, setting his feet against the
ramparts and grasping the line with his hands, began to climb like a
madman. Before he was half-way up another seaman had grabbed the line
and started to scale the ramparts after him, and a yelling crowd of
excited men gathered round contending for the next place. Farther along
the foot of the ramparts another grapnel had caught and another crowd of
yelling men were gathered about the line. Now there was musketry fire; a
good many loud reports, and a whiff of powder smoke came to Bush's
nostrils in sharp contrast with the pure night air that he had been
breathing.

Round on the other face of the fort on his right the marines would be
trying to burst in through the embrasures of the guns; Bush turned to
his left to see what could be done there. Almost instantly he found his
reward; here was the sally port into the fort--a wide wooden door bound
with iron, sheltered in the angle of the small projecting bastion at the
corner of the fort. Two idiots of seamen were firing their muskets up at
the heads that were beginning to show above--not a thought for the door.
The average seaman was not fit to be trusted with a musket. Bush raised
his voice so that it pealed like a trumpet above the din.

"Axemen here! Axemen! Axemen!"

There were still plenty of men down in the ditch who had not yet had
time to scale the scarp; one of them, waving an axe, plunged through the
crowd and began to climb up. But Silk, the immensely powerful bosun's
mate who commanded a section of seamen in Bush's division, came running
along the shelf and grabbed the axe. He began to hew at the door, with
tremendous methodical blows, gathering his body together and then
flinging the axehead into the wood with all the strength in his body.
Another axeman arrived, elbowed Bush aside, and started to hack at the
door as well, but he was neither as accomplished nor as powerful. The
thunder of their blows resounded in the angle. The iron-barred wicket in
the door opened, with a gleam of steel beyond the bars. Bush pointed his
pistol and fired. Silk's axe drove clean through the door, and he
wrenched the blade free; then, changing his aim, he began to swing the
axe in a horizontal arc at the middle part of the door. Three mighty
blows and he paused to direct the other axeman where to strike. Silk
struck again and again; then he put down the axe, set his fingers in the
jagged hole that had opened, his foot against the door, and with one
frightful muscle-tearing effort he rent away a whole section of the
door. There was a beam across the gap he had opened; Silk's axe crashed
onto it and through it, and again. With a hoarse shout Silk plunged, axe
in hand, through the jagged hole.

"Come along, men!" yelled Bush, at the top of his lungs, and plunged
through after him.

This was the open courtyard of the fort. Bush stumbled over a dead man
and looked up to see a group of men before him, in their shirts, or
naked; coffee-coloured faces with long disordered moustaches; men with
cutlasses and pistols. Silk flung himself upon them like a maniac, the
axe swinging. A Spaniard fell under the axe; Bush saw a severed finger
fall to the ground as the axe crashed through the Spaniard's ineffectual
guard. Pistols banged and smoke eddied about as Bush rushed forward too.
There were other men swarming after him. Bush's sword clashed against a
cutlass and then the group turned and fled. Bush swung with his sword at
a naked shoulder fleeing before him, and saw a red wound open in the
flesh and heard the man scream. The man he was pursuing vanished
somewhere, like a wraith, and Bush, hurrying on to find other enemies,
met a red-coated marine, hatless, his hair wild and his eyes blazing,
yelling like a fiend. Bush actually had to parry the bayonet-thrust the
marine made at him.

"Steady, you fool!" shouted Bush, only conscious after the words had
passed his lips that they were spoken at the top of his voice.

There was a hint of recognition in the marine's mad eyes, and he turned
aside, his bayonet at the charge, and rushed on. There were other
marines in the background; they must have made their way in through the
embrasures. They were all yelling, all drunk with fighting. And here was
another rush of seamen, swarming down from the ramparts they had scaled.
On the far side there were wooden buildings; his men were swarming round
them and shots and screams were echoing from them. Those must be the
barracks and storehouses, and the garrison must have fled there for
shelter from the fury of the stormers.

Whiting appeared, his scarlet tunic filthy, his sword dangling from his
wrist. His eyes were bleary and cloudy.

"Call 'em off" said Bush, grasping at his own sanity with a desperate
effort.

It took Whiting a moment to recognise him and to understand the order.

"Yes, sir" he said.

A fresh flood of seamen came pouring into view beyond the buildings;
Hornblower's division had found its way into the fort on the far side,
evidently. Bush looked round him and called to a group of his own men
who appeared at that moment.

"Follow me" he said, and pushed on.

A ramp with an easy slope led up the side of the ramparts. A dead man
lay there, half-way up, but Bush gave the corpse no more attention than
it deserved. At the top was the main battery, six huge guns pointing
through the embrasures. And beyond was the sky, all bloody-red with the
dawn. A third of the way up to the zenith reached the significant
colour, but even while Bush halted to look at it a golden gleam of sun
showed through the clouds on the horizon, and the red began to fade
perceptibly; blue sky and white clouds and blazing golden sun took its
place. That was the measure of the time the assault had taken; only the
few minutes from earliest dawn to tropical sunrise. Bush stood and
grasped this astonishing fact--it could have been late afternoon as far
as his own sensations went.

Here from the gun platform the whole view of the bay opened up. There
was the opposite shore; the shallows where the _Renown_ had grounded
(was it only yesterday?), the rolling country lifting immediately into
the hills of that side, with the sharply defined shape of the other
battery at the foot of the point. To the left the peninsula dropped
sharply in a series of jagged headlands, stretching like fingers out
into the blue, blue ocean; farther round still was the sapphire surface
of Scotchman's Bay, and there, with her backed mizzen topsail catching
brilliantly the rising sun, lay the _Renown_. At that distance she
looked like a lovely toy; Bush caught his breath at the sight of her,
not because of the beauty of the scene but with relief. The sight of the
ship, and the associated memories which the sight called up in his mind,
brought his sanity flooding back; there were a thousand things to be
done now.

Hornblower appeared up the other ramp; he looked like a scarecrow with
his disordered clothes. He held sword in one hand and pistol in the
other, just as did Bush. Beside him Wellard swung a cutlass singularly
large for him, and at his heels were a score or more of seamen still
under discipline, their muskets, with bayonets fixed, held before them
ready for action.

"Morning, sir" said Hornblower. His battered cocked hat was still on his
head for him to touch it, and he made a move to do so, checking himself
at the realisation that his sword was in his hand.

"Good morning" said Bush, automatically.

"Congratulations, sir" said Hornblower. His face was white, and the
smile on his lips was like the grin of a corpse. His beard sprouted over
his lips and chin.

"Thank you" said Bush.

Hornblower pushed his pistol into his belt and then sheathed his sword.

"I've taken possession of all that side, sir" he went on, with a gesture
behind him. "Shall I carry on?"

"Yes, carry on, Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir."

This time Hornblower could touch his hat. He gave a rapid order posting
a petty officer and men over the guns.

"You see, sir" said Hornblower, pointing "a few got away."

Bush looked down the precipitous hillside that fell to the bay and could
see a few figures down there.

"Not enough to trouble us" he said; his mind was just beginning to work
smoothly now.

"No, sir. I've forty prisoners under guard at the main gate. I can see
Whiting's collecting the rest. I'll go on now, sir, if I may."

"Very well, Mr. Hornblower."

Somebody at least had kept a clear head during the fury of the assault.
Bush went on down the farther ramp. A petty officer and a couple of
seamen stood there on guard; they came to attention as Bush appeared.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"This yere's the magazine, zur" said the petty officer--Ambrose, captain
of the foretop, who had never lost the broad Devon acquired in his
childhood, despite his years in the navy. "We'm guarding of it."

"Mr. Hornblower's orders?"

"Iss, zur."

A forlorn party of prisoners were squatting by the main gate. Hornblower
had reported the presence of them. But there were guards he had said
nothing about: a sentry at the well; guards at the gate; Woolton, the
steadiest petty officer of them all, at a long wooden building beside
the gate, and six men with him.

"What's your duty?" demanded Bush.

"Guarding the provision store, sir. There's liquor here."

"Very well."

If the madmen who had made the assault--that marine, for instance, whose
bayonet-thrust Bush had parried--had got at the liquor there would be no
controlling them at all.

Abbott, the midshipman in subordinate command of Bush's own division,
came hurrying up.

"What the hell d'ye think you've been doing?" demanded Bush, testily.
"I've been without you since the attack began."

"Sorry, sir" apologised Abbott. Of course he had been carried away by
the fury of the attack, but that was no excuse; certainly no excuse when
one remembered young Wellard still at Hornblower's side and attending to
his duties.

"Get ready to make the signal to the ship" ordered Bush. "You ought to
have been ready to do that five minutes ago. Clear three guns. Who was
it who was carrying the flag? Find him and bend it on over the Spanish
colours. Jump to it, damn you."

Victory might be sweet, but it had no effect on Bush's temper, now that
the reaction had set in. Bush had had no sleep and no breakfast, and
even though perhaps only ten minutes had elapsed since the fort had been
captured, his conscience nagged at him regarding those ten minutes:
there were many things he ought to have done in that time.

It was a relief to turn away from the contemplation of his own
shortcomings and to settle with Whiting regarding the safeguarding of
the prisoners. They had all been fetched out of the barrack buildings by
now; a hundred half-naked men, and at least a score of women, their hair
streaming down their backs and their scanty clothing clutched about
them. At a more peaceful moment Bush would have had an eye for those
women, but as it was he merely felt irritated at the thought of an
additional complication to deal with, and his eyes only took note of
them as such.

Among the men there was a small sprinkling of Negroes and mulattoes, but
most of them were Spaniards. Nearly all the dead men who lay here and
there were fully clothed, in white uniforms with blue facings--they were
the sentinels and the main guard who had paid the penalty for their lack
of watchfulness.

"Who was in command?" asked Bush of Whiting.

"Can't tell, sir."

"Well, ask them, then."

Bush had command of no language at all save his own, and apparently
neither had Whiting, judging by his unhappy glance.

"Please, sir----" This was Pierce, surgeon's mate, trying to attract his
attention. "Can I have a party to help carry the wounded into the
shade?"

Before Bush could answer him Abbott was hailing from the gun platform.

"Guns clear, sir. May I draw powder charges from the magazines?"

And then before Bush could give permission here was young Wellard,
trying to elbow Pierce on one side so as to command Bush's attention.

"Please, sir. Please, sir. Mr. Hornblower's respects, sir, an' could you
please come up to the tower there, sir. Mr. Hornblower says it's urgent,
sir."

Bush felt at that moment as if one more distraction would break his
heart.




                                   X


At each corner of the fort there was a small bastion built out, to
give flanking fire along the walls, and on top of the southwest bastion
stood a little watchtower which carried the flagstaff. Bush and
Hornblower stood on the tower, the broad Atlantic behind them and before
them the long gulf of the bay of Saman. Over their heads waved two
flags: the White Ensign above, the red and gold of Spain below. Out in
the _Renown_ they might not be able to make out the colours, but they
would certainly see the two flags. And when having heard the three
signal guns boom out they trained their telescopes on the fort they must
have seen the flags slowly flutter down and rise again, dip and rise
again. Three guns; two flags twice dipped. That was the signal that the
fort was in English hands, and the _Renown_ had seen it, for she had
braced up her mizzen topsail and begun the long beat back along the
coast of the peninsula.

Bush and Hornblower had with them the one telescope which a hasty search
through the fort had brought to light; when one of them had it to his
eye the other could hardly restrain his twitching fingers from snatching
at it. At the moment Bush was looking through it, training it on the
farther shore of the bay, and Hornblower was stabbing with an index
finger at what he had been looking at a moment before.

"You see, sir?" he asked. "Farther up the bay than the battery. There's
the town--Savana, it's called. And beyond that there's the shipping.
They'll up anchor any minute now."

"I see 'em" said Bush, the glass still at his eye. "Four small craft. No
sail hoisted--hard to tell what they are."

"Easy enough to guess, though, sir."

"Yes, I suppose so" said Bush.

There would be no need for big men of war here, immediately adjacent to
the Mona Passage. Half the Caribbean trade came up through here, passing
within thirty miles of the bay of Saman. Fast, handy craft, with a
couple of long guns each and a large crew, could dash out and snap up
prizes and retire to the protection of the bay, where the crossed fire
of the batteries could be relied on to keep out enemies, as the events
of yesterday had proved. The raiders would hardly have to spend a night
at sea.

"They'll know by now we've got this fort" said Hornblower. "They'll
guess that _Renown_ will be coming round after 'em. They can sweep, and
tow, and kedge. They'll be out of the bay before you can say Jack
Robinson. And from Engano Point it's a fair wind for Martinique."

"Very likely" agreed Bush.

With a simultaneous thought they turned to look at the _Renown_. With
her stern to them, her sails braced sharp on the starboard tack, she was
making her way out to sea; it would be a long beat before she could go
about in the certainty of being able to weather Cape Saman. She looked
lovely enough out there, with her white sails against the rich blue, but
it would be hours before she could work round to stop the bolt hole.
Bush turned back and considered the sheltered waters of the bay.

"Better man the guns and make ready for 'em" he said.

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower. He hesitated. "We won't have 'em under fire
for long. They'll be shallow draught. They can hug the point over there
closer than _Renown_ could."

"But it won't take much to sink 'em, either" said Bush. "Oh, I see what
you're after."

"Red-hot shot might make all the difference, sir" said Hornblower.

"Repay 'em in their own coin" said Bush, with a grin of satisfaction.
Yesterday the _Renown_ had endured the hellish fire of red-hot shot. To
Bush the thought of roasting a few Dagoes was quite charming.

"That's right, sir" said Hornblower.

He was not grinning like Bush. There was a frown on his face; he was
oppressed with the thought that the privateers might escape to continue
their depredations elsewhere, and any means to reduce their chances
should be used.

"But can you do it?" asked Bush suddenly. "D'ye know how to heat shot?"

"I'll find out, sir."

"I'll wager no man of ours knows how."

Shot could only be heated in a battery on land; a seagoing ship,
constructed of inflammable material, could not run the risk of going
into action with a flaming furnace inside her. The French, in the early
days of the Revolutionary War, had made some disastrous experiments in
the hope of finding a means of countering England's naval superiority,
but after a few ships had set themselves on fire they had given up the
attempt. Seagoing men now left the use of the heated weapon to
shore-based garrison artillery.

"I'll try and find out for myself, sir" said Hornblower. "There's the
furnace down there and all the gear."

Hornblower stood in the sunshine, already far too hot to be comfortable.
His face was pale, dirty, and bearded, and in his expression eagerness
and weariness were oddly at war.

"Have you had any breakfast yet?" asked Bush.

"No, sir." Hornblower looked straight at him. "Neither have you, sir."

"No" grinned Bush.

He had not been able to spare a moment for anything like that, with the
whole defence of the fort to be organised. But he could bear fatigue and
hunger and thirst, and he doubted if Hornblower could.

"I'll get a drink of water at the well, sir" said Hornblower.

As he said the words, and the full import came to him, a change in his
expression was quite obvious. He ran the tip of his tongue over his
lips; Bush could see that the lips were cracked and parched and that the
tongue could do nothing to relieve them. The man had drunk nothing since
he had landed twelve hours ago--twelve hours of desperate exertion in a
tropical climate.

"See that you do, Mr. Hornblower" said Bush. "That's an order."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush found the telescope leaving his hand and passing into Hornblower's.

"May I have another look, sir, before I go down? By George, I thought as
much. That two-master's warping out, sir. Less than an hour before she's
within range. I'll get the guns manned, sir. Take a look for yourself,
sir."

He went darting down the stone stairs of the tower, having given back
the telescope, but half-way down he paused.

"Don't forget your breakfast, sir" he said, his face upturned to Bush.
"You've plenty of time for that."

Bush's glance through the telescope confirmed what Hornblower had said.
At least one of the vessels up the bay was beginning to move. He turned
and swept the rest of the land and water with a precautionary glance
before handing the telescope to Abbott, who during all this conversation
had been standing by, silent in the presence of his betters.

"Keep a sharp lookout" said Bush.

Down in the body of the fort Hornblower was already issuing rapid
orders, and the men, roused to activity, were on the move. On the gun
platform they were casting loose the remaining guns, and as Bush
descended from the platform he saw Hornblower organising other working
parties, snapping out orders with quick gestures. At the sight of Bush
he turned guiltily and walked over to the well. A marine was winding up
the bucket, and Hornblower seized it. He raised the bucket to his lips,
leaning back to balance the weight; and he drank and drank, water
slopping in quantities over his chest as he drank, water pouring over
his face, until the bucket was empty, and then he put it down with a
grin at Bush, his face still dripping water. The very sight of him was
enough to make Bush, who had already had one drink from the well, feel
consumed with thirst all over again.

By the time Bush had drunk there was the usual group of people
clamouring for his attention, for orders and information, and by the
time he had dealt with them there was smoke rising from the furnace in
the corner of the courtyard, and a loud crackling from inside it. Bush
walked over. A seaman, kneeling, was plying a pair of bellows; two other
men were bringing wood from the pile against the ramparts. When the
furnace door was opened the blast of heat that rose into Bush's face was
enough to make him step back. Hornblower turned up with his hurried
pace.

"How's the shot, Saddler?" he asked.

The petty officer picked up some rags, and, with them to shield his
hands, laid hold of two long handles that projected from the far side of
the furnace, balancing two projecting from the near side. When he drew
them out it became apparent that all four handles were part of a large
iron grating, the centre of which rested inside the furnace above the
blazing fuel. Lying on the grating were rows of shot, still black in the
sunshine. Saddler shifted his quid, gathered his saliva, and spat
expertly on the nearest one. The spittle boiled off, but not with
violence.

"Not very hot yet, sir" said Saddler.

"Us'll fry they devils" said the man with the bellows, unexpectedly; he
looked up, as he crouched on his knees, with ecstasy in his face at the
thought of burning his enemies alive.

Hornblower paid him no attention.

"Here, you bearer men" he said, "let's see what you can do."

Hornblower had been followed by a file of men, every pair carrying a
piece of apparatus formed of two iron bars joined with iron crosspieces.
The first pair approached. Saddler took a pair of tongs and gingerly
worked a hot shot onto the bearer.

"Move on, you two" ordered Hornblower. "Next!"

When a shot lay on every bearer Hornblower led his men away.

"Now let's see you roll those into the guns" he said.

Bush followed, consumed with curiosity. The procession moved up the ramp
to the gun platform, where now crews had been told off to every gun; the
guns were run back with the muzzles well clear of the embrasures. Tubs
of water stood by each pair of guns.

"Now, you rammers" said Hornblower, "are your dry wads in? Then in with
your wet wads."

From the tubs the seamen brought out round flat discs of fibre, dripping
with water.

"Two to a gun" said Hornblower.

The wet wads were thrust into the muzzles of the guns and then were
forced down the bores with the club-ended ramrods.

"Ram 'em home" said Hornblower. "Now, bearers."

It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the
bearing-stretchers at the muzzles of the guns and then to tilt so as to
induce the hot shot to roll down into the bore.

"The Don must've exercised with these guns better than we'd give 'em
credit for" said Hornblower to Bush, "judging by the practice they made
yesterday. Rammers!"

The ramrods thrust the shot home against the charges; there was a sharp
sizzling noise as each hot shot rested against the wet wads.

"Run up!"

The guns' crews seized the tackles and heaved, and the ponderous guns
rolled slowly forward to point their muzzles out through the embrasures.

"Aim for the point over there and fire!"

With handspikes under the rear axles the guns were traversed at the
orders of the captains; the priming tubes were already in the touchholes
and each gun was fired as it bore. The sound of the explosions was very
different here on the stone platform from when guns were fired in the
confined spaces of a wooden ship. The slight wind blew the smoke
sideways.

"Pretty fair!" said Hornblower, shading his eyes to watch the fall of
the shot; and, turning to Bush, "That'll puzzle those gentlemen over
there. They'll wonder what in the world we're firing at."

"How long" asked Bush, who had watched the whole process with a
fascinated yet horrified interest, "before a hot shot burns through
those wads and sets off the gun itself?"

"That is one of the things I do not know, sir" answered Hornblower with
a grin. "It would not surprise me if we found out during the course of
today."

"I daresay" said Bush; but Hornblower had swung round and was
confronting a seaman who had come running up to the platform.

"What d'ye think you're doing?"

"Bringing a fresh charge, sir" said the man, surprised, indicating with
a gesture the cartridge-container he carried.

"Then get back and wait for the order. Get back, all of you."

The ammunition carriers shrank back before his evident anger.

"Swab out!" ordered Hornblower to the guns' crews, and as the wetted
sponges were thrust into the muzzles he turned to Bush again. "We can't
be too careful, sir. We don't want any chance of live charges and
red-hot shot coming together on this platform."

"Certainly not" agreed Bush.

He was both pleased and irritated that Hornblower should have dealt so
efficiently with the organisation of the battery.

"Fresh charges!" yelled Hornblower, and the ammunition carriers he had
previously sent back came trotting up the ramp again. "These are English
cartridges, sir, I'll wager."

"Why do you say that?"

"West-Country serge, stitched and choked exactly like ours, sir. Out of
English prizes, I fancy."

It was most probable; the Spanish forces which held this end of the
island against the insurgents most likely depended on renewing their
stores from English ships captured in the Mona Passage. Well, with good
fortune they would take no more prizes--the implication, forcing itself
on Bush's mind despite his many preoccupations, made him stir uneasily
as he stood by the guns with his hands clasped behind him and the sun
beating down on his face. The Dons would be in a bad way with their
source of supplies cut off. They would not be able to hold out long
against the rebellious blacks that hemmed them in here in the eastern
end of Santo Domingo.

"Ram those wads handsomely, there, Cray" said Hornblower. "No powder in
that bore, or we'll have 'Cray D.D.' in the ship's books."

There was a laugh at that--"D.D." in the ship's books meant "discharged,
dead"--but Bush was not paying attention. He had scrambled up the
parapet and was staring out at the bay.

"They're standing down the bay" he said. "Stand by, Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush strained his sight to look at the four vessels creeping down the
fairway. As he watched he saw the first one hoisting sail on both masts.
Apparently she was taking advantage of a flaw of wind, blowing flukily
in the confined and heated waters, to gain some of the desperately
necessary distance towards the sea and safety.

"Mr. Abbott, bring down that glass!" shouted Hornblower.

As Abbott descended the steps Hornblower addressed a further comment to
Bush.

"If they're making a bolt for it the moment they know we've got the fort
it means they're not feeling too secure over there, sir."

"I suppose not."

"You might have expected 'em to try to recapture the fort one way or
another. They could land a force up the peninsula and come down to
attack us. I wonder why they're not trying that, sir? Why do they just
unstick and run?"

"They're only Dagoes" said Bush. He refused to speculate further about
the enemy's motives while action was imminent, and he grabbed the glass
from Abbott's hands.

Through the telescope details were far plainer. Two large schooners with
several guns a-side; a big lugger, and a vessel whose rig they still
could not determine, as she was the farthest away and, with no sail set,
was towing behind her boats out from the anchorage.

"It'll be long range, Mr. Hornblower" said Bush.

"Yes, sir. But they hit us with these same guns yesterday."

"Make sure of your aim. They won't be long under fire."

"Aye aye, sir."

The vessels were not coming down together. If they had done so they
might stand a better chance, as the fort would only be able to fire on
one at a time. But the panic feeling of every man for himself must have
started them off as soon as each one separately could get under way--and
perhaps the deep channel was too narrow for vessels in company. Now the
leading schooner had taken in her sail again; the wind here, what there
was of it, was foul for her when she turned to port along the channel.
She had two boats out quickly enough to tow her; Bush's telescope could
reveal every detail.

"Some time yet before she's in range, sir" said Hornblower. "I'll take a
look at the furnace, with your permission."

"I'll come too" said Bush.

At the furnace the bellows were still being worked and the heat was
tremendous--but it was far hotter when Saddler drew out the grating that
carried the heated shot. Even in the sunshine they could see the glow of
the spheres; as the heat rose from them the atmosphere above them
wavered so that everything below was vague and distorted. It could be a
scene in Hell. Saddler spat on the nearest cannon ball and the saliva
leaped with an instant hiss from the smooth surface of the sphere,
falling from it without contact to dance and leap on the grating under
it until with a final hiss it vanished entirely. A second attempt by
Saddler brought the same result.

"Hot enough, sir?" asked Saddler.

"Yes" said Hornblower.

Bush had often enough as a midshipman taken a smoothing-iron forward to
the galley to heat it when there had been particular need to iron a
shirt or a neckcloth; he remembered how he had made the same test of the
temperature of the iron. It was a proof that the iron was dangerously
hot to use when the spittle refused to make contact with it, but the
shot was far hotter than that, infinitely hotter.

Saddler thrust the grating back into the furnace and wiped his streaming
face with the rags that had shielded his hands.

"Stand by, you bearer men" said Hornblower. "You'll be busy enough
soon."

With a glance at Bush for permission he was off again, back to the
battery, hurrying with awkward galvanic strides. Bush followed more
slowly; he was weary with all his exertions, and it crossed his mind as
he watched Hornblower hurrying up the ramp that Hornblower had probably
been more active than he and was not blessed with nearly as powerful a
physique. By the time he came up to him Hornblower was watching the
leading schooner again.

"Her scantling'll be weak" said Hornblower. "These
twenty-four-pounders'll go clean through her most of the time, even at
long range."

"Plunging shot" said Bush. "Maybe they'll go out through her bottom."

"Maybe so" said Hornblower, and then added "sir."

Even after all his years of service he was liable to forget that
important monosyllable when he was thinking deeply.

"She's setting sail again!" said Bush. "They've got her head round."

"And the tows have cast off" added Hornblower. "Not long now."

He looked down the line of guns, all charged and primed, the quoins
withdrawn so that they were at their highest elevation, the muzzles
pointing upward as though awaiting the shot to be rolled into them. The
schooner was moving perceptibly down the channel towards them.
Hornblower turned and walked down the row; behind his back one hand was
twisting impatiently within the other; he came back and turned again,
walking jerkily down the row--he seemed incapable of standing still, but
when he caught Bush's eye on him he halted guiltily, forcing himself,
with an obvious effort, to stand still like his superior officer. The
schooner crept on, a full half-mile ahead of the next vessel.

"You might try a ranging shot" said Bush at length.

"Aye aye, sir" said Hornblower with instant agreement, like a river
bursting through a broken dam. It seemed as if he had been compelling
himself to wait until Bush should speak.

"Furnace, there!" hailed Hornblower. "Saddler! Send up one shot."

The bearers came plodding up the ramp, carrying carefully between them
the glowing cannon ball. The bright redness of it was quite
obvious--even the heat that it gave off was distinctly perceptible. The
wet wads were rammed down the bore of the nearest gun, the shot bearer
was hoisted up level with its muzzle, and, coaxed into motion with
wad-hook and rammer, the fiery shot was rolled in. There was an instant
hissing and spluttering of steam as the ball came into contact with the
wet wads; Bush wondered again how long it would be before the wads were
burned through and the charge set off; the recoil would make it
decidedly uncomfortable for anyone who happened to be aiming the gun at
that moment.

"Run up!" Hornblower was giving the orders. The gun's crew heaved at the
tackles and the gun rumbled forward.

Hornblower took his place behind the gun and, squatting down, he
squinted along it.

"Trail right!" Tackles and handspikes heaved the gun around. "A touch
more! Steady! No, a touch left. Steady!"

Somewhat to Bush's relief Hornblower straightened himself and came from
behind the gun. He leaped onto the parapet with his usual uncontrollable
vigour and shaded his eyes; Bush at one side kept his telescope trained
on the schooner.

"Fire!" said Hornblower.

The momentary hiss of the priming was drowned in the instant bellow of
the gun. Bush saw the black line of the shot's path across the blue of
the sky, reaching upward during the time it might take to draw a breath,
sinking downward again; a strange sort of line, an inch long if he had
to say its length, constantly renewing itself in front and constantly
disappearing at its back end, and pointing straight at the schooner. It
was still pointing at her, just above her--to that extent did the speed
of the shot outpace the recording of retina and brain--when Bush saw the
splash, right in line with the schooner's bows. He took his eye from the
telescope as the splash disappeared, to find Hornblower looking at him.

"A cable's length short" he said, and Hornblower nodded agreement.

"We can open fire then, sir?" asked Hornblower.

"Yes, carry on, Mr. Hornblower."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hornblower was hailing
again.

"Furnace, there! Five more shot!"

It took Bush a moment or two to see the point of that order. But clearly
it was inadvisable to have hot shot and powder charges brought up on the
platform at the same time; the gun that had been fired would have to
remain unloaded until the other five had fired as well. Hornblower came
down and stood at Bush's side again.

"I couldn't understand yesterday why they always fired salvos at us,
sir" he said, "that reduced the rate of fire to the speed of the slowest
gun. But I see now."

"So do I" said Bush.

"All your wet wads in?" demanded Hornblower of the guns' crews.
"Certain? Carry on, then."

The shot were coaxed into the muzzles of the guns; they hissed and
spluttered against the wads.

"Run up. Now take your aim. Make sure of it, captains."

The hissing and spluttering continued as the guns were trained.

"Fire when your gun bears!"

Hornblower was up on the parapet again; Bush could see perfectly well
through the embrasure of the idle gun. The five guns all fired within a
second or two of each other; through Bush's telescope the sky was
streaked by the passage of their shot.

"Sponge out!" said Hornblower; and then, louder, "Six charges!"

He came down to Bush.

"One splash pretty close" said Bush.

"Two very short" said Hornblower "and one far out on the right. I know
who fired that one and I'll deal with him."

"One splash I didn't see" said Bush.

"Nor did I, sir. Clean over, perhaps. But possibly a hit."

The men with the charges came running up to the platform, and the eager
crews seized them and rammed them home and the dry wads on top of the
charges.

"Six shot!" shouted Hornblower to Saddler; and then, to the gun
captains, "Prime. Put in your wet wads."

"She's altered course" said Bush. "The range can't have changed much."

"No, sir. Load and run up! Excuse me, sir."

He went hurrying off to take his stand by the left-hand gun, which
presumably was the one which had been incorrectly laid previously.

"Take your aim carefully" he called from his new position. "Fire when
you're sure."

Bush saw him squat behind the left-hand gun, but he himself applied his
attention to observing the results of the shooting.

The cycle repeated itself; the guns roared, the men came running with
fresh charges, the red-hot shot were brought up. The guns were fired
again before Hornblower came back to Bush's side.

"You're hitting, I think" said Bush. He turned back to look again
through his glass. "I think--by God, yes! Smoke! Smoke!"

A faint black cloud was just visible between the schooner's masts. It
thinned again, and Bush could not be perfectly sure. The nearest gun
bellowed out, and a chance flaw of wind blew the powder smoke about them
as they stood together, blotting out their view of the schooner.

"Confound it all!" said Bush, moving about restlessly in search of a
better viewpoint.

The other guns went off almost simultaneously and added to the smoke.

"Bring up fresh charges!" yelled Hornblower, with the smoke eddying
round him. "See that you swab those guns out properly."

The smoke eddied away, revealing the schooner, apparently unharmed,
still creeping along the bay, and Bush cursed in his disappointment.

"The range is shortening and the guns are hot now" said Hornblower; and
then, louder, "Gun captains! Get your quoins in!"

He hurried off to supervise the adjustment of the guns' elevation, and
it was some seconds before he hailed again for hot shot to be brought
up. In that time Bush noticed that the schooner's boats, which had been
pulling in company with the schooner, were turning to run alongside her.
That could mean that the schooner's captain was now sure that the flaws
of wind would be sufficient to carry her round the point and safely to
the mouth of the bay. The guns went off again in an irregular salvo, and
Bush saw a trio of splashes rise from the water's surface close on the
near side of the schooner.

"Fresh charges!" yelled Hornblower.

And then Bush saw the schooner swing round, presenting her stern to the
battery and heading straight for the shallows of the further shore.

"What in hell----" said Bush to himself.

Then he saw a sudden fountain of black smoke appear spouting from the
schooner's deck, and while this sight was rejoicing him he saw the
schooner's booms swing over as she took the ground. She was afire and
had been deliberately run ashore. The smoke was dense about her hull,
and while he held her in his telescope he saw her big white mainsail
above the smoke suddenly disintegrate and disappear--the flames had
caught it and whisked it away into nothing. He took the telescope from
his eye and looked round for Hornblower, who was standing on the parapet
again. Powder and smoke had grimed his face, already dark with the
growth of his beard, and his teeth showed strangely white as he grinned.
The gunners were cheering, and the cheering was being echoed by the rest
of the landing party in the fort.

Hornblower was gesticulating to make the gunners cease their noise so
that he could be heard down in the fort as he countermanded his call for
more shot.

"Belay that order, Saddler! Take those shot back, bearer men!"

He jumped down and approached Bush.

"That's done it" said the latter.

"The first one, anyway."

A great jet of smoke came from the burning wreck, reaching up and up
from between her masts; the mainmast fell as they watched, and as it
fell the report of the explosion came to their ears across the water;
the fire had reached the schooner's powder store, and when the smoke
cleared a little they could see that she now lay on the shore in two
halves, blown asunder in the middle. The foremast still stood for a
moment on the forward half, but it fell as they watched it; bows and
stern were blazing fiercely, while the boats with the crew rowed away
across the shallows.

"A nasty sight" said Hornblower.

But Bush could see nothing unpleasant about the sight of an enemy
burning. He was exulting. "With half his men in the boats he didn't have
enough hands to spare to fight the fires when we hit him" he said.

"Maybe a shot went through her deck and lodged in her hold" said
Hornblower.

The tone of his voice made Bush look quickly at him, for he was speaking
thickly and harshly like a drunken man; but he could not be drunk,
although the dirty hairy face and blood-shot eyes might well have
suggested it. The man was fatigued. Then the dull expression on
Hornblower's face was replaced once more by a look of animation, and
when he spoke his voice was natural again.

"Here comes the next" he said. "She must be nearly in range."

The second schooner, also with her boats in attendance, was coming down
the channel, her sails set. Hornblower turned back to the guns.

"D'you see the next ship to aim at?" he called; and received a fierce
roar of agreement, before he turned round to hail Saddler. "Bring up
those shot, bearer men."

The procession of bearers with the glowing shot came up the ramp
again--frightfully hot shot; the heat as each one went by--twenty-four
pounds of white-hot iron--was like the passage of a wave. The routine of
rolling the fiendish things into the gun muzzles proceeded. There were
some loud remarks from the men at the guns, and one of the shot fell
with a thump on the stone floor of the battery, and lay there glowing.
Two other guns were still not loaded.

"What's wrong there?" demanded Hornblower.

"Please, sir----"

Hornblower was already striding over to see for himself. From the muzzle
of one of the three loaded guns there was a curl of steam; in all three
there was a wild hissing as the hot shot rested on the wet wads.

"Run up, train, and fire" ordered Hornblower. "Now what's the matter
with you others? Roll that thing out of the way."

"Shot won't fit, sir" said more than one voice as someone with a
wad-hook awkwardly rolled the fallen shot up against the parapet. The
bearers of the other two stood by, sweating. Anything Hornblower could
say in reply was drowned for the moment by the roar of one of the
guns--the men were still at the tackles, and the gun had gone off on its
own volition as they ran it up. A man sat crying out with pain, for the
carriage had recoiled over his foot and blood was already pouring from
it onto the stone floor. The captains of the other two loaded guns made
no pretence at training and aiming. The moment their guns were run up
they shouted "Stand clear!" and fired.

"Carry him down to Mr. Pierce" said Hornblower, indicating the injured
man. "Now let's see about these shot."

Hornblower returned to Bush with a rueful look on his face, embarrassed
and self-conscious.

"What's the trouble?" asked Bush.

"Those shot are too hot" explained Hornblower. "Damn it, I didn't think
of that. They're half melted in the furnace and gone out of shape so
that they won't fit the bore. What a fool I was not to think of that."

As his superior officer, Bush did not admit that he had not thought of
it either. He said nothing.

"And the ones that hadn't gone out of shape were too hot anyway" went on
Hornblower. "I'm the damndest fool God ever made. Mad as a hatter. Did
you see how that gun went off? The men'll be scared now and won't lay
their guns properly--too anxious to fire it off before the recoil
catches them. God, I'm a careless son of a swab."

"Easy, easy" said Bush, a prey to conflicting emotions.

Hornblower pounding his left hand with his right fist as he upbraided
himself was a comic sight; Bush could not help laughing at him. And Bush
knew perfectly well that Hornblower had done excellently so far, really
excellently, to have mastered at a moment's notice so much of the
technique of using red-hot shot. Moreover, it must be confessed that
Bush had experienced, during this expedition, more than one moment of
pique at Hornblower's invariable bold assumption of responsibility; and
the pique may even have been roused by a stronger motive, jealousy at
Hornblower's good management--an unworthy motive, which Bush would
disclaim with shocked surprise if he became aware of it. Yet it made the
sight of Hornblower's present discomfiture all the more amusing at the
moment.

"Don't take on so" said Bush with a grin.

"But it makes me wild to be such a----"

Hornblower cut the sentence off short. Bush could actually see him
calling up his self-control and mastering himself, could see his
annoyance at having been self-revelatory, could see the mask of the
stoical and experienced fighting man put back into place to conceal the
furious passions within.

"Would you take charge here, sir?" he said; it might be another person
speaking. "I'll go and take a look at the furnace, if I may. They'll
have to go easy with those bellows."

"Very good, Mr. Hornblower. Send the ammunition up and I'll direct the
fire on the schooner."

"Aye aye, sir. I'll send up the last shot to go into the furnace. They
won't be too hot yet, sir."

Hornblower went darting down the ramp while Bush moved behind the guns
to direct the fire. The fresh charges came up and were rammed home, the
wet wads went in on top of the dry wads, and then the bearers began to
arrive with the shot.

"Steady, all of you" said Bush. "These won't be as hot as the last
batch. Take your aim carefully."

But when Bush climbed onto the parapet and trained his telescope on the
second schooner he could see that the schooner was changing her mind.
She had brailed up her foresail and taken in her jibs; her boats were
lying at an angle to her course, and were struggling, beetle-like, off
her bows. They were pulling her round--she was going back up the bay and
deciding not to run the gauntlet of the red-hot shot. There was the
smouldering wreck of her consort to frighten her.

"She's turning tail!" said Bush loudly. "Hit her while you can, you
men."

He saw the shot curving in the air, he saw the splashes in the water; he
remembered how yesterday he had seen a ricochet shot from these very
guns rebound from the water and strike the _Renown's_ massive side--one
of the splashes was dead true for line, and might well indicate a hit.

"Fresh charges!" he bellowed, turning to make himself heard down at the
magazine. "Sponge out!"

But by the time the charges were in the guns the schooner had got her
head right round, had reset her foresail, and was creeping back up the
bay. Judging by the splashes of the last salvo she would be out of range
before the next could be fired.

"Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!"

"'Vast sending any shot."

"Aye aye, sir."

When Hornblower came up again to the battery Bush pointed to the
retreating schooner.

"He thought better of it, did he?" commented Hornblower. "Yes, and those
other two have anchored, I should say."

His fingers were twitching for the one telescope again, and Bush handed
it over.

"The other two aren't moving either" said Hornblower, and then he swung
round and trained the telescope down the bay towards the sea.
"_Renown's_ gone about. She's caught the wind. Six miles? Seven miles?
She'll be rounding the point in an hour."

It was Bush's turn to grab for the telescope. There was no mistaking the
trim of those topsails. From the _Renown_ he transferred his attention
to the opposite shore of the bay. There was the other battery with the
Spanish flag above it--the flag was now drooping, now flapping lazily in
the light wind prevailing over the shore. He could make out no sign of
activity whatever, and there was some finality in his gesture as he
closed the telescope and looked at his second in command.

"Everything's quiet" he said. "Nothing to be done until _Renown_ comes
down."

"That is so" agreed Hornblower.

It was interesting to watch Hornblower's animation ebb away. Intense
weariness was obvious in his face the moment he was off his guard.

"We can feed the men" said Bush. "And I'd like to have a look at the
wounded. Those damned prisoners have to be sorted out--Whiting's got 'em
all herded in the casemate, men and women, captains and drum boys. God
knows what provisions there are here. We've got to see about that. Then
we can set a watch, dismiss the watch below, and some of us can get some
rest."

"So we can" said Hornblower; reminded of the necessary activities that
still remained, he resumed his stolid expression. "Shall I go down and
start attending to it, sir?"




                                   XI


The sun at noontime was glaring down into the fort of Saman. Within
the walls the heat was pitilessly reflected inwards to a murderous
concentration, so that even the corners which had shade were dreadfully
hot. The sea breeze had not yet begun to blow, and from the flagstaff
the White Ensign drooped spiritlessly, half covering the Spanish colours
that drooped below it. Yet discipline still prevailed. On every bastion
the lookouts stood in the blazing sun to guard against surprise. The
marine sentries, with regular and measured step, were "walking their
posts of duty in a smart and soldierly manner" in accordance with
regulations, muskets sloped, scarlet tunics buttoned to the neck,
crossbelts exactly in position. When one of them reached the end of his
beat he would halt with a click of his heels, bring down his musket to
the "order" position in three smart movements, and then, pushing his
right hand forward and his left foot out, stand "at ease" until the heat
and the flies drove him into motion again, when his heels would come
together, the musket rise to his shoulder, and he would walk his beat
once more. In the battery the guns' crew dozed on the unrelenting stone,
the lucky men in the shade cast by the guns, the others in the narrow
strip of shade at the foot of the parapet; but two men sat and kept
themselves awake and every few minutes saw to it that the slow matches
smouldering in the tubs were still alight, available to supply fire
instantly if the guns had to be worked, whether to fire on ships in the
bay or to beat off an attack by land. Out beyond Saman Point H.M.S.
_Renown_ lay awaiting the first puffs of the sea breeze to come up the
bay and get into touch with her landing party.

Beside the main storehouse Lieutenant Bush sat on a bench and tried to
stay awake, cursing the heat, cursing his own kindness of heart that had
led him to allow his junior officers to rest first while he assumed the
responsibilities of officer on duty, envying the marines who lay asleep
and snoring all about him. From time to time he stretched his legs,
which were stiff and painful after all his exertions. He mopped his
forehead and thought about loosening his neckcloth.

Round the corner came a hurried messenger.

"Mr. Bush, sir. Please, sir, there's a boat puttin' off from the battery
across the bay."

Bush rolled a stupefied eye at the messenger.

"Heading which way?"

"Straight towards us, sir. She's got a flag--a white flag, it looks
like."

"I'll come and see. No peace for the wicked" said Bush, and he pulled
himself to his feet, with all his joints complaining, and walked stiffly
over to the ramp and up to the battery.

The petty officer of the watch was waiting there with the telescope,
having descended from the lookout tower to meet him. Bush took the glass
and looked through it. A six-oared boat, black against the blue of the
bay, was pulling straight towards him, as the messenger had said. From
the staff in the bow hung a flag, which might be white; there was no
wind to extend it. But in the boat there were no more than ten people
all told, so that there could be no immediate danger to the fort in any
case. It was a long row across the glittering bay. Bush watched the boat
heading steadily for the fort. The low cliffs which descended to meet
the water on this side of the Saman peninsula sank in an easy gradient
here in the neighbourhood of the fort; diagonally down the gradient ran
a path to the landing stage, which could be swept--as Bush had already
noted--by the fire of the last two guns at the right-hand end of the
battery. But there was no need to man those guns, for this could not be
an attack. And in confirmation a puff of wind blew out the flag in the
boat. It was white.

Undeviating, the boat pulled for the landing stage and came alongside
it. There was a flash of bright metal from the boat, and then in the
heated air the notes of a trumpet call, high and clear, rose to strike
against the ears of the garrison. Then two men climbed out of the boat
onto the landing stage. They wore uniforms of blue and white, one of
them with a sword at his side while the other carried the twinkling
trumpet, which he set to his lips and blew again. Piercingly and sweet,
the call echoed along the cliffs; the birds which had been drowsing in
the heat came fluttering out with plaintive cries, disturbed as much by
the trumpet call as they had been by the thunder of the artillery in the
morning. The officer wearing the sword unrolled a white flag, and then
he and the trumpeter set themselves to climb the steep path to the fort.
This was a parley in accordance with the established etiquette of war.
The pealing notes of the trumpet were proof that no surprise was
intended; the white flag attested the pacific intentions of the bearer.

As Bush watched the slow ascent he meditated on what powers he had to
conduct a negotiation with the enemy, and he thought dubiously about the
difficulties that would be imposed on any negotiation by differences of
language.

"Turn out the guard" he said to the petty officer; and then to the
messenger, "My compliments to Mr. Hornblower, and ask him to come here
as soon as he can."

The trumpet echoed up the path again; many of the sleepers in the fort
were stirring at the sound, and it was a proof of the fatigue of the
others that they went on sleeping. Down in the courtyard the tramp of
feet and the sound of curt orders told how the marine guard was forming
up. The white flag was almost at the edge of the ditch; the bearer
halted, looking up at the parapets, while the trumpeter blew a last
final call, the wild notes of the fanfare calling the last of the
sleepers in the garrison to wakefulness.

"I'm here, sir" reported Hornblower.

The hat to which he raised his hand was lopsided, and he was like a
scarecrow in his battered uniform. His face was clean, but it bore a
plentiful growth of beard.

"Can you speak Spanish enough to deal with him?" asked Bush, indicating
the Spanish officer with a jerk of his thumb.

"Well, sir--yes."

The last word was in a sense spoken against Hornblower's will. He would
have liked to temporise, and then he had given the definite answer which
any military situation demanded.

"Let's hear you, then."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower stepped up on the parapet; the Spanish officer, looking up
from the edge of the ditch, took off his hat at sight of him and bowed
courteously; Hornblower did the same. There was a brief exchange of
apparently polite phrases before Hornblower turned back to Bush.

"Are you going to admit him to the fort, sir?" he asked. "He says he has
many negotiations to carry out."

"No" said Bush, without hesitation. "I don't want him spying round
here."

Bush was not too sure about what the Spaniard could discover, but he was
suspicious and cautious by temperament.

"Very good, sir."

"You'll have to go out to him, Mr. Hornblower. I'll cover you from here
with the marines."

"Aye aye, sir."

With another exchange of courtesies Hornblower came down from the
parapet and went down one ramp while the marine guard summoned by Bush
marched up the other one. Bush, standing in an embrasure, saw the look
on the Spaniard's face as the shakos and scarlet tunics and levelled
muskets of the marines appeared in the other embrasures. Directly
afterwards Hornblower appeared round the angle of the fort, having
crossed the ditch by the narrow causeway from the main gate. Bush
watched while once more hats were removed and Hornblower and the
Spaniard exchanged bows, bobbing and scraping in a ludicrous Continental
fashion. The Spaniard produced a paper, which he offered with a bow for
Hornblower to read--his credentials, presumably. Hornblower glanced at
them and handed them back. A gesture towards Bush on the parapet
indicated his own credentials. Then Bush could see the Spaniard asking
eager questions, and Hornblower answering them. He could tell by the way
Hornblower was nodding his head that he was answering in the
affirmative, and he felt dubious for a moment as to whether Hornblower
might not be exceeding his authority. Yet the mere fact that he had to
depend on someone else to conduct the negotiations did not irritate him;
the thought that he himself might speak Spanish was utterly alien to
him, and he was as reconciled to depending on an interpreter as he was
to depending on cables to hoist anchors or on winds to carry him to his
destination.

He watched the negotiations proceeding; observing closely he was aware
when the subject under discussion changed. There was a moment when
Hornblower pointed down the bay, and the Spaniard, turning, looked at
the _Renown_ just approaching the point. He looked long and searchingly
before turning back to continue the discussion. He was a tall man, very
thin, his coffee-coloured face divided by a thin black moustache. The
sun beat down on the pair of them--the trumpeter had withdrawn out of
earshot--for some time before Hornblower turned and looked up at Bush.

"I'll come in to report, sir, if I may" he hailed.

"Very well, Mr. Hornblower."

Bush went down to the courtyard to meet him. Hornblower touched his hat
and waited to be asked before he began his report.

"He's Colonel Ortega" said Hornblower in reply to the "Well?" that Bush
addressed to him. "His credentials are from Villanueva, the
Captain-General, who must be just across the bay, sir."

"What does he want?" asked Bush, trying to assimilate this first rather
indigestible piece of information.

"It was the prisoners he wanted to know about first, sir" said
Hornblower, "the women especially."

"And you told him they weren't hurt?"

"Yes, sir. He was very anxious about them. I told him I would ask your
permission for him to take the women back with him."

"I see" said Bush.

"I thought it would make matters easier here, sir. And he had a good
deal that he wanted to say, and I thought that if I appeared agreeable
he would speak more freely."

"Yes" said Bush.

"Then he wanted to know about the other prisoners, sir. The men. He
wanted to know if any had been killed, and when I said yes he asked
which ones. I couldn't tell him that, sir--I didn't know. But I said I
was sure you would supply him with a list; he said most of them had
wives over there"--Hornblower pointed across the bay--"who were all
anxious."

"I'll do that" said Bush.

"I thought he might take away the wounded as well as the women, sir. It
would free our hands a little, and we can't give them proper treatment
here."

"I must give that some thought first" said Bush.

"For that matter, sir, it might be possible to rid ourselves of all the
prisoners. I fancy it would not be difficult to exact a promise from him
in exchange that they would not serve again while _Renown_ was in these
waters."

"Sounds fishy to me" said Bush; he distrusted all foreigners.

"I think he'd keep his word, sir. He's a Spanish gentleman. Then we
wouldn't have to guard them, or feed them, sir. And when we evacuate
this place what are we going to do with them? Pack 'em on board
_Renown_?"

A hundred prisoners in _Renown_ would be an infernal nuisance, drinking
twenty gallons of fresh water a day and having to be watched and guarded
all the time. But Bush did not like to be rushed into making decisions,
and he was not too sure that he cared to have Hornblower treating as
obvious the points that he only arrived at after consideration.

"I'll have to think about that, too" said Bush.

"There was another thing that he only hinted at, sir. He wouldn't make
any definite proposal, and I thought it better not to ask him."

"What was it?"

Hornblower paused before answering, and that in itself was a warning to
Bush that something complicated was in the air.

"It's much more important than just a matter of prisoners, sir."

"Well?"

"It might be possible to arrange for a capitulation, sir."

"What do you mean by that?"

"A surrender, sir. An evacuation of all this end of the island by the
Dons."

"My God!"

That was a startling suggestion. Bush's mind plodded along the paths it
opened up. It would be an event of international importance; it might be
a tremendous victory. Not just a paragraph in the _Gazette_, but a whole
page. Perhaps rewards, distinction--even possibly promotion. And with
that Bush's mind suddenly drew back in panic, as if the path it had been
following ended in a precipice. The more important the event, the more
closely it would be scrutinised, the more violent would be the criticism
of those who disapproved. Here in Santo Domingo there was a complicated
political situation; Bush knew it to be so, although he had never
attempted to find out much about it, and certainly never to analyse it.
He knew vaguely that French and Spanish interests clashed in the island,
and that the Negro rebellion, now almost successful, was in opposition
to both. He even knew, still more vaguely, that there was an
anti-slavery movement in Parliament which persistently called attention
to the state of affairs here. The thought of Parliament, of the Cabinet,
of the King himself scrutinising his reports actually terrified Bush.
The possible rewards that he had thought about shrank to nothing in
comparison with the danger he ran. If he were to enter into a
negotiation that embarrassed the government he would be offered up for
instant sacrifice--not a hand would be raised to help a penniless and
friendless lieutenant. He remembered Buckland's frightened manner when
this question had been barely hinted at; the secret orders must be
drastic in this regard.

"Don't lift a finger about that" said Bush. "Don't say a word."

"Aye aye, sir. Then if he brings the subject up I'm not to listen to
him?"

"Well----" That might imply flinching away from duty. "It's a matter for
Buckland to deal with, if any one."

"Yes, sir. I could suggest something, sir."

"And what's that?" Bush did not know whether to be irritated or pleased
that Hornblower had one more suggestion to make. But he doubted his own
ability to bargain or negotiate; he knew himself to be lacking in
chicane and dissimulation.

"If you made an agreement about the prisoners, sir, it would take some
time to carry out. There'd be the question of the parole. I could argue
about the wording of it. Then it would take some time to ferry the
prisoners over. You could insist that only one boat was at the landing
stage at a time--that's an obvious precaution to take. It would give
time for _Renown_ to work up into the bay. She can anchor down there
just out of range of the other battery, sir. Then the hole'll be
stopped, and at the same time we'll still be in touch with the Dons so
that Mr. Buckland can take charge of the negotiations if he wishes to."

"There's something in that notion" said Bush. Certainly it would relieve
him of responsibility, and it was pleasant to think of spinning out time
until the _Renown_ was back, ready to add her ponderous weight in the
struggle.

"So you authorise me to negotiate for the return of the prisoners on
parole, sir?" asked Hornblower.

"Yes" said Bush, coming to a sudden decision. "But nothing else, mark
you, Mr. Hornblower. Not if you value your commission."

"Aye aye, sir. And a temporary suspension of hostilities while they are
being handed over, sir?"

"Yes" said Bush, reluctantly. It was a matter necessarily arising out of
the previous one, but it had a suspicious sound to it, now that
Hornblower had suggested the possibility of further negotiations.

So the day proceeded to wear into afternoon. A full hour was consumed in
haggling over the wording of the parole under which the captured
soldiers were to be released. It was two o'clock before agreement was
reached, and later than that before Bush, standing by the main gate,
watched the women troop out through it, carrying their bundles of
belongings. The boat could not possibly carry them all; two trips had to
be made with them before the male prisoners, starting with the wounded,
could begin. To rejoice Bush's heart the _Renown_ appeared at last round
the point; with the sea breeze beginning to blow she came nobly up the
bay.

And here came Hornblower again, clearly so weary that he could hardly
drag one foot after another, to touch his hat to Bush.

"_Renown_ knows nothing about the suspension of hostilities, sir" he
said. "She'll see the boat crossing full of Spanish soldiers, an' she'll
open fire as sure as a gun."

"How are we to let her know?"

"I've been discussing it with Ortega, sir. He'll lend us a boat and we
can send a message down to her."

"I suppose we can."

Sleeplessness and exhaustion had given an edge to Bush's temper. This
final suggestion, when Bush came to consider it, with his mind slowed by
fatigue, was the last straw.

"You're taking altogether too much on yourself, Mr. Hornblower" he said.
"Damn it, I'm in command here."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower, standing at attention, while Bush gazed at
him and tried to reassemble his thoughts after this spate of ill temper.
There was no denying that _Renown_ had to be informed; if she were to
open fire it would be in direct violation of an agreement solemnly
entered into, and to which he himself was a party.

"Oh, hell and damnation!" said Bush. "Have it your own way, then. Who
are you going to send?"

"I could go myself, sir. Then I could tell Mr. Buckland everything
necessary."

"You mean about--about----" Bush actually did not like to mention the
dangerous subject.

"About the chance of further negotiations, sir" said Hornblower
stolidly. "He has to know sooner or later. And while Ortega's still
here----"

The implications were obvious enough, and the suggestion was sensible.

"All right. You'd better go, I suppose. And mark my words, Mr.
Hornblower, you're to make it quite clear that I've authorised no
negotiations of the sort you have in mind. Not a word. I've no
responsibility. You understand?"

"Aye aye, sir."




                                  XII


Three officers sat in what had been the commanding officer's room in
Fort Saman; in fact, seeing that Bush was now the commanding officer
there, it could still be called the commanding officer's room. A bed
with a mosquito net over it stood in one corner; at the other side of
the room Buckland, Bush, and Hornblower sat in leather chairs. A lamp
hanging from a beam overhead filled the room with its acrid smell, and
lit up their sweating faces. It was hotter and stuffier even than it was
in the ship, but at least here in the fort there was no brooding
knowledge of a mad captain the other side of the bulkhead.

"I don't doubt for one moment" said Hornblower, "that when Villanueva
sent Ortega here to open negotiations about the prisoners he also told
him to put out a feeler regarding this evacuation."

"You can't be sure of that" said Buckland.

"Well, sir, put yourself in Ortega's position. Would you say a word
about a subject of that importance if you weren't authorised to? If you
weren't expressly ordered to, sir?"

"No, I wouldn't" said Buckland.

No one could doubt that who knew Buckland, and for himself it was the
most convincing argument.

"Then Villanueva had capitulation in mind as soon as he knew that we had
captured this fort and that _Renown_ would be able to anchor in the bay.
You can see that must be so, sir."

"I suppose so" said Buckland, reluctantly.

"And if he's prepared to negotiate for a capitulation he must either be
a poltroon or in serious danger, sir."

"Well----"

"It doesn't matter which is true, sir, whether his danger is real or
imaginary, from the point of view of bargaining with him."

"You talk like a sea lawyer" said Buckland. He was being forced by logic
into taking a momentous decision, and he did not want to be, so that in
his struggles against it he used one of the worst terms of opprobium in
his vocabulary.

"I'm sorry, sir" said Hornblower. "I meant no disrespect. I let my
tongue run away with me. Of course it's for you to decide where your
duty lies, sir."

Bush could see that that word "duty" had a stiffening effect on
Buckland.

"Well, then, what d'you think lies behind all this?" asked Buckland.
That might be intended as a temporising question, but it gave Hornblower
permission to go on stating his views.

"Villanueva's been holding this end of the island against the insurgents
for months now, sir. We don't know how much territory he holds, but we
can guess that it's not much--only as far as the crest of those
mountains across the bay, probably. Powder--lead--flints--shoes--he's
probably in need of all of them."

"Judging by the prisoners we took, that's true, sir" interjected Bush.
It would be hard to ascertain the motives that led him to make this
contribution to the discussion; perhaps he was only interested in the
truth for its own sake.

"Maybe it is" said Buckland.

"Now you've arrived, sir, and he's cut off from the sea. He doesn't know
how long we can stay here. He doesn't know what your orders are."

Hornblower did not know either, commented Bush to himself, and Buckland
stirred restlessly at the allusion.

"Never mind that" he said.

"He sees himself cut off, and his supplies dwindling. If this goes on
he'll have to surrender. He would rather start negotiations now, while
he can still hold out, while he has something to bargain with, than wait
until the last moment and have to surrender unconditionally, sir."

"I see" said Buckland.

"And he'd rather surrender to us than to the blacks, sir" concluded
Hornblower.

"Yes indeed" said Bush. Everyone had heard a little about the horrors of
the servile rebellion which for eight years had deluged this land with
blood and scorched it with fire. The three men were silent for a space
as they thought about the implications of Hornblower's last remark.

"Oh, very well then" said Buckland at length. "Let's hear what this
fellow has to say."

"Shall I bring him in here, sir? He's been waiting long enough. I can
blindfold him."

"Do what you like" said Buckland with resignation.

A closer view, when the handkerchief had been removed, revealed Colonel
Ortega as a younger man than he might have been thought at a distance.
He was very slender, and he wore his threadbare uniform with some
pretence at elegance. A muscle in his left cheek twitched continually.
Buckland and Bush rose slowly to their feet to acknowledge the
introductions Hornblower made.

"Colonel Ortega says he speaks no English" said Hornblower.

There was only the slightest extra stress on the word "says", and only
the slightest lingering in the glance that Hornblower shot at his two
superiors as he said it, but it conveyed a warning.

"Well, ask him what he wants" said Buckland.

The conversation in Spanish was formal; obviously all the opening
remarks were cautious fencing as each speaker felt for the weaknesses in
the other's position and sought to conceal his own. But even Bush was
aware of the moment when the vague sentences ended and definite
proposals began. Ortega was bearing himself as a man conferring a
favour; Hornblower like someone who did not care whether a favour was
conferred or not. In the end he turned to Buckland and spoke in English.

"He has terms for a capitulation pat enough" he said.

"Well?"

"Please don't let him guess what you think, sir. But he suggests a free
passage for the garrison. Ships--men--civilians. Passports for the ships
while on passage to a Spanish possession--Cuba or Puerto Rico, in other
words, sir. In exchange he'll hand over everything intact. Military
stores. The battery across the bay. Everything."

"But----" Buckland struggled wildly to keep himself from revealing his
feelings.

"I haven't said anything to him worth mentioning, so far, sir" said
Hornblower.

Ortega had been watching the byplay keenly enough, and now he spoke
again to Hornblower, with his shoulders back and his head high. There
was passion in his voice, but what was more at odds with the dignity of
his bearing was a peculiar gesture with which he accentuated one of his
remarks--a jerk of the hand which called up the picture of someone
vomiting.

"He says otherwise he'll fight to the last" interposed Hornblower. "He
says Spanish soldiers can be relied upon to die to the last man sooner
than submit to dishonour. He says we can do no more to them than we've
done already--that we've reached the end of our tether, in other words,
sir. And that we daren't stay longer in the island to starve him out
because of the yellow fever--the _vomito negro_, sir."

In the whirl of excitement of the last few days Bush had forgotten all
about the possibility of yellow fever. He found that he was looking
concerned at the mention of it, and he hurriedly tried to assume an
appearance of indifference. A glance at Buckland showed his face going
through exactly the same transitions.

"I see" said Buckland.

It was an appalling thought. If yellow fever were to strike it might
within a week leave the _Renown_ without enough men to work her sails.

Ortega broke into passionate speech again, and Hornblower translated.

"He says his troops have lived here all their lives. They won't get
yellow jack as easily as our men, and many of them have already had it.
He has had it himself, he says, sir."

Bush remembered the emphasis with which Ortega had tapped his breast.

"And the blacks believe us to be their enemies, because of what happened
in Dominica, sir, so he says. He could make an alliance with them
against us. They could send an army against us here in the fort
tomorrow, then. But please don't look as if you believe him, sir."

"Damn it to hell" said Buckland, exasperated. Bush wondered vaguely what
it was that had happened in Dominica. History--even contemporary
history--was not one of his strong points.

Again Ortega spoke.

"He says that's his last word, sir. An honourable proposal and he won't
abate a jot, so he says. You could send him away now that you've heard
it all and say that you'll give him an answer in the morning."

"Very well."

There were ceremonious speeches still to be made. Ortega's bows were so
polite that Buckland and Bush were constrained, though reluctantly, to
stand and endeavour to return them. Hornblower tied the handkerchief
round Ortega's eyes again and led him out.

"What do you think about it?" said Buckland to Bush.

"I'd like to think it over, sir" replied Bush.

Hornblower came in again while they were still considering the matter.
He glanced at them both before addressing himself to Buckland.

"Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?"

"Oh, damn it, you'd better stay. You know more about these Dagoes than
we do. What do you think about it?"

"He made some good arguments, sir."

"I thought so too" said Buckland with apparent relief.

"Can't we turn the thumbscrews on them somehow, sir?" asked Bush.

Even if he could not make suggestions himself, he was too cautious to
agree readily to a bargain offered by a foreigner, even such a tempting
one as this.

"We can bring the ship up the bay" said Buckland. "But the channel's
tricky. You saw that yesterday."

Good God! it was still only yesterday that the _Renown_ had tried to
make her way in under the fire of red-hot shot. Buckland had had a day
of comparative peace, so that the mention of yesterday did not appear as
strange to him.

"We'll still be under the fire of the battery across the bay, even
though we hold this one" said Buckland.

"We ought to be able to run past it, sir" protested Bush. "We can keep
over to this side."

"And if we do run past? They've warped their ships right up the bay
again. They draw six feet less of water than we do--and if they've got
any sense they'll lighten 'em so as to warp 'em farther over the
shallows. Nice fools we'll look if we come in an' then find 'em out of
range, an' have to run out again under fire. That might stiffen 'em so
that they wouldn't agree to the terms that fellow just offered."

Buckland was in a state of actual alarm at the thought of reporting two
fruitless repulses.

"I can see that" said Bush, depressed.

"If we agree" said Buckland, warming to his subject, "the blacks'll take
over all this end of the island. This bay can't be used by privateers
then. The blacks'll have no ships, and couldn't man 'em if they had.
We'll have executed our orders. Don't you agree, Mr. Hornblower?"

Bush transferred his gaze. Hornblower had looked weary in the morning,
and he had had almost no rest during the day. His face was drawn and his
eyes were rimmed with red.

"We might still be able to--to put the thumbscrews on 'em, sir" he said.

"How?"

"It'd be risky to take _Renown_ into the upper end of the bay. But we
might get at 'em from the peninsula here, all the same, sir, if you'd
give the orders."

"God bless my soul!" said Bush, the exclamation jerked out of him.

"What orders?" asked Buckland.

"If we could mount a gun on the upper end of the peninsula we'd have the
far end of the bay under fire, sir. We wouldn't need hot shot--we'd have
all day to knock 'em to pieces however much they shifted their
anchorage."

"So we would, by George" said Buckland. There was animation in his face.
"Could you get one of these guns along there?"

"I've been thinking about it, sir, an' I'm afraid we couldn't. Not
quickly, at least. Twenty-four-pounders. Two an' a half tons each.
Garrison carriages. We've no horses. We couldn't move 'em with a hundred
men over those gullies, four miles or more."

"Then what the hell's the use of talking about it?" demanded Buckland.

"We don't have to drag a gun from here, sir" said Hornblower. "We could
use one from the ship. One of those long nine-pounders we've got mounted
as bow chasers. Those long guns have a range pretty nearly as good as
these twenty-fours, sir."

"But how do we get it there?"

Bush had a glimmering of the answer even before Hornblower replied.

"Send it round in the launch, sir, with tackle and cables, near to where
we landed yesterday. The cliff's steep there. And there are big trees to
attach the cables to. We could sway the gun up easy enough. Those
nine-pounders only weigh a ton."

"I know that" said Buckland, sharply.

It was one thing to make unexpected suggestions, but it was quite
another to tell a veteran officer facts with which he was well
acquainted.

"Yes, of course, sir. But with a nine-pounder at the top of the cliff it
wouldn't be so difficult to move it across the neck of land until we had
the upper bay under our fire. We wouldn't have to cross any gullies.
Half a mile--uphill, but not too steep, sir--and it would be done."

"And what d'you think would happen then?"

"We'd have those ships under fire, sir. Only a nine-pounder, I know, but
they're not built to take punishment. We could batter 'em into wrecks in
twelve hours' steady fire. Less than that, perhaps. An' I suppose we
could heat the shot if we wanted to, but we wouldn't have to. All we'd
have to do would be to open fire, I think, sir."

"Why?"

"The Dons wouldn't risk those ships, sir. Ortega spoke very big about
making an alliance with the blacks, but that was only talking big, sir.
Give the blacks a chance an' they'll cut every white throat they can.
An' I don't blame 'em--excuse me, sir."

"Well?"

"Those ships are the Dons' only way of escape. If they see they're going
to be destroyed they'll be frightened. It would mean surrendering to the
blacks--that or being killed to the last man. And woman, sir. They'd
rather surrender to us."

"So they would, by jingo" said Bush.

"They'd climb down, d'ye think?"

"Yes--I mean I think so, sir. You could name your own terms, then.
Unconditional surrender for the soldiers."

"It's what we said at the start" said Bush. "They'd rather surrender to
us than to the blacks, if they have to."

"You could allow some conditions to salve their pride, sir" said
Hornblower. "Agree that the women are to be conveyed to Cuba or Puerto
Rico if they wish. But nothing important. Those ships would be our
prizes, sir."

"Prizes, by George!" said Buckland.

Prizes meant prize money, and as commanding officer he would have the
lion's share of it. Not only that--and perhaps the money was the
smallest consideration--but prizes escorted triumphantly into port were
much more impressive than ships sunk out of sight of the eyes of
authority. And unconditional surrender had a ring of finality about it,
proof that the victory gained could not be more complete.

"What do you say, Mr. Bush?" asked Buckland.

"I think it might be worth trying, sir" said Bush.

He was fatalistic now about Hornblower. Exasperation over his activity
and ingenuity had died of surfeit. There was something of resignation
about Bush's attitude, but there was something of admiration too. Bush
was a generous soul, and there was not a mean motive in him.
Hornblower's careful handling of his superior had not been lost on him,
and Bush was decently envious of the tact that had been necessary. Bush
realistically admitted to himself that even though he had fretted at the
prospect of agreeing to Ortega's terms he had not been able to think of
a way to modify them, while Hornblower had. Hornblower was a very
brilliant young officer, Bush decided; he himself made no pretence at
brilliance, and now he had taken the last step and had overcome his
suspicions of brilliance. He made himself abandon his caution and commit
himself to a definite opinion.

"I think Mr. Hornblower deserves every credit" he said.

"Of course" said Buckland--but the slight hint of surprise in his voice
seemed to indicate that he did not really believe it; and he changed the
subject without pursuing it further. "We'll start tomorrow--I'll get
both launches out as soon as the hands've had breakfast. By noon--now
what's the matter with you, Mr. Hornblower?"

"Well, sir----"

"Come on. Out with it."

"Ortega comes back tomorrow morning to hear our terms again, sir. I
suppose he'll get up at dawn or not long after. He'll have a bite of
breakfast. Then he'll have a few words with Villanueva. Then he'll row
across the bay. He might be here at eight bells. Later than that,
probably, a little----"

"Who cares when Ortega has his breakfast? What's all this rigmarole
for?"

"Ortega gets here at two bells in the forenoon. If he finds we haven't
wasted a minute; if I can tell him that you've rejected his terms
absolutely, sir, and not only that, if we can show him the gun mounted,
and say we'll open fire in an hour if they don't surrender without
conditions, he'll be much more impressed."

"That's true, sir" said Bush.

"Otherwise it won't be so easy, sir. You'll either have to temporise
again while the gun's being got into position, or you'll have to use
threats. I'll have to say to him _if_ you don't agree then we'll start
hoisting a gun up. In either case you'll be allowing him time, sir. He
might think of some other way out of it. The weather might turn
dirty--there might even be a hurricane get up. But if he's sure we'll
stand no nonsense, sir----"

"That's the way to treat 'em" said Bush.

"But even if we start at dawn----" said Buckland, and having progressed
so far in his speech he realised the alternative. "You mean we can get
to work now?"

"We have all night before us, sir. You could have the launches hoisted
out and the gun swayed down into one of them. Slings and cables and some
sort of carrying cradle prepared. Hands told off----"

"And start at dawn!"

"At dawn the boats can be round the peninsula waiting for daylight, sir.
You could send some hands with a hundred fathoms of line up from the
ship to here. They can start off along the path before daylight. That'd
save time."

"So it would, by George!" said Bush; he had no trouble in visualising
the problems of seamanship involved in hoisting a gun up the face of a
cliff.

"We're shorthanded already in the ship" said Buckland. "I'll have to
turn up both watches."

"That won't hurt 'em, sir" said Bush. He had already been two nights
without sleep and was now contemplating a third.

"Who shall I send? I'll want a responsible officer in charge. A good
seaman at that."

"I'll go if you like, sir" said Hornblower.

"No. You'll have to be here to deal with Ortega. If I send Smith I'll
have no lieutenant left on board."

"Maybe you could send me, sir" said Bush. "That is, if you were to leave
Mr. Hornblower in command here."

"Um----" said Buckland. "Oh well, I don't see anything else to do. Can I
trust you, Mr. Hornblower?"

"I'll do my best, sir."

"Let me see----" said Buckland.

"I could go back to the ship with you in your gig, sir" said Bush. "Then
there'd be no time wasted."

This prodding of a senior officer into action was something new to Bush,
but he was learning the art fast. The fact that the three of them had
not long ago been fellow conspirators made it easier; and once the ice
was broken, as soon as Buckland had once admitted his juniors to give
him counsel and advice, it became easier with repetition.

"Yes, I suppose you'd better" said Buckland, and Bush promptly rose to
his feet, so that Buckland could hardly help doing the same.

Bush ran his eye over Hornblower's battered form.

"Now look you here, Mr. Hornblower" he said. "You take some sleep. You
need it."

"I relieve Whiting as officer on duty at midnight, sir" said Hornblower,
"and I have to go the rounds."

"Maybe that's true. You'll still have two hours before midnight. Turn in
until then. And have Whiting relieve you at eight bells again."

"Aye aye, sir."

At the very thought of abandoning himself to the sleep for which he
yearned Hornblower swayed with fatigue.

"You could make that an order, sir" suggested Bush to Buckland.

"What's that? Oh yes, get a rest while you can, Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir."

Bush picked his way down the steep path to the landing stage at
Buckland's heels, and took his seat beside him in the sternsheets of the
gig.

"I can't make that fellow Hornblower out" said Buckland a little
peevishly on one occasion as they rowed back to the anchored _Renown_.

"He's a good officer, sir" answered Bush, but he spoke a little
absently. Already in his mind he was tackling the problem of hoisting a
long nine-pounder up a cliff, and he was sorting out mentally the
necessary equipment, and planning the necessary orders. Two heavy
anchors--not merely boat grapnels--to anchor the buoy solidly. The
thwarts of the launch had better be shored up to bear the weight of the
gun. Travelling blocks. Slings--for the final hoist it might be safer to
suspend the gun by its cascabel and trunnions.

Bush was not of the mental type that takes pleasure in theoretical
exercises. To plan a campaign; to put himself mentally in the position
of the enemy and think along alien lines; to devise unexpected
expedients; all this was beyond his capacity. But to deal with a
definite concrete problem, a simple matter of ropes and tackles and
breaking strains, pure seamanship--he had a lifetime of experience to
reinforce his natural bent in that direction.




                                  XIII


"Take the strain" said Bush, standing on the cliff's edge and looking
far, far down to where the launch floated moored to the buoy and with an
anchor astern to keep her steady. Black against the Atlantic blue two
ropes came down from over his head, curving slightly but almost
vertical, down to the buoy. A poet might have seen something dramatic
and beautiful in those spider lines cleaving the air, but Bush merely
saw a couple of ropes, and the white flag down in the launch signalling
that all was clear for hoisting. The blocks creaked as the men pulled in
on the slack.

"Now, handsomely" said Bush. This work was too important to be delegated
to Mr. Midshipman James, standing beside him. "Hoist away. Handsomely."

The creaking took on a different tone as the weight came on the blocks.
The curves of the ropes altered, appeared almost deformed, as the gun
began to rise from its cradle on the thwarts. The shallow, lovely
catenaries changed to a harsher, more angular figure. Bush had his
telescope to his eye and could see the gun stir and move, and
slowly--that was what Bush meant by "handsomely" in the language of the
sea--it began to upend itself, to dangle from the traveller, to rise
clear of the launch; hanging, just as Bush had visualised it, from the
slings through its cascabel and round its trunnions. It was safe
enough--if those slings were to give way or to slip, the gun would crash
through the bottom of the launch. The line about its muzzle restrained
it from swinging too violently.

"Hoist away" said Bush again, and the traveller began to mount the rope
with the gun pendant below it. This was the next ticklish moment, when
the pull came most transversely. But everything held fast.

"Hoist away."

Now the gun was mounting up the rope. Beyond the launch's stern it
dipped, with the stretching of the cable and the straightening of the
curve, until its muzzle was almost in the sea. But the hoisting
proceeded steadily, and it rose clear of the water, up, up, up. The
sheaves hummed rhythmically in the blocks as the hands hove on the line.
The sun shone on the men from its level position in the glowing east,
stretching out their shadows and those of the trees to incredible
lengths over the irregular plateau.

"Easy, there!" said Bush. "Belay!"

The gun had reached the cliff edge.

"Move that cat's cradle over this way a couple of feet Now, sway in.
Lower. Good. Cast off those lines."

The gun lay, eight feet of dull bronze, upon the cat's cradle that had
been spread to receive it. This was a small area of stout rope-netting,
from which diverged, knotted thickly to the central portion, a score or
more of individual lines, each laid out separately on the ground.

"We'll get that on its way first. Take a line, each of you marines."

The thirty red-coated marines that Hornblower had sent along from the
fort moved up to the cat's cradle. Their non-commissioned officers
pushed them into position, and Bush checked to see that each man was
there.

"Take hold."

It was better to go to a little trouble and see that everything was
correctly balanced at the start rather than risk that the unwieldy lump
of metal should roll off the cat's cradle and should have to be
laboriously manoeuvred back into position.

"Now, all of you together when I give the word. Lift!"

The gun rose a foot from the ground as every man exerted himself.

"March! Belay that, sergeant."

The sergeant had begun to call the step, but on this irregular ground
with every man supporting eighty pounds of weight it was better that
they should not try to keep step.

"Halt! Lower!"

The gun had moved twenty yards towards the position Bush had selected
for it.

"Carry on, sergeant. Keep 'em moving. Not too fast."

Marines were only dumb animals, not even machines, and were liable to
tire. It was better to be conservative with their strength. But while
they laboured at carrying the gun the necessary half-mile up to the
crest the seamen could work at hauling up the rest of the stores from
the launches. Nothing would be as difficult as the gun. The gun carriage
was a feather-weight by comparison; even the nets, each holding twenty
nine-pound cannon balls, were easy to handle. Rammers, sponges, and
wad-hooks, two of each in case of accidents; wads; and now the powder
charges. With only two and a half pounds of powder in each they seemed
tiny compared with the eight-pound charges Bush had grown accustomed to
on the lower gundeck. Last of all came the heavy timbers destined to
form a smooth floor upon which the gun could be worked. They were
awkward things to carry, but with each timber on the shoulders of four
men they could be carried up the gentle slope fast enough, overtaking
the unfortunate marines, who, streaming with sweat, were lifting and
carrying, lifting and carrying, on their way up.

Bush stood for a moment at the cliff edge checking over the stores with
James' assistance. Linstocks and slow match; primers and quills;
barricoes of water; handspikes, hammers, and nails; everything
necessary, he decided--not merely his professional reputation but his
self-respect depended on his having omitted nothing. He waved his flag,
and received an answer from the launches. The second launch cast off her
mooring line, and then, hauling up her anchor, she went off with her
consort to pull back round Saman Point to rejoin _Renown_--in the ship
they would be most desperately shorthanded until the launches' crews
should come on board again. From the trees to which it was secured, over
Bush's head, the rope hung down to the buoy, neglected unless it should
be needed again; Bush hardly spared it a glance. Now he was free to walk
up to the crest and prepare for action; a glance at the sun assured him
that it was less than three hours since sunrise even now.

He organised the final carrying party and started up to the crest. When
he reached it the bay opened below him. He put his glass to his eye: the
three vessels were lying at anchor within easy cannon shot of where he
stood, and when he swung the glass to his left he could just make out,
far, far away, the two specks which were the flags flying over the
fort--the swell of the land hid the body of the building from his sight.
He closed the glass and applied himself to the selection of a level
piece of ground on which to lay the timbers for the platform. Already
the men with the lightest loads were around him, chattering and pointing
excitedly until with a growl he silenced them.

The hammers thumped upon the nails as the crosspieces were nailed into
position on the timbers. No sooner had they ceased than the gun carriage
was swung up onto it by the lusty efforts of half a dozen men. They
attached the tackles and saw to it that the gun-trucks ran easily before
chocking them. The marines came staggering up, sweating and gasping
under their monstrous burden. Now was the moment for the trickiest piece
of work in the morning's programme. Bush distributed his steadiest men
round the carrying ropes, a reliable petty officer on either side to
watch that accurate balance was maintained.

"Lift and carry."

The gun lay beside the carriage on the platform.

"Lift. Lift. Higher. Not high enough. Lift, you men!"

There were gasps and grunts as the men struggled to raise the gun.

"Keep her at that! Back away, starboard side! Go with 'em, port side.
Lift! Bring the bows round now. Steady!"

The gun in its cat's cradle hung precariously over the carriage as Bush
lined it up.

"Now, back towards me! Steady! Lower! Slowly, damn you! Steady! For'ard
a little! Now lower again!"

The gun sank down towards its position on the carriage. It rested there,
the trunnions not quite in their holes, the breech not quite in position
on the bed.

"Hold it! Berry! Chapman! Handspikes under those trunnions! Ease her
along!"

With something of a jar the ton of metal subsided into its place on the
carriage, trunnions home into their holes and breech settled upon the
bed. A couple of hands set to work untying the knots that would free the
cat's cradle from under the gun, but Berry, gunner's mate, had already
snapped the capsquares down upon the trunnions, and the gun was now a
gun, a vital fighting weapon and not an inanimate ingot of metal. The
shot were being piled at the edge of the platform.

"Lay those charges out back there!" said Bush, pointing.

No one in his senses allowed unprotected explosives nearer a gun than
was necessary. Berry was kneeling on the platform, bent over the flint
and steel with which he was working to catch a spark upon the tinder
with which to ignite the slow match. Bush wiped away the sweat that
streamed over his face and neck; even though he had not taken actual
physical part in the carrying and heaving he felt the effect of his
exertions. He looked at the sun again to judge the time; this was no
moment for resting upon his labours.

"Gun's crew fall in!" he ordered. "Load and run up!"

He applied his eye to the telescope.

"Aim for the schooner" he said. "Take a careful aim."

The gun-trucks squealed as the handspikes trained the gun round.

"Gun laid, sir" reported the gun captain.

"Then fire!"

The gun banged out sharp and clear, a higher-pitched report than the
deafening thunderous roar of the massive twenty-four-pounders. That
report would resound round the bay. Even if the shot missed its mark
this time, the men down in those ships would know that the next, or the
next, would strike. Looking up at the high shore through hastily trained
telescopes they would see the powder smoke slowly drifting along the
verge of the cliff, and would recognise their doom. Over on the southern
shore Villanueva would have his attention called to it, and would know
that escape was finally cut off for the men under his command and the
women under his protection. Yet all the same, Bush, gazing through the
telescope, could mark no fall of the shot.

"Load and fire again. Make sure of your aim."

While they loaded Bush turned his telescope upon the flags over the
fort, until the gun captain's cry told him that loading was completed.
The gun banged out, and Bush thought he saw the fleeting black line of
the course of the shot.

"You're firing over her. Put the quoins in and reduce the elevation. Try
again!"

He looked again at the flags. They were very slowly descending, down out
of his sight. Now they rose once more, very slowly, fluttered for a
moment at the head of the flagstaff, and sank again. The next time they
rose they remained steady. That was the preconcerted signal. Dipping the
colours twice meant that the gun had been heard in the fort and all was
well. It was Bush's duty now to complete ten rounds of firing, slowly.
Bush watched each round carefully; it seemed likely that the schooner
was being hit. Those flying nine-pound balls of iron were crashing
through the frail upper works, smashing and destroying, casting up
showers of splinters.

At the eighth round something screamed through the air like a banshee
two yards over Bush's head, a whirling irregular scream which died away
abruptly behind his back.

"What the hell was that?" demanded Bush.

"The gun's unbushed, sir" said Berry.

"God----" Bush poured out a torrent of blasphemy, uncontrolled, almost
hysterical. This was the climax of days and nights of strain and labour,
the bitterest blow that could be imagined, with success almost within
their grasp and now snatched away. He swore frightfully, and then came
back to his senses; it would not be good for the men to know that their
officer was as disappointed as Bush knew himself to be. His curses died
away when he restrained himself, and he walked forward to look at the
gun.

The damage was plain. The touchhole in the breech of a gun, especially a
bronze gun, was always a weak point. At each round some small part of
the explosion vented itself through the hole, the blast of hot gas and
unconsumed powder grains eroding the edges of the hole, enlarging it
until the loss of force became severe enough to impair the efficiency of
the gun. Then the gun had to be "bushed"; a tapering plug, with a hole
pierced through its length and a flange round its base, had to be forced
into the touchhole from the inside the gun, small end first. The hole in
the plug served as the new touchhole, and the explosions of the gun
served to drive the plug more and more thoroughly home, until the plug
itself began to erode and to weaken, forcing itself up through the
touchhole while the flange burned away in the fierce heat of the
explosions until at last it would blow itself clean out, as it had done
now.

Bush looked at the huge hole in the breech, a full inch wide; if the gun
were to be fired in that condition half the powder charge would blow out
through it. The range would be halved at best, and every subsequent
round would enlarge the hole further.

"D'ye have a new vent-fitting?" he demanded.

"Well, sir----" Berry began to go slowly through his pockets, rummaging
through their manifold contents while gazing absently at the sky and
while Bush fumed with impatience. "Yes, sir."

Berry produced, seemingly at the eleventh hour, the cast-iron plug that
meant so much.

"Lucky for you" said Bush, grimly. "Get it fitted and don't waste any
more time."

"Aye aye, sir. I'll have to file it to size, sir. Then I'll have to put
it in place."

"Start work and stop talking. Mr. James!"

"Sir!"

"Run to the fort." Bush took a few steps away from the gun as he spoke,
so as to get out of earshot of the men. "Tell Mr. Hornblower that the
gun's unbushed. It'll be an hour before we can open fire again. Tell him
I'll fire three shots when the gun's ready, and ask him to acknowledge
them as before."

"Aye aye, sir."

At the last moment Bush remembered something.

"Mr. James! Don't make your report in anyone's hearing. Don't let that
Spanish fellow, what's-his-name, hear about this. Not if you want to be
kind to your backside."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Run!"

That would be a very long hot run for Mr. James; Bush watched him go and
then turned back to the gun. Berry had selected a file from his roll of
tools and was sitting on the rear step of the gun scraping away at the
plug. Bush sat on the edge of the platform; the irritation at the
disablement of the gun was overlaid by his satisfaction with himself as
a diplomat. He was pleased at having remembered to warn James against
letting Ortega into the secret. The men were chattering and beginning to
skylark about; a few minutes more and they would be scattering all over
the peninsula. Bush lifted his head and barked at them.

"Silence, there! Sergeant!"

"Sir?"

"Post four sentries. Give 'em beats on all four sides. No one to pass
that line on any account whatever."

"Yessir."

"Let the rest of your men sit down. You gun's crew! Sit there and don't
chatter like Portuguese bumboat men."

The sun was very hot, and the rasp-rasp-rasp of Berry's file was, if
anything, soothing. Bush had hardly ceased speaking when fatigue and
sleepiness demanded their due; his eyes closed and his chin sank on his
breast. In one second he was asleep; in three he was awake again, with
the world whirling round him as he recovered himself from falling over.
He blinked at the unreal world; the blink prolonged itself into sleep,
and again he caught himself up on the point of keeling over. Bush felt
that he would give anything at all, in this world or the next, to sink
quietly on to his side and allow sleep to overwhelm him. He fought down
the temptation; he was the only officer present and there might be an
instant emergency. Straightening his back, he glowered at the world, and
then even with his back straight he went to sleep again. There was only
one thing to do. He rose to his feet, with his weary joints protesting,
and began to pace up and down beside the gun platform, up and down in
the sunshine, with the sweat pouring off him, while the gun's crew
quickly subsided into the sleep he envied them--they lay like pigs in a
sty, at all angles--and while Berry's file went whit-whit-whit on the
vent-fitting. The minutes dragged by and the sun mounted higher and
higher. Berry paused in his work to gauge the fitting against the
touchhole, and then went on filing; he paused again to clean his file,
and each time Bush looked sharply at him, only to be disappointed, and
to go back to thinking how much he wanted to go to sleep.

"I have it to size now, sir" said Berry at last.

"Then fit it, damn you" said Bush. "You gun's crew, wake up, there! Rise
and shine! Wake up, there!"

While Bush kicked the snoring men awake Berry had produced a length of
twine from his pocket. With a slowness that Bush found maddening he
proceeded to tie one end into a loop and then drop the loop in through
the touchhole. Then he took the wad-hook, and, walking round to the
muzzle of the gun and squatting down, he proceeded to push the hook up
the eight-foot length of the bore and try to catch the loop on it. Over
and over again he twisted the hook and withdrew it a little with no
corresponding reaction on the part of the twine hanging from the
touchhole, but at last he made his catch. As he brought the hook out the
twine slid down into the hole, and when the wad-hook was withdrawn from
the muzzle the loop was hanging on it. Still with intense deliberation
Berry calmly proceeded to undo the loop and pass the end of the twine
through the hole in the vent-fitting, and then secure the end to a
little toggle which he also took from his pocket. He dropped the
vent-fitting into the muzzle and walked round to the breech again, and
pulled in on the twine, the vent-fitting rattling down the bore until it
leaped up to its position under the touchhole with a sharp tap that
every ear heard. Even so it was only after some minutes of fumbling and
adjustment that Berry had the vent-fitting placed to his satisfaction
with its small end in the hole, and he gestured to the gun captain to
hold it steady with the twine. Now he took the rammer and thrust it with
infinite care up the muzzle, feeling sensitively with it and pressing
down upon the handle when he had it exactly placed. Another gesture from
Berry, and a seaman brought a hammer and struck down upon the handle
which Berry held firm. At each blow the vent-fitting showed more clearly
down in the touchhole, rising an eighth of an inch at a time until it
was firmly jammed.

"Ready?" asked Bush as Berry waved the seaman away.

"Not quite, sir."

Berry withdrew the rammer and walked slowly round to the breech again.
He looked down at the vent-fitting with his head first on one side and
then on the other, like a terrier at a rat-hole. He seemed to be
satisfied, and yet he walked back again to the muzzle and took up the
wad-hook. Bush glared round the horizon to ease his impatience; over
towards where the fort lay a tiny figure was visible coming towards
them. Bush clapped a telescope to his eye. It was a white-trousered
individual, now running, now walking, and apparently waving his arm as
though to attract attention. It might be Wellard; Bush was nearly sure
it was. Meanwhile Berry had caught the twine again with the wad-hook and
drawn it out again. He cut the toggle free from the twine with a stroke
of his sheath knife and dropped it in his pocket, and then, once more as
if he had all the time in the world, he returned to the breech and wound
up his twine.

"Two rounds with one-third charges ought to do it now, sir" he
announced. "That'll seat----"

"It can wait a few minutes longer" said Bush, interrupting him with a
short-tempered delight in showing this self-satisfied skilled worker
that his decisions need not all be treated like gospel.

Wellard was in clear sight of them all now, running and walking and
stumbling over the irregular surface. He reached the gun gasping for
breath, sweat running down his face.

"Please, sir----" he began. Bush was about to blare at him for his
disrespectful approach but Wellard anticipated him. He twitched his coat
into position, settled his absurd little hat on his head, and stepped
forward with all the stiff precision his gasping lungs would allow.

"Mr. Hornblower's respects, sir" he said, raising his hand to his hat
brim.

"Well, Mr. Wellard?"

"Please will you not reopen fire, sir."

Wellard's chest was heaving, and that was all he could say between two
gasps. The sweat running down into his eyes made him blink, but he
manfully stood to attention ignoring it.

"And why not, pray, Mr. Wellard?"

Even Bush could guess at the answer, but asked the question because the
child deserved to be taken seriously.

"The Dons have agreed to a capitulation, sir."

"Good! Those ships there?"

"They'll be our prizes, sir."

"Hurray!" yelled Berry, his arms in the air.

Five hundred pounds for Buckland, five shillings for Berry, but prize
money was something to cheer about in any case. And this was a victory,
the destruction of a nest of privateers, the capture of a Spanish
regiment, security for convoys going through the Mona Passage. It had
only needed the mounting of the gun to search the anchorage to bring the
Dons to their senses.

"Very good, Mr. Wellard, thank you" said Bush.

So Wellard could step back and wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and Bush
could wonder what item in the terms of the capitulation would be likely
to rob him of his next night's rest.




                                  XIV


Bush stood on the quarterdeck of the _Renown_ at Buckland's side with
his telescope trained on the fort.

"The party's leaving there now, sir" he said; and then, after an
interval, "The boat's putting off from the landing stage."

The _Renown_ swung at her anchor in the mouth of the Gulf of Saman, and
close beside her rode her three prizes. All four ships were jammed with
the prisoners who had surrendered themselves, and sails were ready to
loose the moment the _Renown_ should give the signal.

"The boat's well clear now" said Bush. "I wonder--ah!"

The fort on the crest had burst into a great fountain of smoke, within
which could be made out flying fragments of masonry. A moment later came
the crash of the explosion. Two tons of gunpowder, ignited by the slow
match left burning by the demolition party, did the work. Ramparts and
bastions, tower and platform, all were dashed into ruins. Already at the
foot of the steep slope to the water lay what was left of the guns,
trunnions blasted off, muzzles split, and touchholes spiked; the
insurgents when they came to take over the place would have no means to
re-establish the defences of the bay--the other battery on the point
across the water had already been blown up.

"It looks as if the damage is complete enough, sir" said Bush.

"Yes" said Buckland, his eye to his telescope observing the ruins as
they began to show through the smoke and dust. "We'll get under way as
soon as the boat's hoisted in, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir" said Bush.

With the boat lowered onto its chocks the hands went to the capstan and
hauled the ship laboriously up to her anchor; the sails were loosed as
the anchor rose clear. The main topsail aback gave her a trifle of
sternway, and then, with the wheel hard over and hands at the headsail
sheets, she came round. The topsails, braced up, caught the wind as the
quartermaster at the wheel spun the spokes over hastily, and now she was
under full command, moving easily through the water, heeling a little to
the wind, the sea swinging under her cutwater, heading out close-hauled
to weather Engano Point. Somebody forward began to cheer, and in a
moment the entire crew was yelling lustily as the _Renown_ left the
scene of her victory. The prizes were getting under way at the same
time, and the prize crews on board echoed the cheering. Bush's telescope
could pick out Hornblower on the deck of _La Gaditana_, the big
ship-rigged prize, waving his hat to the _Renown_.

"I'll see that everything is secure below, sir" said Bush.

There were marine sentries beside the midshipmen's berth, bayonets fixed
and muskets loaded. From within, as Bush listened, there was a wild
babble of voices. Fifty women were cramped into that space, and almost
as many children. That was bad, but it was necessary to confine them
while the ship got under way. Later on they could be allowed on deck, in
batches perhaps, for air and exercise. The hatchways in the lower
gundeck were closed by gratings, and every hatchway was guarded by a
sentry. Up through the gratings rose the smell of humanity; there were
four hundred Spanish soldiers confined down there in conditions not much
better than prevailed in a slave ship. It was only since dawn that they
had been down there, and already there was this stench. For the men, as
for the women, there would have to be arrangements made to allow them to
take the air in batches. It meant endless trouble and precaution; Bush
had already gone to considerable trouble to organise a system by which
the prisoners should be supplied with food and drink. But every water
butt was full, two boat-loads of yams had been brought on board from the
shore, and, given the steady breeze that could be expected, the run to
Kingston would be completed in less than a week. Then their troubles
would be ended and the prisoners handed over to the military
authorities--probably the prisoners would be as relieved as Bush would
be.

On deck again Bush looked over at the green hills of Santo Domingo out
on the starboard beam as, close-hauled, the _Renown_ coasted along them;
on that side too, under her lee as his orders had dictated, Hornblower
had the three prizes under easy sail. Even with this brisk seven-knot
breeze blowing and the _Renown_ with all sail set those three vessels
had the heels of her if they cared to show them; privateers depended
both for catching their prey and evading their enemies on the ability to
work fast to the windward, and Hornblower could soon have left the
_Renown_ far behind if he were not under orders to keep within sight and
to leeward so that the _Renown_ could run down to him and protect him if
an enemy should appear. The prize crews were small enough in all
conscience, and just as in the _Renown_ Hornblower had all the prisoners
he could guard battened down below.

Bush touched his hat to Buckland as the latter came on to the
quarterdeck.

"I'll start bringing the prisoners up if I may, sir" he said.

"Do as you think proper, if you please, Mr. Bush."

The quarterdeck for the women, the maindeck for the men. It was hard to
make them understand that they had to take turns; those of the women who
were brought on deck seemed to fancy that they were going to be
permanently separated from those kept below, and there was lamentation
and expostulation which accorded ill with the dignified routine which
should be observed on the quarterdeck of a ship of the line. And the
children knew no discipline whatever, and ran shrieking about in all
directions while harassed seamen tried to bring them back to their
mothers. And other seamen had to be detailed to bring the prisoners
their food and water. Bush, tackling each aggravating problem as it
arose, began to think that life as first lieutenant in a ship of the
line (which he had once believed to be a paradise too wonderful for him
to aspire to) was not worth the living.

There were thirty officers crammed into the steerage, from the elegant
Villanueva down to the second mate of the _Gaditana_; they were almost
as much trouble to Bush as all the other prisoners combined, for they
took the air on the poop, from which point of vantage they endeavoured
to hold conversations with their wives on the quarterdeck, while they
had to be fed from the wardroom stores, which were rapidly depleted by
the large Spanish appetites. Bush found himself looking forward more and
more eagerly to their arrival at Kingston, and he had neither time nor
inclination to brood over what might be their reception there, which was
probably just as well, for while he could hope for commendation for the
part he had played in the attack on Santo Domingo he could also fear the
result of an inquiry into the circumstances which had deprived Captain
Sawyer of his command.

Day by day the wind held fair; day by day the _Renown_ surged along over
the blue Caribbean with the prizes to leeward on the port bow; the
prisoners, even the women, began to recover from their seasickness, and
feeding them and guarding them became more and more matters of routine
making less demand on everyone. They sighted Cape Beata to the northward
and could haul their port tacks on board and lay a course direct for
Kingston, but save for that they hardly had to handle a sail, for the
wind blew steady and the hourly heaving of the log recorded eight knots
with almost monotonous regularity. The sun rose splendidly behind them
each morning; and each evening the bowsprit pointed into a flaming
sunset. In the daytime the sun blazed down upon the ship save for the
brief intervals when sharp rainstorms blotted out sun and sea; at night
the ship rose and swooped with the following sea under a canopy of
stars.

It was a dark lovely night when Bush completed his evening rounds and
went in to report to Buckland. The sentries were posted; the watch below
was asleep with all lights out; the watch on deck had taken in the
royals as a precaution against a rain squall striking the ship without
warning in the darkness; the course was east by north and Mr. Carberry
had the watch, and the convoy was in sight a mile on the port bow. The
guard over the captain in his cabin was at his post. All this Bush
recounted to Buckland in the time-honoured fashion of the navy, and
Buckland listened to it with the navy's time-honoured patience.

"Thank you, Mr. Bush."

"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."

"Good night, Mr. Bush."

Bush's cabin opened on the half-deck; it was hot and stuffy with the
heat in the tropics, but Bush did not care. He had six clear hours in
which to sleep, seeing that he was going to take the morning watch, and
he was not the man to waste any of that. He threw off his outer clothes,
and standing in his shirt he cast a final look round his cabin before
putting out the light. Shoes and trousers were on the sea-chest ready to
be put on at a moment's notice in the event of an emergency. Sword and
pistols were in their beckets against the bulkhead. All was well. The
messenger who would come to call him would bring a lamp, so, using his
hand to deflect his breath, he blew out the light. Then he dropped upon
the cot, lying on his back with his arms and legs spread wide so as to
allow the sweat every chance to evaporate, and he closed his eyes.
Thanks to his blessed stolidity of temperament he was soon asleep. At
midnight he awoke long enough to hear the watch called, and to tell
himself blissfully that there was no need to awake, and he had not
sweated enough to make his position on the cot uncomfortable.

Later he awoke again, and looked up into the darkness with
uncomprehending eyes as his ears told him all was not well. There were
loud cries, there was a rush of feet overhead. Perhaps a fluky rain
squall had taken the ship aback. But those were the wrong noises. Were
some of those cries cries of pain? Was that the scream of a woman? Were
those infernal women squabbling with each other again? Now there was
another rush of feet, and wild shouting, which brought Bush off his cot
in a flash. He tore open his cabin door, and as he did so he heard the
bang of a musket which left him in no doubt as to what was happening. He
turned back and grabbed for sword and pistol, and by the time he was
outside his cabin door again the ship was full of a yelling tumult. It
was as if the hatchways were the entrances to Hell, and pouring up
through them were the infernal powers, screaming with triumph in the
dimly lit recesses of the ship.

As he emerged the sentry under the lantern fired his musket, lantern and
musket flash illuminating a wave of humanity pouring upon the sentry and
instantly submerging him; Bush caught a glimpse of a woman leading the
wave, a handsome mulatto woman, wife to one of the privateer officers,
now screaming with open mouth and staring eyes as she led the rush. Bush
levelled his pistol and fired, but they were up to him in an instant. He
backed into his narrow doorway. Hands grabbed his sword blade, and he
tore it through their grip; he struck wildly with his empty pistol, he
kicked out with his bare feet to free himself from the hands that
grabbed at him. Thrusting overhand with his sword he stabbed again and
again into the mass of bodies pressing against him. Twice his head
struck against the deck beams above but he did not feel the blows. Then
the flood had washed past him. There were shouts and screams and blows
farther along, but he himself had been passed by, saved by the groaning
men who wallowed at his feet--his bare feet slipping in the hot blood
that poured over them.

His first thought was for Buckland, but a single glance aft assured him
that by himself he stood no chance of being of any aid to him, and in
that case his post was on the quarterdeck, and he ran out, sword in
hand, to make his way there. At the foot of the companion ladder there
was another whirl of yelling Spaniards; above there were shouts and
cries as the after guard fought it out. Forward there was other fighting
going on; the stars were shining on white-shirted groups that fought and
struggled with savage desperation. Unknown to himself he was yelling
with the rest; a band of men turned upon him as he approached, and he
felt the heavy blow of a belaying pin against his sword blade. But Bush
inflamed with fighting madness was an enemy to be feared; his immense
strength was allied to a lightfooted quickness. He struck and parried,
leaping over the cumbered deck. He knew nothing, and during those mad
minutes he thought of nothing save to fight against these enemies, to
reconquer the ship by the strength of his single arm. Then he regained
some of his sanity at the moment when he struck down one of the group
against whom he was fighting. He must rally the crew, set an example,
concentrate his men into a cohesive body. He raised his voice in a
bellow.

"Renowns! Renowns! Here, Renowns! Come on!"

There was a fresh swirl in the mad confusion on the maindeck. There was
a searing pain across his shoulder-blade; instinctively he turned and
his left hand seized a throat and he had a moment in which to brace
himself and exert all his strength, with a wrench and a heave flinging
the man on to the deck.

"Renowns!" he yelled again.

There was a rush of feet as a body of men rallied round him.

"Come on!"

But the charge that he led was met by a wall of men advancing forward
against him from aft. Bush and his little group were swept back, across
the deck, jammed against the bulwarks. Somebody shouted something in
Spanish in front of him, and there was an eddy in the ring; then a
musket flashed and banged. The flash lit up the swarthy faces that
ringed them round, lit up the bayonet on the muzzle of the musket, and
the man beside Bush gave a sharp cry and fell to the deck; Bush could
feel him flapping and struggling against his feet. Someone at least had
a firearm--taken from an arms rack or from a marine--and had managed to
reload it. They would be shot to pieces where they stood, if they were
to stand.

"Come on!" yelled Bush again, and sprang forward.

But the disheartened little group behind him did not stir, and Bush gave
back from the rigid ring. Another musket flashed and banged, and another
man fell. Someone raised his voice and called to them in Spanish. Bush
could not understand the words, but he could guess it was a demand for
surrender.

"I'll see you damned first!" he said.

He was almost weeping with rage. The thought of his magnificent ship
falling into alien hands was appalling now that the realisation of the
possibility arose in his mind. A ship of the line captured and carried
off into some Cuban port--what would England say? What would the navy
say? He did not want to live to find out. He was a desperate man who
wanted to die.

This time it was with no intelligible appeal to his men that he sprang
forward, but with a wild animal cry; he was insane with fury, a fighting
lunatic and with a lunatic's strength. He burst through the ring of his
enemies, slashing and smiting, but he was the only one who succeeded; he
was out on to the clear deck while the struggle went on behind him.

But the madness ebbed away. He found himself leaning--hiding himself, it
might almost be said--beside one of the maindeck eighteen-pounders,
forgotten for the moment, his sword still in his hand, trying with a
slow brain to take stock of his situation. Mental pictures moved slowly
across his mind's eye. He could not doubt that some members of the
ship's company had risked the ship for the sake of their lust. There had
been no bargaining; none of the women had sold themselves in exchange
for a betrayal. But he could guess that the women had seemed complacent,
that some of the guards had neglected their duty to take advantage of
such an opportunity. Then there would be a slow seepage of prisoners out
of confinement, probably the officers from out of the midshipmen's
berth, and then the sudden well-planned uprising. A torrent of prisoners
pouring up, the sentries overwhelmed, the arms seized; the watch below,
asleep in their hammocks and incapable of resistance, driven like sheep
in a mass forward, herded into a crowd against the bulkhead and
restrained there by an armed party while other parties secured the
officers aft, and, surging on to the maindeck, captured or slew every
man there. All about the ship now there must still be little groups of
seamen and marines still free like himself, but weaponless and
demoralised; with the coming of daylight the Spaniards would reorganise
themselves and would hunt through the ship and destroy any further
resistance piecemeal, group by group. It was unbelievable that such a
thing could have happened, and yet it had. Four hundred disciplined and
desperate men, reckless of their lives and guided by brave officers,
might achieve much.

There were orders--Spanish orders--being shouted about the deck now. The
ship had come up into the wind all aback when the quartermaster at the
wheel had been overwhelmed, and she was wallowing in the trough of the
waves, now coming up, now falling off again, with the canvas overhead
all flapping and thundering. There were Spanish sea officers--those of
the prizes--on board. They would be able to bring the ship under control
in a few minutes. Even with a crew of landsmen they would be able to
brace the yards, man the wheel, and set a course close-hauled up the
Jamaica Channel. Beyond, only a long day's run, lay Santiago. Now there
was the faintest, tiniest light in the sky. Morning--the awful
morning--was about to break. Bush took a fresh grip of his sword hilt;
his head was swimming and he passed his forearm over his face to wipe
away the cobwebs that seemed to be gathering over his eyes.

And then, pale but silhouetted against the sky on the other side of the
ship, he saw the topsail of another vessel moving slowly forward along
the ship's side; masts, yards, rigging; another topsail slowly turning.
There were wild shouts and yells from the _Renown_, a grinding crash as
the two ships came together. An agonising pause, like the moment before
a roller breaks upon the shore. And then up over the bulwarks of the
_Renown_ appeared the heads and shoulders of men; the shakos of marines,
the cold glitter of bayonets and cutlasses. There was Hornblower,
hatless, swinging his leg over and leaping down to the deck, sword in
hand, the others leaping with him on either hand. Weak and faint as he
was, Bush still could think clearly enough to realise that Hornblower
must have collected the prize crews from all three vessels before
running alongside in the _Gaditana_; by Bush's calculation he could have
brought thirty seamen and thirty marines to this attack. But while one
part of Bush's brain could think with this clarity and logic the other
part of it seemed to be hampered and clogged so that what went on before
his eyes moved with nightmare slowness. It might have been a slow-order
drill, as the boarding party climbed down on the deck. Everything was
changed and unreal. The shouts of the Spaniards might have been the
shrill cries of little children at play. Bush saw the muskets levelled
and fired, but the irregular volley sounded in his ears no louder than
popguns. The charge was sweeping the deck; Bush tried to spring forward
to join with it but his legs strangely would not move. He found himself
lying on the deck and his arms had no strength when he tried to lift
himself up.

He saw the ferocious bloody battle that was waged, a fight as wild and
as irregular as the one that had preceded it, when little groups of men
seemed to appear from nowhere and fling themselves into the struggle,
sometimes on this side and sometimes on that. Now came another surge of
men, nearly naked seamen with Silk at their head; Silk was swinging the
rammer of a gun, a vast unwieldly weapon with which he struck out right
and left at the Spaniards who broke before them. Another swirl and eddy
in the fight; a Spanish soldier trying to run, limping, with a wounded
thigh, and a British seaman with a boarding pike in pursuit, stabbing
the wretched man under the ribs and leaving him moving feebly in the
blood that poured from him.

Now the maindeck was clear save for the corpses that lay heaped upon it,
although below decks he could hear the fight going on, shots and screams
and crashes. It all seemed to die away. This weakness was not exactly
pleasant. To allow himself to put his head down on his arm and forget
his responsibilities might seem tempting, but just over the horizon of
his conscious mind there were hideous nightmare things waiting to spring
out on him, of which he was frightened, but it made him weaker still to
struggle against them. But his head was down on his arm, and it was a
tremendous effort to lift it again; later it was a worse effort still,
but he tried to force himself to make it, to rise and deal with all the
things that must be done. Now there was a hard voice speaking, painful
to his ears.

"This 'ere's Mr. Bush, sir. 'Ere 'e is!"

Hands were lifting his head. The sunshine was agonising as it poured
into his eyes, and he closed his eyelids tight to keep it out.

"Bush! Bush!" That was Hornblower's voice, pleading and tender. "Bush,
please, speak to me."

Two gentle hands were holding his face between them. Bush could just
separate his eyelids sufficiently to see Hornblower bending over him,
but to speak called for more strength than he possessed. He could only
shake his head a little, smiling because of the sense of comfort and
security conveyed by Hornblower's hands.




                                   XV


"Mr. Hornblower's respects, sir" said the messenger, putting his head
inside Bush's cabin after knocking on the door. "The admiral's flag is
flying off Mosquito Point, an' we're just goin' to fire the salute,
sir."

"Very good" said Bush.

Lying on his cot he had followed in his mind's eye all that had been
going on in the ship. She was on the port tack at the moment and had
clewed up all sail save topsails and jib. They must be inside Gun Key,
then. He heard Hornblower's voice hailing.

"Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship."

He heard the grumble of the tiller ropes as the wheel was put over; they
must be rounding Port Royal point. The _Renown_ rose to a level
keel--she had been heeling very slightly--and then lay over to port, so
little that lying on his cot, Bush could hardly feel it. Then came the
bang of the first saluting gun. Despite the kindly warning that
Hornblower had sent down Bush was taken sufficiently by surprise to
start a little at the sound. He was as weak and nervous as a kitten, he
told himself. At five-second intervals the salute went on, while Bush
resettled himself in bed. Movement was not very easy, even allowing for
his weakness, on account of all the stitches that closed the numerous
cuts and gashes on his body. He was sewn together like a crazy quilt;
and any movement was painful.

The ship fell oddly quiet again when the salute was over--he was nearly
sure it had been fifteen guns; Lambert presumably had been promoted to
vice-admiral. They must be gliding northward up Port Royal bay; Bush
tried to remember how Salt Pond Hill looked, and the mountains in the
background--what were they called? Liguanea, or something like that--he
could never tackle these Dago names. They called it the Long Mountain
behind Rock Fort.

"Tops'l sheets!" came Hornblower's voice from above. "Tops'l clew
lines."

The ship must be gliding slowly to her anchorage.

"Helm-a-lee!"

Turning into the wind would take her way off her.

"Silence, there in the waist!"

Bush could imagine how the hands would be excited and chattering at
coming into harbour--the old hands would be telling the new ones about
the grog shops and the unholy entertainments that Kingston, just up the
channel, provided for seamen.

"Let go!"

That rumble and vibration; no sailor, not even one as matter-of-fact as
Bush, could hear the sound of the cable roaring through the hawsehole
without a certain amount of emotion. And this was a moment of very mixed
and violent emotions. This was no homecoming; it might be the end of an
incident, but it would be most certainly the beginning of a new series
of incidents. The immediate future held the likelihood of calamity. Not
the risk of death or wounds; Bush would have welcomed that as an
alternative to the ordeal that lay ahead. Even in his weak state he
could still feel the tension mount in his body as his mind tried to
foresee the future. He would like to move about, at least fidget and
wriggle if he could not walk, in an endeavour to ease that tension, but
he could not even fidget while fifty-three stitches held together the
half-closed gashes on his body. There would most certainly be an inquiry
into the doings on board H.M.S. _Renown_, and there was a possibility of
a court-martial--of a whole series of courts-martial--as a result.

Captain Sawyer was dead. Someone among the Spaniards, drunk with blood
lust, at the time when the prisoners had tried to retake the ship, had
struck down the wretched lunatic when they had burst into the cabin
where he was confined. Hell had no fire hot enough for the man--or
woman--who could do such a thing, even though it might be looked upon as
a merciful release for the poor soul which had cowered before imagined
terrors for so long. It was a strange irony that at the moment a
merciless hand had cut the madman's throat some among the free prisoners
had spared Buckland, had taken him prisoner as he lay in his cot and
bound him with his bedding so that he lay helpless while the battle for
his ship was being fought out to its bloody end. Buckland would have
much to explain to a court of inquiry.

Bush heard the pipes of the bosun's mates and strained his ears to hear
the orders given.

"Gig's crew away! Hands to lower the gig!"

Buckland would of course be going off at once to report to the admiral,
and just as Bush came to that conclusion Buckland came into the cabin.
Naturally he was dressed with the utmost care, in spotless white
trousers and his best uniform coat. He was smoothly shaved, and the
formal regularity of his neckcloth was the best proof of the anxious
attention he had given to it. He carried his cocked hat in his hand as
he stooped under the deck beams, and his sword hung from his hip. But he
could not speak immediately; he could only stand and stare at Bush.
Usually his cheeks were somewhat pudgy, but this morning they were
hollow with care; the staring eyes were glassy, and the lips were
twitching. A man on his way to the gallows might look like that.

"You're going to make your report, sir?" asked Bush, after waiting for
his superior to speak first.

"Yes" said Buckland.

Beside his cocked hat he held in his hand the sealed reports over which
he had been labouring. Bush had been called in to help him compose the
first, the anxious one regarding the displacement of Captain Sawyer from
command; and his own personal report was embodied in the second one,
redolent with conscious virtue, telling of the capitulation of the
Spanish forces in Santo Domingo. But the third, with its account of the
uprising of the prisoners on board, and its confession that Buckland had
been taken prisoner asleep in bed, had been written without Bush's help.

"I wish to God I was dead" said Buckland.

"Don't say that, sir" said Bush, as cheerfully as his own apprehensions
and his weak state would allow.

"I wish I was" repeated Buckland.

"Your gig's alongside, sir" said Hornblower's voice. "And the prizes are
just anchoring astern of us."

Buckland turned his dead-fish eyes towards him; Hornblower was not quite
as neat in appearance, but he had clearly gone to some pains with his
uniform.

"Thank you" said Buckland; and then, after a pause, he asked his
question explosively: "Tell me, Mr. Hornblower--this is the last
chance--how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?"

"I am quite unable to tell you, sir" said Hornblower.

There was no hint whatever to be gleaned from his expressionless face or
from the words he used.

"Now, Mr. Hornblower" said Buckland, nervously tapping the reports in
his hand. "I'm treating you well. You'll find I've given you all the
praise I could in these reports. I've given you full credit for what you
did at Santo Domingo, and for boarding the ship when the prisoners rose.
Full credit, Mr. Hornblower. Won't you--won't you----?"

"I really cannot add anything to what you already know, sir" said
Hornblower.

"But what am I going to say when they start asking me?" asked Buckland.

"Just say the truth, sir, that the captain was found under the hatchway
and that no inquiry could establish any other indication than that he
fell by accident."

"I wish I knew" said Buckland.

"You know all that will ever be known, sir. Your pardon,
sir"--Hornblower extended his hand and picked a thread of oakum from off
Buckland's lapel before he went on speaking--"the admiral will be
overjoyed at hearing that we've wiped out the Dons at Saman, sir. He's
probably been worrying himself grey-haired over convoys in the Mona
Passage. And we've brought three prizes in. He'll have his one-eighth of
their value. You can't believe he'll resent that, can you, sir?"

"I suppose not" said Buckland.

"He'll have seen the prizes coming in with us--everyone in the
flagship's looking at them now and wondering about them. He'll be
expecting good news. He'll be in no mood to ask questions this morning,
sir. Except perhaps to ask you if you'll take Madeira or sherry."

For the life of him Bush could not guess whether Hornblower's smile was
natural or not, but he was a witness of the infusion of new spirits into
Buckland.

"But later on----" said Buckland.

"Later on's another day, sir. We can be sure of one thing,
though--admirals don't like to be kept waiting, sir."

"I suppose I'd better go" said Buckland.

Hornblower returned to Bush's cabin after having supervised the
departure of the gig. This time his smile was clearly not forced; it
played whimsically about the corners of his mouth.

"I don't see anything to laugh at" said Bush.

He tried to ease his position under the sheet that covered him. Now that
the ship was stationary and the nearby land interfered with the free
course of the wind the ship was much warmer already; the sun was shining
down mercilessly, almost vertically over the deck that lay hardly more
than a yard above Bush's upturned face.

"You're quite right, sir" said Hornblower, stooping over him and
adjusting the sheet. "There's nothing to laugh at."

"Then take that damned grin off your face" said Bush, petulantly.
Excitement and the heat were working on his weakness to make his head
swim again.

"Aye aye, sir. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No" said Bush.

"Very good, sir. I'll attend to my other duties, then."

Alone in his cabin Bush rather regretted Hornblower's absence. As far as
his weakness would permit, he would have liked to discuss the immediate
future; he lay and thought about it, muzzy-mindedly, while the sweat
soaked the bandages that swathed him. But there could be no logical
order in his thoughts. He swore feebly to himself. Listening, he tried
to guess what was going on in the ship with hardly more success than
when he had tried to guess the future. He closed his eyes to sleep, and
he opened them again when he started wondering about how Buckland was
progressing in his interview with Admiral Lambert.

A lob-lolly boy--sick-berth attendant--came in with a tray that bore a
jug and a glass. He poured out a glassful of liquid and with an arm
supporting Bush's neck he held it to Bush's lips. At the touch of the
cool liquid, and as its refreshing scent reached his nose. Bush suddenly
realised he was horribly thirsty, and he drank eagerly, draining the
glass.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Lemonade, sir, with Mr. Hornblower's respects."

"Mr. Hornblower?"

"Yes, sir. There's a bumboat alongside an' Mr. Hornblower bought some
lemons an' told me to squeeze 'em for you."

"My thanks to Mr. Hornblower."

"Aye aye, sir. Another glass, sir?"

"Yes."

That was better. Later on there were a whole succession of noises which
he found hard to explain to himself: the tramp of booted feet on the
deck, shouted orders, oars and more oars rowing alongside. Then there
were steps outside his cabin door and Clive, the surgeon, entered,
ushering in a stranger, a skinny, white-haired man with twinkling blue
eyes.

"I'm Sankey, surgeon of the naval hospital ashore" he announced. "I've
come to take you where you'll be more comfortable."

"I don't want to leave the ship" said Bush.

"In the service" said Sankey with professional cheerfulness "you should
have learned that it is the rule always to have to do what you don't
want to do."

He turned back the sheet and contemplated Bush's bandaged form.

"Pardon this liberty" he said, still hatefully cheerful, "but I have to
sign a receipt for you--I trust you've never signed a receipt for ship's
stores without examining into their condition, lieutenant."

"Damn you to hell!" said Bush.

"A nasty temper" said Sankey with a glance at Clive. "I fear you have
not prescribed a sufficiency of opening medicine."

He laid hands on Bush, and with Clive's assistance dexterously twitched
him over so that he lay face downward.

"The Dagoes seem to have done a crude job of carving you, sir" went on
Sankey, addressing Bush's defenceless back. "Nine wounds, I understand."

"And fifty-three stitches" added Clive.

"That will look well in the _Gazette_" said Sankey with a giggle; and
proceeded to extemporise a quotation: "Lieutenant--ah--Bush received no
fewer than nine wounds in the course of his heroic defence, but I am
happy to state that he is rapidly recovering from them."

Bush tried to turn his head so as to snarl out an appropriate reply, but
his neck was one of the sorest parts of him and he could only growl
unintelligibly, and he was not turned on to his back again until his
growls had died down.

"And now we'll whisk our little cupid away" said Sankey. "Come in, you
stretcher men."

Carried out on to the maindeck Bush found the sunlight blinding, and
Sankey stooped to draw the sheet over his eyes.

"Belay that!" said Bush, as he realised his intention, and there was
enough of the old bellow in his voice to cause Sankey to pause. "I want
to see!"

The explanation of the trampling and bustle on the deck was plain now.
Across the waist was drawn up a guard of one of the West Indian
regiments, bayonets fixed and every man at attention. The Spanish
prisoners were being brought up through the hatchways for despatch to
the shore in the lighters alongside. Bush recognised Ortega, limping
along with a man on either side to support him; one trouser leg had been
cut off and his thigh was bandaged, and the bandage and the other
trouser leg were black with dried blood.

"A cut-throat crew, to be sure" said Sankey. "And now, if you have
feasted your eyes on them long enough, we can sway you down into the
boat."

Hornblower came hurrying down from the quarterdeck and went down on his
knee beside the stretcher.

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, thank 'ee" said Bush.

"I'll have your gear packed and sent ashore after you, sir."

"Thank you."

"Careful with those slings" snapped Hornblower, as the tackles were
being attached to the stretcher.

"Sir! Sir!" Midshipman James was dancing about at Hornblower's elbow,
anxious for his attention. "Boat's heading for us with a captain
aboard."

That was news demanding instant consideration.

"Good-bye, sir" said Hornblower. "Best of luck, sir. See you soon."

He turned away and Bush felt no ill will at this brief farewell, for a
captain coming on board had to be received with the correct compliments.
Moreover, Bush himself was desperately anxious to know the business that
brought this captain on board.

"Hoist away!" ordered Sankey.

"Avast!" said Bush; and in reply to Sankey's look of inquiry, "Let's
wait a minute."

"I have no objection myself to knowing what's going on" said Sankey.

The calls of the bosun's mates shrilled along the deck. The sideboys
came running; the military guard wheeled to face the entry port; the
marines formed up beside them. Up through the entry port came the
captain, his gold lace flaming in the sunshine. Hornblower touched his
hat.

"You are Mr. Hornblower, at present the senior lieutenant on board this
ship?"

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, at your service."

"My name is Cogshill" said the captain, and he produced a paper which he
proceeded to unfold and read aloud. "Orders from Sir Richard Lambert,
Vice-Admiral of the Blue, Knight of the Bath, Commanding His Majesty's
ships and vessels on the Jamaica station, to Captain James Edward
Cogshill, of His Majesty's ship _Buckler_. You are hereby requested and
required to repair immediately on board of His Majesty's ship _Renown_
now lying in Port Royal bay and to take command pro tempore of the
aforesaid ship _Renown_."

Cogshill folded his paper again. The assumption of command, even
temporarily, of a king's ship was a solemn act, only to be performed
with the correct ceremonial. No orders that Cogshill might give on board
would be legal until he had read aloud the authority by which he gave
them. Now he had "read himself in", and now he held the enormous powers
of a captain on board--he could make and unmake warrant officers, he
could order imprisonment or the lash, by virtue of the delegation of
power from the King in Council down through the Lords of the Admiralty
and Sir Richard Lambert.

"Welcome on board, sir" said Hornblower, touching his hat again.

"Very interesting" said Sankey, when Bush had been swayed down into the
hospital boat alongside and Sankey had taken his seat beside the
stretcher. "Take charge, coxs'n. I knew Cogshill was a favourite of the
admiral's. Promotion to a ship of the line from a twenty-eight-gun
frigate is a long step for our friend James Edward. Sir Richard has
wasted no time."

"The orders said it was only--only temporary" said Bush, not quite able
to bring out the words "pro tempore" with any aplomb.

"Time enough to make out the permanent orders in due form" said Sankey.
"It is from this moment that Cogshill's pay is increased from ten
shillings to two pounds a day."

The Negro oarsmen of the hospital boat were bending to their work,
sending the launch skimming over the glittering water, and Sankey turned
his head to look at the squadron lying at anchor in the distance--a
three-decker and a couple of frigates.

"That's the _Buckler_" he said, pointing. "Lucky for Cogshill his ship
was in here at this moment. There'll be plenty of promotion in the
admiral's gift now. You lost two lieutenants in the _Renown_?"

"Yes" said Bush. Roberts had been cut in two by a shot from Saman
during the first attack, and Smith had been killed at the post of duty
defending the quarterdeck when the prisoners rose.

"A captain and two lieutenants" said Sankey meditatively. "Sawyer had
been insane for some time, I understand?"

"Yes."

"And yet they killed him?"

"Yes."

"A chapter of accidents. It might have been better for your first
lieutenant if he had met the same fate."

Bush did not make any reply to that remark, even though the same thought
had occurred to him. Buckland had been taken prisoner in his bed, and he
would never be able to live that down.

"I think" said Sankey, judicially, "he will never be able to look for
promotion. Unfortunate for him, seeing that he could otherwise have
expected it as a result of your successes in Santo Domingo, on which so
far I have not congratulated you, sir. My felicitations."

"Thank you" said Bush.

"A resounding success. Now it will be interesting to see what use Sir
Richard--may his name be ever revered--will make of all these vacancies.
Cogshill to the _Renown_. That seems certain. Then a commander must be
promoted to the _Buckler_. The ineffable joy of post rank! There are
four commanders on this station--I wonder which of them will enter
through the pearly gates? You have been on this station before, I
believe, sir?"

"Not for three years" said Bush.

"Then you can hardly be expected to be up to date regarding the relative
standing of the officers here in Sir Richard's esteem. Then a lieutenant
will be made commander. No doubt about who that will be."

Sankey spared Bush a glance, and Bush asked the question which was
expected of him.

"Who?"

"Dutton. First lieutenant of the flagship. Are you acquainted with him?"

"I think so. Lanky fellow with a scar on his cheek?"

"Yes. Sir Richard believes that the sun rises and sets on him. And I
believe that Lieutenant Dutton--Commander as he soon will be--is of the
same opinion."

Bush had no comment to make, and he would not have made one if he had.
Surgeon Sankey was quite obviously a scatter-brained old gossip, and
quite capable of repeating any remarks made to him. He merely nodded--as
much of a nod as his sore neck and his recumbent position allowed--and
waited for Sankey to continue his monologue.

"So Dutton will be a commander. That'll mean vacancies for three
lieutenants. Sir Richard will be able to gladden the hearts of three of
his friends by promoting their sons from midshipmen. Assuming, that is
to say, that Sir Richard has as many as three friends."

"Oars! Bowman!" said the coxswain of the launch; they were rounding the
tip of the jetty. The boat ran gently alongside and was secured; Sankey
climbed out and supervised the lifting of the stretcher. With steady
steps the Negro bearers began to carry the stretcher up the road towards
the hospital, while the heat of the island closed round Bush like the
warm water in a bath.

"Let me see" said Sankey, falling into step beside the stretcher. "We
had just promoted three midshipmen to lieutenant. So among the warrant
ranks there will be three vacancies. But let me see--I fancy you had
casualties in the _Renown_?"

"Plenty" said Bush.

Midshipmen and master's mates had given their lives in defence of their
ship.

"Of course. That was only to be expected. So there will be many more
than three vacancies. So the hearts of the supernumeraries, of the
volunteers, of all those unfortunates serving without pay in the hope of
eventual preferment, will be gladdened by numerous appointments. From
the limbo of nothingness to the inferno of warrant rank. The path of
glory--I do not have to asperse your knowledge of literature by
reminding you of what the poet said."

Bush had no idea what the poet said, but he was not going to admit it.

"And now we are arrived" said Sankey. "I will attend you to your cabin."

Inside the building the darkness left Bush almost blind for a space
after the dazzling sunshine. There were whitewashed corridors; there was
a long twilit ward divided by screens into minute rooms. He suddenly
realised that he was quite exhausted, that all he wanted to do was to
close his eyes and rest. The final lifting of him from the stretcher to
the bed and the settling of him there seemed almost more than he could
bear. He had no attention to spare for Sankey's final chatter. When the
mosquito net was at last drawn round his bed and he was left alone he
felt as if he were at the summit of a long sleek green wave, down which
he went gliding, gliding, endlessly gliding. It was almost a pleasant
sensation, but not quite.

When he reached the foot of the wave he had to struggle up it again,
recovering his strength, through a night and a day and another night,
and during that time he came to learn about the life in the
hospital--the sounds, the groans that came from other patients behind
other screens, the not-quite-muffled howls of lunatic patients at the
far end of the whitewashed corridor; morning and evening rounds; by the
end of his second day there he had begun to listen with appetite for the
noises that presaged the bringing in of his meals.

"You are a fortunate man" remarked Sankey, examining his stitched-up
body. "These are all incised wounds. Not a single deep puncture. It's
contrary to all my professional experience. Usually the Dagoes can be
relied upon to use their knives in a more effective manner. Just look at
this cut here."

The cut in question ran from Bush's shoulder to his spine, so that
Sankey could not literally mean what he had just said.

"Eight inches long at least" went on Sankey. "Yet not more than two
inches deep, even though, as I suspect, the scapula is notched. Four
inches with the point would have been far more effective. This other cut
here seems to be the only one that indicates any ambition to plumb the
arterial depths. Clearly the man who wielded the knife here intended to
stab. But it was a stab from above downwards, and the jagged beginning
of it shows how the point was turned by the ribs down which the knife
slid, severing a few fibres of latissimus dorsi but tailing off at the
end into a mere superficial laceration. The effort of a tyro. Turn over,
please. Remember, Mr. Bush, if ever you use a knife, to give an upward
inclination to the point. The human ribs lie open to welcome an upward
thrust; before a downward thrust they overlap and forbid all entrance,
and the descending knife, as in this case, bounds in vain from one rib
to the next, knocking for admission at each in turn and being refused."

"I'm glad of that" said Bush. "Ouch!"

"And every cut is healing well" said Sankey. "No sign of mortification."

Bush suddenly realised that Sankey was moving his nose about close to
his body; it was by its smell that gangrene first became apparent.

"A good clean cut" said Sankey, "rapidly sutured and bound up in its own
blood, can be expected to heal by first intention more often than not.
Many times more often than not. And these are mostly clean cuts,
haggled, as I said, only a little here and there. Bend this knee if you
please. Your honourable scars, Mr. Bush, will in the course of a few
years become almost unnoticeable. Thin lines of white whose crisscross
pattern will be hardly a blemish on your classic torso."

"Good" said Bush; he was not quite sure what his torso was, but he was
not going to ask Sankey to explain all these anatomical terms.

This morning Sankey had hardly left him before he returned with a
visitor.

"Captain Cogshill to inspect you" he said. "Here he is, sir."

Cogshill looked down at Bush upon the bed.

"Doctor Sankey gives me the good news that you are recovering rapidly"
he said.

"I think I am, sir."

"The admiral has ordered a court of inquiry, and I am nominated a member
of the court. Naturally your evidence will be required, Mr. Bush, and it
is my duty to ascertain how soon you will be able to give it."

Bush felt a little wave of apprehension ripple over him. A court of
inquiry was only a shade less terrifying than the court-martial to which
it might lead. Even with a conscience absolutely clear Bush would
rather--far rather--handle a ship on a lee shore in a gale than face
questions and have to give answers, submit his motives to analysis and
misconstruction, and struggle against the entanglements of legal forms.
But it was medicine that had to be swallowed, and the sensible thing was
to hold his nose and gulp it down however nauseating.

"I'm ready at any time, sir."

"Tomorrow I shall take out the sutures, sir" interposed Sankey. "You
will observe that Mr. Bush is still weak. He was entirely exsanguinated
by his wounds."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean he was drained of his blood. And the ordeal of taking out the
sutures----"

"The stitches, do you mean?"

"The stitches, sir. The ordeal of removing them may momentarily retard
Mr. Bush's recovery of his strength. But if the court will indulge him
with a chair when he gives his evidence----"

"That can certainly be granted."

"Then in three days from now he can answer any necessary questions."

"Next Friday, then?"

"Yes, sir. That is the earliest. I could wish it would be later."

"To assemble a court on this station" explained Cogshill with his cold
courtesy, "is not easy, when every ship is away on necessary duty so
much of the time. Next Friday will be convenient."

"Yes, sir" said Sankey.

It was some sort of gratification to Bush, who had endured so much of
Sankey's chatter, to see him almost subdued in his manner when
addressing someone as eminent as a captain.

"Very well, then" said Cogshill. He bowed to Bush. "I wish you the
quickest of recoveries."

"Thank you, sir" said Bush.

Even lying on his back he could not check the instinctive attempt to
return the bow, but his wounds hurt him when he started to double up in
the middle and prevented him from appearing ridiculous. With Cogshill
gone Bush had time to worry about the future; the fear of it haunted him
a little even while he ate his dinner, but the lob-lolly boy who came to
take away the remains ushered in another visitor, the sight of whom
drove away the black thoughts. It was Hornblower, standing at the door
with a basket in his hand, and Bush's face lit up at the sight of him.

"How are you, sir?" asked Hornblower.

They shook hands, each reflecting the pleasure of the other's greeting.

"All the better for seeing you" said Bush, and meant it.

"This is my first chance of coming ashore" said Hornblower. "You can
guess that I've been kept busy."

Bush could guess easily enough; it was no trouble to him to visualise
all the duties that had been heaped on Hornblower, the necessity to
complete _Renown_ again with powder and shot, food and water, to clean
up the ship after the prisoners had been removed, to eradicate the
traces of the recent fighting, to attend to the formalities connected
with the disposal of the prizes, the wounded, the sick, and the effects
of the dead. And Bush was eager to hear the details, as a housewife
might be when illness had removed her from the supervision of her
household. He plied Hornblower with questions, and the technical
discussion that ensued prevented Hornblower for some time from
indicating the basket he had brought.

"Pawpaws" he said. "Mangoes. A pineapple. That's only the second
pineapple I've ever seen."

"Thank you. Very kind of you" said Bush. But it was utterly beyond
possibility that he could give the least hint of the feeling that the
gift evoked in him, that after lying lonely for these days in the
hospital he should find that someone cared about him--that in any case
someone should give him so much as a thought. The words he spoke were
limping and quite inadequate, and only a sensitive and sympathetic mind
could guess at the feelings which the words concealed rather than
expressed. But he was saved from further embarrassment by Hornblower
abruptly introducing a new subject.

"The admiral's taking the _Gaditana_ into the navy" he announced.

"Is he, by George!"

"Yes. Eighteen guns--six-pounders and nines. She'll rate as a sloop of
war."

"So he'll have to promote a commander for her."

"Yes."

"By George!" said Bush again.

Some lucky lieutenant would get that important step. It might have been
Buckland--it still might be, if no weight were given to the
consideration that he had been captured asleep in bed.

"Lambert's renaming her the _Retribution_" said Hornblower.

"Not a bad name, either."

"No."

There was silence for a moment; each of them was reliving, from his own
point of view, those awful minutes while the _Renown_ was being
recaptured, while the Spaniards who tried to fight it out were
slaughtered without mercy.

"You know about the court of inquiry, I suppose?" asked Bush; it was a
logical step from his last train of thought.

"Yes. How did you know about it?"

"Cogshill's just been in here to warn me that I'll have to give
evidence."

"I see."

There followed silence more pregnant than the last as they thought about
the ordeal ahead. Hornblower deliberately broke it.

"I was going to tell you" he said, "that I had to reeve new tiller lines
in _Renown_. Both of them were frayed--there's too much wear there. I
think they're led round too sharp an angle."

That provoked a technical discussion which Hornblower encouraged until
it was time for him to leave.




                                  XVI


The court of inquiry was not nearly as awe-inspiring as a
court-martial. There was no gun fired, no court-martial 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 Saman, 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
twenty-four-pounders."

"We took them by surprise, sir" said Bush.

"It is that which is to your credit."

The surprise of the garrison of Saman 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 Saman 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 fresh-faced 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 Saman 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 counter-attack 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 organised."

"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 H.M.S. _Renown_ it is our opinion that no
further action is necessary."

That meant there would be no court-martial. 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 court-martialled. 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 Saman 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 land-crab salad before you, Mr. Hornblower. Coconut-fed land
crab. Some prefer it to dairy-fed 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 Curaao, 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 red-hot cannon balls at
Saman--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!"

"V--victorious war. O--oceans of gore. P--prizes galore. B--b--beauty
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
good-will; 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 onto 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.




                                  XVII


That was how Hornblower came to leave the _Renown_. The coveted
promotion was in his grasp, and he was busy enough commissioning the
_Retribution_, making her ready for sea, and organising the scratch crew
which was drafted into her. Bush saw something of him during this time,
and could congratulate him soberly on the epaulette which, worn on the
left shoulder, marked him as a commander, one of those gilded
individuals for whom bosun's mates piped the side and who could look
forward with confidence to eventual promotion to captain. Bush called
him "sir", and even when he said it for the first time the expression
did not seem unnatural.

Bush had learned something during the past few weeks which his service
during the years had not called to his attention. Those years had been
passed at sea, among the perils of the sea, amid the ever-changing
conditions of wind and weather, deep water and shoal. In the ships of
the line in which he had served there had only been minutes of battle
for every week at sea, and he had gradually become fixed in the idea
that seamanship was the one requisite for a naval officer. To be master
of the countless details of managing a wooden sailing ship; not only to
be able to handle her under sail, but to be conversant with all the
petty but important trifles regarding cordage and cables, pumps and salt
pork, dry rot and the Articles of War; that was what was necessary. But
he knew now of other qualities equally necessary: a bold and yet
thoughtful initiative, moral as well as physical courage, tactful
handling both of superiors and of subordinates, ingenuity and quickness
of thought. A fighting navy needed to fight, and needed fighting men to
lead it.

Yet even though this realisation reconciled him to Hornblower's
promotion, there was irony in the fact that he was plunged back
immediately into petty detail of the most undignified sort. For now he
had to wage war on the insect world and not on mankind; the Spanish
prisoners in the six days they had been on board had infested the ship
with all the parasites they had brought with them. Fleas, lice, and
bedbugs swarmed everywhere, and in the congenial environment of a wooden
ship in the tropics full of men they flourished exceedingly. Heads had
to be cropped and bedding baked; and in a desperate attempt to wall in
the bedbugs woodwork had to be repainted--a success of a day or two
flattered only to deceive, for after each interval the pests showed up
again. Even the cockroaches and the rats that had always been in the
ship seemed to multiply and become omnipresent.

It was perhaps an unfortunate coincidence that the height of his
exasperation with this state of affairs coincided with the payment of
prize money for the captures at Saman. A hundred pounds to spend, a
couple of days' leave granted by Captain Cogshill, and Hornblower at a
loose end at the same time--those two days were a lurid period, during
which Hornblower and Bush contrived to spend each of them a hundred
pounds in the dubious delights of Kingston. Two wild days and two wild
nights, and then Bush went back on board the _Renown_, shaken and limp,
only too glad to get out to sea and recover. And when he returned from
his first cruise under Cogshill's command Hornblower came to say
good-bye.

"I'm sailing with the land breeze tomorrow morning" he said.

"Whither bound, sir?"

"England" said Hornblower.

Bush could not restrain a whistle at the news. There were men in the
squadron who had not seen England for ten years.

"I'll be back again" said Hornblower. "A convoy to the Downs. Despatches
for the Commissioners. Pick up the replies and a convoy out again. The
usual round."

For a sloop of war it was indeed the usual round. The _Retribution_ with
her eighteen guns and disciplined crew could fight almost any privateer
afloat; with her speed and handiness she could cover a convoy more
effectively than the ship of the line or even the frigates that
accompanied the larger convoys to give solid protection.

"You'll get your commission confirmed, sir" said Bush, with a glance at
Hornblower's epaulette.

"I hope so" said Hornblower.

Confirmation of a commission bestowed by a commander-in-chief on a
foreign station was a mere formality.

"That is" said Hornblower, "if they don't make peace."

"No chance of that, sir" said Bush; and it was clear from Hornblower's
grin that he, too, thought there was no possibility of peace either,
despite the hints in the two-months-old newspapers that came out from
England to the effect that negotiations were possible. With Bonaparte in
supreme power in France, restless, ambitious, and unscrupulous, and with
none of the points settled that were in dispute between the two
countries, no fighting man could believe that the negotiations could
result even in an armistice, and certainly not in a permanent peace.

"Good luck in any case, sir" said Bush, and there was no mere formality
about those words.

They shook hands and parted; it says much for Bush's feelings towards
Hornblower that in the grey dawn next morning he rolled out of his cot
and went up on deck to watch the _Retribution_, ghost-like under her
topsails, and with the lead going in the chains, steal out round the
point, wafted along by the land breeze. Bush watched her go; life in the
service meant many partings. Meanwhile there was war to be waged against
bedbugs.

Eleven weeks later the squadron was in the Mona Passage, beating against
the trade winds. Lambert had brought them out here with the usual double
objective of every admiral, to exercise his ships and to see an
important convoy through the most dangerous part of its voyage. The
hills of Santo Domingo were out of sight at the moment over the westerly
horizon, but Mona was in sight ahead, table-topped and, from this point
of view, an unrelieved oblong in outline; over on the port bow lay
Mona's little sister Monita, exhibiting a strong family resemblance.

The lookout frigate ahead sent up a signal.

"You're too slow, Mr. Truscott" bellowed Bush at the signal midshipman,
as was right and proper.

"Sail in sight, bearing northeast" read the signal midshipman, glass to
eye.

That might be anything, from the advanced guard of a French squadron
broken out from Brest to a wandering trader.

The signal came down and was almost instantly replaced.

"Friendly sail in sight bearing northeast" read Truscott.

A squall came down and blotted out the horizon. The _Renown_ had to pay
off momentarily before its impact. The rain rattled on the deck as the
ship lay over, and then the wind abruptly moderated, the sun came out
again, and the squall was past. Bush busied himself with the task of
regaining station, of laying the _Renown_ her exact two cables' length
astern of her next ahead. She was last in the line of three, and the
flagship was the first. Now the strange sail was well over the horizon.
She was a sloop of war as the telescope showed at once; Bush thought for
a moment that she might be the _Retribution_, returned after a very
quick double passage, but it only took a second glance to make sure she
was not. Truscott read her number and referred to the list.

"_Clara_, sloop of war: Captain Ford" he announced.

The _Clara_ had sailed for England with despatches three weeks before
the _Retribution_, Bush knew.

"_Clara_ to Flag" went on Truscott. "Have despatches."

She was nearing fast. Up the flagship's halliards soared a string of
black balls which broke into flags at the top.

"All ships" read Truscott, with excitement evident in his voice, for
this meant that the _Renown_ would have orders to obey. "Heave-to."

"Main tops'l braces!" yelled Bush. "Mr. Abbott! My respects to the
captain and the squadron's heaving-to."

The squadron came to the wind and lay heaving easily over the rollers.
Bush watched the _Clara's_ boat dancing over the waves towards the
flagship.

"Keep the hands at the braces, Mr. Bush" said Captain Cogshill. "I
expect we'll fill again as soon as the despatches are delivered."

But Cogshill was wrong. Bush watched through his glass the officer from
the _Clara_ go up the flagship's side, but the minutes passed and the
flagship still lay hove-to, the squadron still pitched on the waves. Now
a new string of black balls went up the flagship's halliards.

"All ships" read Truscott. "Captains repair on board the flagship."

"Gig's crew away!" roared Bush.

It must be important, or at least unusual, news for the admiral to wish
to communicate it to the captains immediately and in person. Bush walked
the quarterdeck with Buckland while they waited. The French fleet might
be out; the Northern Alliance might be growing restive again. The King's
illness might have returned. It might be anything; they could be only
certain that it was not nothing. The minutes passed and lengthened into
half-hours; it could hardly be bad news--if it were, Lambert would not
be wasting precious time like this, with the whole squadron going off
slowly to leeward. Then at last the wind brought to their ears, over the
blue water, the high-pitched sound of the pipes of the bosun's mates in
the flagship. Bush clapped his glass to his eye.

"First one's coming off" he said.

Gig after gig left the flagship's side, and now they could see the
_Renown's_ gig with her captain in the sternsheets. Buckland went to
meet him as he came up the side. Cogshill touched his hat; he was
looking a little dazed.

"It's peace" he said.

The wind brought them the sound of cheering from the flagship--the
announcement must have been made to the ship's company on board, and it
was the sound of that cheering that gave any reality at all to the news
the captain brought.

"Peace, sir?" asked Buckland.

"Yes, peace. Preliminaries are signed. The ambassadors meet in France
next month to settle the terms, but it's peace. All hostilities are at
an end--they are to cease in every part of the world on arrival of this
news."

"Peace!" said Bush.

For nine years the world had been convulsed with war; ships had burned
and men had bled from Manila to Panama, west about and east about. It
was hard to believe that he was living now in a world where men did not
fire cannons at each other on sight. Cogshill's next remark had a
bearing on this last thought.

"National ships of the French, Batavian, and Italian Republics will be
saluted with the honours due to foreign ships of war" he said.

Buckland whistled at that, as well he might. It meant that England had
recognised the existence of the red republics against which she had
fought for so long. Yesterday it had been almost treason to speak the
word "republic". Now a captain could use it casually in an official
statement.

"And what happens to us, sir?" asked Buckland.

"That's what we must wait to hear" said Cogshill. "But the navy is to be
reduced to peacetime establishment. That means that nine ships out of
ten will be paid off."

"Holy Moses!" said Bush.

Now the next ship ahead was cheering, the sound coming shrilly through
the air.

"Call the hands" said Cogshill. "They must be told."

The ship's company of the _Renown_ rejoiced to hear the news. They
cheered as wildly as did the crews of the other ships. For them it meant
the approaching end of savage discipline and incredible hardship.
Freedom, liberty, a return to their homes. Bush looked down at the sea
of ecstatic faces and wondered what the news implied for him. Freedom
and liberty, possibly; but they meant life on a lieutenant's half pay.
That was something he had never experienced; in his earliest youth he
had entered the navy as a midshipman--the peacetime navy which he could
hardly remember--and during the nine years of the war he had only known
two short intervals of leave. He was not too sure that he cared for the
novel prospects that the future held out to him.

He glanced up at the flagship and turned to bellow at the signal
midshipman.

"Mr. Truscott! Don't you see that signal? Attend to your duties, or it
will be the worse for you, peace or no peace."

The wretched Truscott put his glass to his eye.

"All ships" he read. "Form line on the larboard tack."

Bush glanced at the captain for permission to proceed.

"Hands to the braces, there!" yelled Bush. "Fill that main tops'l.
Smarter than that, you lubbers! Full and by, quartermaster. Mr. Cope,
haven't you eyes in your head? Take another pull at that weather-brace!
God bless my soul! Easy there! Belay!"

"All ships" read Truscott with his telescope, as the _Renown_ gathered
way and settled in the wake of her next ahead. "Tack in succession."

"Stand by to go about!" yelled Bush.

He noted the progress of the next ahead, and then spared time to rate
the watch for its dilatoriness in going to its stations for tacking
ship.

"You slow-footed slobs! I'll have some of you dancing at the gratings
before long!"

The next ahead had tacked by now, and the _Renown_ was advancing into
the white water she had left behind.

"Ready about!" shouted Bush. "Headsail sheets! Helm-a-lee!"

The _Renown_ came ponderously about and filled on the starboard tack.

"Course sou'west by west" said Truscott, reading the next signal.

Southwest by west. The admiral must be heading back for Port Royal. He
could guess that was the first step towards the reduction of the fleet
to its peacetime establishment. The sun was warm and delightful, and the
_Renown_, steadying before the wind, was roaring along over the blue
Caribbean. She was keeping her station well; there was no need to shiver
the mizzen topsail yet. This was a good life. He could not make himself
believe that it was coming to an end. He tried to think of a winter's
day in England, with nothing to do. No ship to handle. Half pay--his
sisters had half his pay as it was, which would mean there would be
nothing for him, as well as nothing to do. A cold winter's day. No, he
simply could not imagine it, and he left off trying.




                                 XVIII


It was a cold winter's day in Portsmouth; a black frost, and there was
a penetrating east wind blowing down the street as Bush came out of the
dockyard gates. He turned up the collar of his pea-jacket over his
muffler and crammed his hands into his pockets, and he bowed his head
into the wind as he strode forward into it, his eyes watering, his nose
running, while that east wind seemed to find its way between his ribs,
making the scars that covered them ache anew. He would not allow himself
to look up at the Keppel's Head as he went past it. In there, he knew,
there would be warmth and good company. The fortunate officers with
prize money to spend; the incredibly fortunate officers who had found
themselves appointments in the peacetime navy--they would be in there
yarning and taking wine with each other. He could not afford wine. He
thought longingly for a moment about a tankard of beer, but he rejected
the idea immediately, although the temptation was strong. He had a
month's half pay in his pocket--he was on his way back from the Clerk of
the Cheque from whom he had drawn it--but that had to last four and a
half weeks and he knew he could not afford it.

He had tried of course for a billet in the merchant service, as mate,
but that was as hopeless a prospect at present as obtaining an
appointment as lieutenant. Having started life as a midshipman and spent
all his adult life in the fighting service he did not know enough about
bills of lading or cargo stowage. The merchant service looked on the
navy with genial contempt, and said the latter always had a hundred men
available to do a job the merchantman had to do with six. And with every
ship that was paid off a fresh batch of master's mates, trained for the
merchant service and pressed from it, sought jobs in their old
profession, heightening the competition every month.

Someone came out from a side street just in front of him and turned into
the wind ahead of him--a naval officer. That gangling walk; those
shoulders bent into the wind; he could not help but recognise
Hornblower.

"Sir! Sir!" he called, and Hornblower turned.

There was a momentary irritation in his expression but it vanished the
moment he recognised Bush.

"It's good to see you" he said, his hand held out.

"Good to see _you_, sir" said Bush.

"Don't call me 'sir'" said Hornblower.

"No, sir? What--why----?"

Hornblower had no greatcoat on; and his left shoulder was bare of the
epaulette he should have worn as a commander. Bush's eyes went to it
automatically. He could see the old pin-holes in the material which
showed where the epaulette had once been fastened.

"I'm not a commander" said Hornblower. "They didn't confirm my
appointment."

"Good God!"

Hornblower's face was unnaturally white--Bush was accustomed to seeing
it deeply tanned--and his cheeks were hollow, but his expression was set
in the old unrevealing cast that Bush remembered so well.

"Preliminaries of peace were signed the day I took _Retribution_ into
Plymouth" said Hornblower.

"What infernal luck!" said Bush.

Lieutenants waited all their lives for the fortunate combination of
circumstances that might bring them promotion, and most of them waited
in vain. It was more than likely now Hornblower would wait in vain for
the rest of his life.

"Have you applied for an appointment as lieutenant?" asked Bush.

"Yes. And I suppose you have?" replied Hornblower.

"Yes."

There was no need to say more than that on that subject. The peacetime
navy employed one-tenth of the lieutenants who were employed in wartime;
to receive an appointment one had to be of vast seniority or else have
powerful friends.

"I spent a month in London" said Hornblower. "There was always a crowd
round the Admiralty and the Navy Office."

"I expect so" said Bush.

The wind came shrieking round the corner.

"God, but it's cold!" said Bush.

His mind toyed with the thought of various ways to continue the
conversation in shelter. If they went to the Keppel's Head now it would
mean paying for two pints of beer, and Hornblower would have to pay for
the same.

"I'm going into the Long Rooms just here" said Hornblower. "Come in with
me--or are you busy?"

"No, I'm not busy" said Bush, doubtfully "but----"

"Oh, it's all right" said Hornblower. "Come on."

There was reassurance in the confident way in which Hornblower spoke
about the Long Rooms. Bush only knew of them by reputation. They were
frequented by officers of the navy and the army with money to spare.
Bush had heard much about the high stakes that were indulged in at play
there, and about the elegance of the refreshments offered by the
proprietor. If Hornblower could speak thus casually about the Long Rooms
he could not be as desperately hard up as he seemed to be. They crossed
the street and Hornblower held open the door and ushered him through. It
was a long oak-panelled room; the gloom of the outer day was made
cheerful here by the light of candles, and a magnificent fire flamed on
the hearth. In the centre several card tables with chairs round them
stood ready for play; the ends of the room were furnished as comfortable
lounges. A servant in a green baize apron was making the room tidy, and
came to take their hats and Bush's coat as they entered.

"Good morning, sir" he said.

"Good morning, Jenkins" said Hornblower.

He walked with unconcealed haste over to the fire and stood before it
warming himself. Bush saw that his teeth were chattering.

"A bad day to be out without your pea-jacket" he said.

"Yes" said Hornblower.

He clipped that affirmative a little short, so that in a minute degree
it failed to be an indifferent, flat agreement. It was that which caused
Bush to realise that it was not eccentricity or absent-mindedness that
had brought Hornblower out into a black frost without his greatcoat.
Bush looked at Hornblower sharply, and he might even have asked a
tactless question if he had not been forestalled by the opening of an
inner door beside them. A short, plump, but exceedingly elegant
gentleman came in; he was dressed in the height of fashion, save that he
wore his hair long, tied back and with powder in the style of the last
generation. This made his age hard to guess. He looked at the pair of
them with keen dark eyes.

"Good morning. Marquis" said Hornblower. "It is a pleasure to
present--M. le Marquis de Sainte-Croix--Lieutenant Bush."

The Marquis bowed gracefully, and Bush endeavoured to imitate him. But
for all that graceful bow, Bush was quite unaware of the considering
eyes running over him. A lieutenant looking over a likely hand, or a
farmer looking at a pig at a fair, might have worn the same expression.
Bush guessed that the Marquis was making a mental estimate as to how
much Bush might be good for at the card tables, and suddenly became
acutely conscious of his shabby uniform. Apparently the Marquis reached
the same conclusion as Bush did, but he began a conversation
nevertheless.

"A bitter wind" he said.

"Yes" said Bush.

"It will be rough in the Channel" went on the Marquis, politely raising
a professional topic.

"Indeed it will" agreed Bush.

"And no ships will come in from the westward."

"You can be sure of that."

The Marquis spoke excellent English. He turned to Hornblower.

"Have you seen Mr. Truelove lately?" he asked.

"No" said Hornblower. "But I met Mr. Wilson."

Truelove and Wilson were names familiar to Bush; they were the most
famous prize agents in England--a quarter of the navy at least employed
that firm to dispose of their captures for them. The Marquis turned back
to Bush.

"I hope you have been fortunate in the matter of prize money, Mr. Bush?"
he said.

"No such luck" said Bush. His hundred pounds had gone in a two days'
debauch at Kingston.

"The sums they handle are fabulous, nothing less than fabulous. I
understand the ship's company of the _Caradoc_ will share seventy
thousand pounds when they come in."

"Very likely" said Bush. He had heard of the captures the _Caradoc_ had
made in the Bay of Biscay.

"But while this wind persists they must wait before enjoying their good
fortune, poor fellows. They were not paid off on the conclusion of
peace, but were ordered to Malta to assist in relieving the garrison.
Now they are expected back daily."

For an immigrant civilian the Marquis displayed a laudable interest in
the affairs of the service. And he was consistently polite, as his next
speech showed.

"I trust you will consider yourself at home here, Mr. Bush" he said.
"Now I hope you will pardon me, as I have much business to attend to."

He withdrew through the curtained door, leaving Bush and Hornblower
looking at each other.

"A queer customer" said Bush.

"Not so queer when you come to know him" said Hornblower.

The fire had warmed him by now, and there was a little colour in his
cheeks.

"What do you _do_ here?" asked Bush, curiosity finally overcoming his
politeness.

"I play whist" said Hornblower.

"Whist?"

All that Bush knew about whist was that it was a slow game favoured by
intellectuals. When Bush gambled he preferred something with a greater
element of chance and which did not make any demand on his thoughts.

"A good many men from the services drop in here for whist" said
Hornblower. "I'm always glad to make a fourth."

"But I'd heard----"

Bush had heard of all sorts of other games being played in the Long
Rooms: hazard, vingt-et-un, even roulette.

"The games for high stakes are played in there" said Hornblower,
pointing to the curtained door. "I stay here."

"Wise man" said Bush. But he was quite sure there was some further
information that was being withheld from him. And he was not actuated by
simple curiosity. The affection and the interest that he felt towards
Hornblower drove him into further questioning.

"Do you win?" he asked.

"Frequently" said Hornblower. "Enough to live."

"But you have your half pay?" went on Bush. Hornblower yielded in face
of this persistence.

"No" he said. "I'm not entitled."

"Not entitled?" Bush's voice rose a semitone. "But you're a permanent
lieutenant."

"Yes. But I was a temporary commander. I drew three months' full pay for
that rank before the Admiralty refused to confirm."

"And then they put you under stoppages?"

"Yes. Until I've repaid the excess." Hornblower smiled; a nearly natural
smile. "I've lived through two months of it. Only five more and I'll be
back on half pay."

"Holy Peter!" said Bush.

Half pay was bad enough; it meant a life of constant care and economy,
but one could live. Hornblower had nothing at all. Bush knew now why
Hornblower had no greatcoat. He felt a sudden wave of anger. A
recollection rose in his mind, as clear to his inward eye as this
pleasant room was to his outward one. He remembered Hornblower swinging
himself down, sword in hand, on to the deck of the _Renown_, plunging
into a battle against odds which could only result in either death or
victory. Hornblower, who had planned and worked endlessly to ensure
success--and then had flung his life upon the board as a final stake;
and today Hornblower was standing with chattering teeth trying to warm
himself beside a fire by the charity of a frog-eating gambling-hall
keeper with the look of a dancing master.

"It's a hellish outrage" said Bush, and then he made his offer. He
offered his money, even though he knew as he offered it that it meant
most certainly that he would go hungry, and that his sisters, if not
exactly hungry, would hardly have enough to eat. But Hornblower shook
his head.

"Thank you" he said. "I'll never forget that. But I can't accept it. You
know that I couldn't. But I'll never cease to be grateful to you. I'm
grateful in another way, too. You've brightened the world for me by
saying that."

Even in the face of Hornblower's refusal Bush repeated his offer, and
tried to press it, but Hornblower was firm in his refusal. Perhaps it
was because Bush looked so downcast that Hornblower gave him some
further information in the hope of cheering him up.

"Things aren't as bad as they seem" he said. "You don't understand that
I'm in receipt of regular pay--a permanent salarium from our friend the
Marquis."

"I didn't know that" said Bush.

"Half a guinea a week" explained Hornblower. "Ten shillings and sixpence
every Saturday morning, rain or shine."

"And what do you have to do for it?" Bush's half pay was more than twice
that sum.

"I only have to play whist" explained Hornblower. "Only that. From
twelve midday until two in the morning I'm here to play whist with any
three that need a fourth."

"I see" said Bush.

"The Marquis in his generosity also makes me free of these rooms. I have
no subscription to pay. No table money. And I can keep my winnings."

"And pay your losses?"

Hornblower shrugged.

"Naturally. But the losses do not come as often as one might think. The
reason's simple enough. The whist players who find it hard to obtain
partners, and who are cold-shouldered by the others, are naturally the
bad players. Strangely anxious to play, even so. And when the Marquis
happens to be in here and Major Jones and Admiral Smith and Mr. Robinson
are seeking a fourth while everyone seems strangely preoccupied he
catches my eye--the sort of reproving look a wife might throw at a
husband talking too loud at a dinner party--and I rise to my feet and
offer to be the fourth. It is odd they are flattered to play with
Hornblower, as often it costs them money."

"I see" said Bush again, and he remembered Hornblower standing by the
furnace in Fort Saman organising the firing of red-hot shot at the
Spanish privateers.

"The life is not entirely one of beer and skittles, naturally" went on
Hornblower; with the dam once broken he could not restrain his
loquacity. "After the fourth hour or so it becomes irksome to play with
bad players. When I go to Hell I don't doubt that my punishment will be
always to partner players who pay no attention to my discards. But then
on the other hand I frequently play a rubber or two with the good
players. There are moments when I would rather lose to a good player
than win from a bad one."

"That's just the point" said Bush, harking back to an old theme. "How
about the losses?"

Bush's experiences of gambling had mostly been of losses, and in this
hard-headed moment he could remember the times when he had been weak.

"I can deal with them" said Hornblower. He touched his breast pocket. "I
keep ten pounds here. My _corps de rserve_, you understand. I can
always endure a run of losses in consequence. Should that reserve be
depleted, then sacrifices have to be made to build it up again."

The sacrifices being skipped meals, thought Bush grimly. He looked so
woebegone that Hornblower offered further comfort.

"But five more months" he said "and I'll be on half pay again. And
before that--who knows? Some captain may take me off the beach."

"That's true" said Bush.

It was true insofar as the possibility existed. Sometimes ships were
recommissioned. A captain might be in need of a lieutenant; a captain
might invite Hornblower to fill the vacancy. But every captain was
besieged by friends seeking appointments, and in any event the Admiralty
was also besieged by lieutenants of great seniority--or lieutenants with
powerful friends--and captains were most likely to listen to
recommendations of high authority.

The door opened and a group of men came in.

"It's high time for customers to arrive" said Hornblower, with a grin at
Bush. "Stay and meet my friends."

The red-coats of the army, the blue coats of the navy, the bottle-green
and snuff-coloured coats of civilians; Bush and Hornblower made room for
them before the fire after the introductions were made, and the
coat-tails were parted as their wearers lined up before the flames. But
the exclamations about the cold, and the polite conversation, died away
rapidly.

"Whist?" asked one of the newcomers tentatively.

"Not for me. Not for us" said another, the leader of the red-coats. "The
Twenty-Ninth Foot has other fish to fry. We've a permanent engagement
with our friend the Marquis in the next room. Come on, Major, let's see
if we can call a main right this time."

"Then will you make a four, Mr. Hornblower? How about your friend Mr.
Bush?"

"I don't play" said Bush.

"With pleasure" said Hornblower. "You will excuse me, Mr. Bush, I know.
There is the new number of the _Naval Chronicle_ on the table there.
There's a _Gazette_ letter on the last page which might perhaps hold
your interest for a while. And there is another item you might think
important, too."

Bush could guess what the letter was even before he picked the
periodical up, but when he found the place there was the same feeling of
pleased shock to see his name in print there, as keen as the first time
he saw it: "I have the honour to be, etc., WM. BUSH."

The _Naval Chronicle_ in these days of peace found it hard, apparently,
to obtain sufficient matter to fill its pages, and gave much space to
the reprinting of these despatches. "Copy of a letter from Vice-Admiral
Sir Richard Lambert to Evan Nepean, Esq., Secretary to the Lords
Commissioners of the Admiralty." That was only Lambert's covering letter
enclosing the reports. Here was the first one--it was with a strange
internal sensation that he remembered helping Buckland with the writing
of it, as the _Renown_ ran westerly along the coast of Santo Domingo the
day before the prisoners broke out. It was Buckland's report on the
fighting at Saman. To Bush the most important line was "in the
handsomest manner--under the direction of Lieutenant William Bush, the
senior officer, whose report I enclose". And here was his very own
literary work, as enclosed by Buckland.

    _H.M.S._ Renown, _off Santo Domingo. January 9th, 1802_

    SIR,

    I have the honour to inform you...

Bush relived those days of a year ago as he reread his own words; those
words which he had composed with so much labour even though he had
referred, during the writing of them, to other reports written by other
men so as to get the phrasing right.

    ...I cannot end this report without a reference to the
    gallant conduct and most helpful suggestions of Lieutenant
    Horatio Hornblower, who was my second in command on this
    occasion, and to whom in great part the success of the
    expedition is due.

There was Hornblower now, playing cards with a post captain and two
contractors.

Bush turned back through the pages of the _Naval Chronicle_. Here was
the Plymouth letter, a daily account of the doings in the port during
the last month.

"Orders came down this day for the following ships to be paid
off...." "Came in from Gibraltar _La Diana_, 44, and the _Tamar_, 38,
to be paid off as soon as they go up the harbour and to be laid up."
"Sailed the _Caesar_, 80, for Portsmouth, to be paid off." And here was
an item just as significant, or even more so: "Yesterday there was a
large sale of serviceable stores landed from different men of war." The
navy was growing smaller every day and with every ship that was paid off
another batch of lieutenants would be looking for billets. And here was
an item--"This afternoon a fishing boat turning out of atwater jibed and
overset, by which accident two industrious fishermen with large families
were drowned." This was the _Naval Chronicle_, whose pages had once
bulged with the news of the Nile and of Camperdown; now it told of
accidents to industrious fishermen. Bush was too interested in his own
concerns to feel any sympathy towards their large families.

There was another drowning as a final item; a name--a combination of
names--caught Bush's attention so that he read the paragraph with a
quickened pulse.

    Last night the jolly boat of His Majesty's cutter _Rapid_, in
    the Revenue service, while returning in the fog from delivering
    a message on shore, was swept by the ebb tide athwart the hawse
    of a merchantman anchored off Fisher's Nose, and capsized. Two
    seamen and Mr. Henry Wellard, Midshipman, were drowned. Mr.
    Wellard was a most promising young man recently appointed to the
    _Rapid_, having served as a volunteer in His Majesty's ship
    _Renown_.

Bush read the passage and pondered over it. He thought it important to
the extent that he read the remainder of the _Naval Chronicle_ without
taking in any of it; and it was with surprise that he realised he would
have to leave quickly in order to catch the carrier's waggon back to
Chichester.

A good many people were coming into the Rooms now; the door was
continually opening to admit them. Some of them were naval officers with
whom he had a nodding acquaintance. All of them made straight for the
fire for warmth before beginning to play. And Hornblower was on his feet
now; apparently the rubber was finished, and Bush took the opportunity
to catch his eye and give an indication that he wished to leave.
Hornblower came over to him. It was with regret that they shook hands.

"When do we meet again?" asked Hornblower.

"I come in each month to draw my half pay" said Bush. "I usually spend
the night because of the carrier's waggon. Perhaps we could dine----?"

"You can always find me here" said Hornblower. "But--do you have a
regular place to stay?"

"I stay where it's convenient" replied Bush.

They both of them knew that meant that he stayed where it was cheap.

"I lodge in Highbury Street. I'll write the address down." Hornblower
turned to a desk in the corner and wrote on a sheet of paper which he
handed to Bush. "Would you care to share my room when next you come? My
landlady is a sharp one. No doubt she will make a charge for a cot for
you, but even so----"

"It'll save money" said Bush, putting the paper in his pocket; his grin
as he spoke masked the sentiment in his next words. "And I'll see more
of you."

"By George, yes" said Hornblower. Words were not adequate.

Jenkins had come sidling up and was holding Bush's greatcoat for him to
put on. There was that in Jenkins' manner which told Bush that gentlemen
when helped into their coats at the Long Rooms presented Jenkins with a
shilling. Bush decided at first that he would be eternally damned before
he parted with a shilling, and then he changed his mind. Maybe
Hornblower would give Jenkins a shilling if he did not. He felt in his
pocket and handed the coin over.

"Thank you, sir" said Jenkins.

With Jenkins out of earshot again Bush lingered, wondering how to frame
his question.

"That was hard luck on young Wellard" he said, tentatively.

"Yes" said Hornblower.

"D'you think" went on Bush, plunging desperately, "he had anything to do
with the captain's falling down the hatchway?"

"I couldn't give an opinion" answered Hornblower. "I didn't know enough
about it."

"But----" began Bush, and checked himself again; he knew by the look on
Hornblower's face that it was no use asking further questions.

The Marquis had come into the room and was looking round in unobtrusive
inspection. Bush saw him take note of the several men who were not
playing, and of Hornblower standing in idle gossip by the door. Bush saw
the meaning glance which he directed at Hornblower, and fell into sudden
panic.

"Good-bye" he said, hastily.

The black northeast wind that greeted him in the street was no more
cruel than the rest of the world.




                                  XIX


It was a short, hard-faced woman who opened the door in reply to
Bush's knock, and she looked at Bush even harder when he asked for
Lieutenant Hornblower.

"Top of the house" she said, at last, and left Bush to find his way up.

There could be no doubt about Hornblower's pleasure at seeing him. His
face was lit with a smile and he drew Bush into the room while shaking
his hand. It was an attic, with a steeply sloping ceiling; it contained
a bed and a night table and a single wooden chair, but, as far as Bush's
cursory glance could discover, nothing else at all.

"And how is it with you?" asked Bush, seating himself in the proffered
chair, while Hornblower sat on the bed.

"Well enough" replied Hornblower--but was there, or was there not, a
guilty pause before that answer? In any case the pause was covered up by
the quick counter-question. "And with you?"

"So-so" said Bush.

They talked indifferently for a space, with Hornblower asking questions
about the Chichester cottage that Bush lived in with his sisters.

"We must see about your bed for tonight" said Hornblower at the first
pause. "I'll go down and give Mrs. Mason a hail."

"I'd better come too" said Bush.

Mrs. Mason lived in a hard world, quite obviously; she turned the
proposition over in her mind for several seconds before she agreed to
it.

"A shilling for the bed" she said. "Can't wash the sheets for less than
that with soap as it is."

"Very good" said Bush.

He saw Mrs. Mason's hand held out, and he put the shilling into it; no
one could be in any doubt about Mrs. Mason's determination to be paid in
advance by any friend of Hornblower's. Hornblower had dived for his
pocket when he caught sight of the gesture, but Bush was too quick for
him.

"And you'll be talking till all hours" said Mrs. Mason. "Mind you don't
disturb my other gentlemen. And douse the light while you talk, too, or
you'll be burning a shilling's worth of tallow."

"Of course" said Hornblower.

"Maria! Maria!" called Mrs. Mason.

A young woman--no, a woman not quite young--came up the stairs from the
depths of the house at the call.

"Yes, Mother?"

Maria listened to Mrs. Mason's instructions for making up a truckle bed
in Mr. Hornblower's room.

"Yes, Mother" she said.

"Not teaching today, Maria?" asked Hornblower pleasantly.

"No, sir." The smile that lit her plain face showed her keen pleasure at
being addressed.

"Oak-Apple Day? No, not yet. It's not the King's Birthday. Then why this
holiday?"

"Mumps, sir" said Maria. "They all have mumps, except Johnnie Bristow."

"That agrees with everything I've heard about Johnnie Bristow" said
Hornblower.

"Yes, sir" said Maria. She smiled again, clearly pleased not only that
Hornblower should jest with her but also because he remembered what she
had told him about the school.

Back in the attic again Hornblower and Bush resumed their conversation,
this time on a more serious plane. The state of Europe occupied their
attention.

"This man Bonaparte" said Bush. "He's a restless cove."

"That's the right word for him" agreed Hornblower.

"Isn't he satisfied? Back in '96 when I was in the old _Superb_ in the
Mediterranean--that was when I was commissioned lieutenant--he was just
a general. I can remember hearing his name for the first time, when we
were blockading Toulon. Then he went to Egypt. Now he's First
Consul--isn't that what he calls himself?"

"Yes. But he's Napoleon now, not Bonaparte any more. First Consul for
life."

"Funny sort of name. Not what I'd choose for myself."

"Lieutenant Napoleon Bush" said Hornblower. "It wouldn't sound well."

They laughed together at the ridiculous combination.

"The _Morning Chronicle_ says he's going a step farther" went on
Hornblower. "There's talk that he's going to call himself Emperor."

"Emperor!"

Even Bush could catch the connotations of that title, with its claims to
universal pre-eminence.

"I suppose he's mad?" asked Bush.

"If he is, he's the most dangerous madman in Europe."

"I don't trust him over this Malta business. I don't trust him an inch"
said Bush, emphatically. "You mark my words, we'll have to fight him
again in the end. Teach him a lesson he won't forget. It'll come sooner
or later--we can't go on like this."

"I think you're quite right" said Hornblower. "And sooner rather than
later."

"Then----" said Bush.

He could not talk and think at the same time, not when his thoughts were
as tumultuous as the ones this conclusion called up; war with France
meant the re-expansion of the navy; the threat of invasion and the needs
of convoy would mean the commissioning of every small craft that could
float and carry a gun. It would mean the end of half pay for him; it
would mean walking a deck again and handling a ship under sail. And it
would mean hardship again, danger, anxiety, monotony--all the
concomitants of war. These thoughts rushed into his brain with so much
velocity, and in such a continuous stream, that they made a sort of
whirlpool of his mind, in which the good and the bad circled after each
other, each in turn chasing the other out of his attention.

"War's a foul business" said Hornblower, solemnly. "Remember the things
you've seen."

"I suppose you're right" said Bush; there was no need to particularise.
But it was an unexpected remark, all the same. Hornblower grinned and
relieved the tension.

"Well" he said, "Boney can call himself Emperor if he likes. I have to
earn my half guinea at the Long Rooms."

Bush was about to take this opportunity to ask Hornblower how he was
profiting there, but he was interrupted by a rumble outside the door and
a knock.

"Here comes your bed" said Hornblower, walking over to open the door.

Maria came trundling the thing in. She smiled at them.

"Over here or over there?" she asked.

Hornblower looked at Bush.

"It doesn't matter" said Bush.

"I'll put it against the wall, then."

"Let me help" said Hornblower.

"Oh no, sir. Please sir, I can do it."

The attention fluttered her--and Bush could see that with her sturdy
figure she was in no need of help. To cover her confusion she began to
thump at the bedding, putting the pillows into the pillowslips.

"I trust you have already had the mumps, Maria?" said Hornblower.

"Oh yes, sir. I had them as a child, on both sides."

The exercise and her agitation between them had brought the colour into
her cheeks. With blunt but capable hands she spread the sheet. Then she
paused as another implication of Hornblower's inquiry occurred to her.

"You've no need to worry, sir. I shan't give them to you if you haven't
had them."

"I wasn't thinking about that" said Hornblower.

"Oh, sir" said Maria, twitching the sheet, into mathematical smoothness.
She spread the blankets before she looked up again. "Are you going out
directly, sir?"

"Yes. I ought to have left already."

"Let me take that coat of yours for a minute, sir. I can sponge it and
freshen it up."

"Oh, I wouldn't have you go to that trouble, Maria."

"It wouldn't be any trouble, sir. Of course not. Please let me, sir. It
looks----"

"It looks the worse for wear" said Hornblower, glancing down at it.
"There's no cure for old age that's yet been discovered."

"Please let me take it, sir. There's some spirits of hartshorn
downstairs. It will make quite a difference. Really it will."

"But----"

"Oh, please, sir."

Hornblower reluctantly put up his hand and undid a button.

"I'll only be a minute with it" said Maria, hastening to him. Her hands
were extended to the other buttons, but a sweep of Hornblower's quick
nervous fingers had anticipated her. He pulled off his coat and she took
it out of his hands.

"You've mended that shirt yourself" she said, accusingly.

"Yes, I have."

Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn
garment. Maria studied the patch.

"I would have done that for you if you'd asked me, sir."

"And a good deal better, no doubt."

"Oh, I wasn't saying that, sir. But it isn't fit that you should patch
your own shirts."

"Whose should I patch, then?"

Maria giggled.

"You're too quick with your tongue for me" she said. "Now, just wait
here and talk to the lieutenant while I sponge this."

She darted out of the room and they heard her footsteps hurrying down
the stairs, while Hornblower looked half-ruefully at Bush.

"There's a strange pleasure" he said, "in knowing that there's a human
being who cares whether I'm alive or dead. Why that should give pleasure
is a question to be debated by the philosophic mind."

"I suppose so" said Bush.

He had sisters who devoted all their attention to him whenever it was
possible, and he was used to it. At home he took their ministrations for
granted. He heard the church clock strike the half-hour, and it recalled
his thoughts to the further business of the day.

"You're going to the Long Rooms now?" he asked.

"Yes. And you, I suppose, want to go to the dockyard? The monthly visit
to the Clerk of the Cheque?"

"Yes."

"We can walk together as far as the Rooms, if you care to. As soon as
our friend Maria returns my coat to me.

"That's what I was thinking" said Bush.

It was not long before Maria came knocking at the door again.

"It's done" she said, holding out the coat. "It's nice and fresh now."

But something seemed to have gone out of her. She seemed a little
frightened, a little apprehensive.

"What's the matter, Maria?" asked Hornblower, quick to feel the change
of attitude.

"Nothing. Of course there's nothing the matter with me" said Maria,
defensively, and then she changed the subject. "Put your coat on now, or
you'll be late."

Walking along Highbury Street Bush asked the question he had had in mind
for some time, regarding whether Hornblower had experienced good fortune
lately at the Rooms. Hornblower looked at him oddly.

"Not as good as it might be" he said.

"Bad?"

"Bad enough. My opponents' aces lie behind my kings, ready for instant
regicide. And my opponents' kings lie behind my aces, so that when they
venture out from the security of the hand they survive all perils and
take the trick. In the long run the chances right themselves
mathematically. But the periods when they are unbalanced in the wrong
direction can be distressing."

"I see" said Bush, although he was not too sure that he did; but one
thing he did know, and that was that Hornblower had been losing. And he
knew Hornblower well enough by now to know that when he talked in an
airy fashion as he was doing now he was more anxious than he cared to
admit.

They had reached the Long Rooms, and paused at the door.

"You'll call in for me on your way back?" asked Hornblower. "There's an
eating house in Broad Street with a fourpenny ordinary. Sixpence with
pudding. Would you care to try it?"

"Yes, indeed. Thank you. Good luck" said Bush, and he paused before
continuing. "Be careful."

"I shall be careful" said Hornblower, and went in through the door.

The weather was in marked contrast with what had prevailed during Bush's
last visit. Then there had been a black frost and an east wind; today
there was a hint of spring in the air. As Bush walked along the Hard the
harbour entrance revealed itself to him on his left, its muddy water
sparkling in the clear light. A flush-decked sloop was coming out with
the ebb, the gentle puffs of wind from the northwest just giving her
steerage way. Despatches for Halifax, perhaps. Money to pay the
Gibraltar garrison. Or maybe a reinforcement for the revenue cutters
that were finding so much difficulty in dealing with the peacetime wave
of smuggling. Whatever it was, there were fortunate officers on board,
with an appointment, with three years' employment ahead of them, with a
deck under their feet and a wardroom in which to dine. Lucky devils.
Bush acknowledged the salute of the porter at the gate and went into the
yard.

He emerged into the late afternoon and made his way back to the Long
Rooms. Hornblower was at a table near the corner and looked up to smile
at him, the candlelight illuminating his face. Bush found himself the
latest _Naval Chronicle_ and settled himself to read it. Beside him a
group of army and navy officers argued in low tones regarding the
difficulties of living in the same world as Bonaparte. Malta and Genoa,
Santo Domingo and Miquelet, came up in the conversation.

"Mark my words" said one of them, thumping his hand with his fist,
"we'll be at war with him again soon enough."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"It'll be war to the knife" supplemented another. "If once he drives us
to extremity, we shall never rest until Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte is
hanging to the nearest tree."

The others agreed to that with a fierce roar, like wild beasts.

"Gentlemen" said one of the players at Hornblower's table, looking round
over his shoulder. "Could you find it convenient to continue your
discussion at the far end of the room? This end is dedicated to the most
scientific and difficult of all games."

The words were uttered in a pleasant high tenor, but it was obvious that
the speaker had every expectation of being instantly obeyed.

"Very good, my lord" said one of the naval officers.

That made Bush look more closely, and he recognised the speaker,
although it was six years since he had seen him last. It was Admiral
Lord Parry, who had been made a lord after Camperdown; now he was one of
the commissioners of the navy, one of the people who could make or break
a naval officer. The mop of snow-white curls that ringed the bald spot
on the top of his head, his smooth old-man's face, his mild speech,
accorded ill with the nickname of "Old Bloody bones" which had been
given him by the lower-deck far back in the American War. Hornblower was
moving in very high society. Bush watched Lord Parry extend a skinny
white hand and cut the cards to Hornblower. It was obvious from his
colouring that Parry, like Hornblower, had not been to sea for a long
time. Hornblower dealt and the game proceeded in its paralysing
stillness; the cards made hardly a sound as they fell on the green
cloth, and each trick was picked up and laid down almost silently, with
only the slightest click. The line of tricks in front of Parry grew like
a snake, silent as a snake gliding over a rock, like a snake it closed
on itself and then lengthened again, and then the hand was finished and
the cards swept together.

"Small slam" said Parry as the players attended to their markers, and
that was all that was said. The two tiny words sounded as clearly and as
briefly in the silence as two bells in the middle watch. Hornblower cut
the cards and the next deal began in the same mystic silence. Bush could
not see the fascination of it. He would prefer a game in which he could
roar at his losses and exult over his winnings; and preferably one in
which the turn of a single card, and not of the whole fifty-two, would
decide who had won and who had lost. No, he was wrong. There was
undoubtedly a fascination about it, a poisonous fascination. Opium? No.
This silent game was like the quiet interplay of duelling swords as
compared with the crash of cutlass blades, and it was as deadly. A
small-sword through the lungs killed as effectively as--more effectively
than--the sweep of a cutlass.

"A short rubber" commented Parry; the silence was over, and the cards
lay in disorder on the table.

"Yes, my lord" said Hornblower.

Bush, taking note of everything with the keen observation of anxiety,
saw Hornblower put his hand to his breast pocket--the pocket that he had
indicated as holding his reserve--and take out a little fold of
one-pound notes. When he had made his payment Bush could see that what
he returned to his pocket was only a single note.

"You encountered the worst of good fortune" said Parry, pocketing his
winnings. "On the two occasions when you dealt, the trump that you
turned up proved to be the only one that you held. I cannot remember
another occasion when the dealer has held a singleton trump twice
running."

"In a long enough period of play, my lord" said Hornblower, "every
possible combination of cards can be expected."

He spoke with a polite indifference that for a moment almost gave Bush
heart to believe his losses were not serious, until he remembered the
single note that had been put back into Hornblower's breast pocket.

"But it is rare to see such a run of ill luck" said Parry. "And yet you
play an excellent game, Mr.--Mr.--please forgive me, but your name
escaped me at the moment of introduction."

"Hornblower" said Hornblower.

"Ah, yes, of course. For some reason the name is familiar to me."

Bush glanced quickly at Hornblower. There never was such a perfect
moment for reminding a Lord Commissioner about the fact that his
promotion to commander had not been confirmed.

"When I was a midshipman, my lord" said Hornblower, "I was seasick while
at anchor in Spithead on board the _Justinian_. I believe the story is
told."

"That doesn't seem to be the connection I remember" answered Parry. "But
we have been diverted from what I was going to say. I was about to
express regret that I cannot give you your immediate revenge, although I
should be most glad to have the opportunity of studying your play of the
cards again."

"You are very kind, my lord" said Hornblower, and Bush writhed--he had
been writhing ever since Hornblower had given the go-by to that golden
opportunity. This last speech had a flavour of amused bitterness that
Bush feared would be evident to the admiral. But fortunately Parry did
not know Hornblower as well as Bush did.

"Most unfortunately" said Parry, "I am due to dine with Admiral
Lambert."

This time the coincidence startled Hornblower into being human.

"Admiral Lambert, my lord?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"I had the honour of serving under him on the Jamaica station. This is
Mr. Bush, who commanded the storming party from the _Renown_ that
compelled the capitulation of Santo Domingo."

"Glad to see you, Mr. Bush" said Parry, and it was only just evident
that if he was glad he was not overjoyed. A commissioner might well find
embarrassment at an encounter with an unemployed lieutenant with a
distinguished record. Parry lost no time in turning back to Hornblower.

"It was in my mind" he said, "to try to persuade Admiral Lambert to
return here with me after dinner so that I could offer you your revenge.
Would we find you here if we did?"

"I am most honoured, my lord" said Hornblower with a bow, but Bush noted
the uncontrollable flutter of his fingers towards his almost empty
breast pocket.

"Then would you be kind enough to accept a semi-engagement? On account
of Admiral Lambert I can make no promise, except that I will do my best
to persuade him."

"I'm dining with Mr. Bush, my lord. But I would be the last to stand in
the way."

"Then we may take it as being settled as near as may be?"

"Yes, my lord."

Parry withdrew then, ushered out by his flag lieutenant who had been one
of the whist four, with all the dignity and pomp that might be expected
of a peer, an admiral, and a commissioner, and he left Hornblower
grinning at Bush.

"D'you think it's time for us to dine too?" he asked.

"I think so" said Bush.

The eating house in Broad Street was run, as might almost have been
expected, by a wooden-legged sailor. He had a pert son to assist him,
who stood by when they sat at a scrubbed oaken table on oak benches,
their feet in the sawdust, and ordered their dinner.

"Ale?" asked the boy.

"No. No ale" said Hornblower.

The pert boy's manner gave some indication of what he thought about
gentlemen of the navy who ate the fourpenny ordinary and drank nothing
with it. He dumped the loaded plates in front of them: boiled
mutton--not very much mutton--potatoes and carrots and parsnips and
barley and a dab of pease pudding, all swimming in pale gravy.

"It keeps away hunger" said Hornblower.

It might indeed do that, but apparently Hornblower had not kept hunger
away lately. He began to eat his food with elaborate unconcern, but with
each mouthful his appetite increased and his restraint decreased. In an
extraordinarily short time his plate was empty; he mopped it clean with
his bread and ate the bread. Bush was not a slow eater, but he was taken
a little aback when he looked up and saw that Hornblower had finished
every mouthful while his own plate was still half full. Hornblower
laughed nervously.

"Eating alone gives one bad habits" he said--and the best proof of his
embarrassment was the lameness of his explanation.

He was aware of that, as soon as he had spoken, and he tried to carry it
off by leaning back on his bench in a superior fashion; and to show how
much at ease he was he thrust his hands into the side pockets of his
coat. As he did so his whole expression changed. He lost some of the
little colour there was in his cheeks. There was utter consternation in
his expression--there was even fear. Bush took instant alarm; he thought
Hornblower must have had a seizure, and it was only after that first
thought that he connected Hornblower's changed appearance with his
gesture of putting his hands in his pockets. But a man who had found a
snake in his pocket would hardly wear that look of horror.

"What's the matter?" asked Bush. "What in God's name----?"

Hornblower slowly drew his right hand out of his pocket. He kept it
closed for a moment round what it held, and then he opened it, slowly,
reluctantly, like a man fearful of his destiny. Harmless enough; it was
a silver coin--a half-crown.

"That's nothing to take on about" said Bush, quite puzzled. "I wouldn't
even mind finding a half-crown in my pocket."

"But--but----" stammered Hornblower, and Bush began to realise some of
the implications.

"It wasn't there this morning" said Hornblower, and then he smiled the
old bitter smile. "I know too well what money I have in my pockets."

"I suppose you do" agreed Bush; but even now, with his mind going back
through the events of the morning, and making the obvious deductions, he
could not understand quite why Hornblower should be so worried. "That
wench put it there?"

"Yes. Maria" said Hornblower. "It must have been her. That's why she
took my coat to sponge it."

"She's a good soul" said Bush.

"Oh God!" said Hornblower. "But I can't--I can't----"

"Why not?" asked Bush, and he really thought that question unanswerable.

"No" said Hornblower. "It's--it's--I wish she hadn't done it. The poor
girl----"

"'Poor girl' be blowed!" said Bush. "She's only trying to do you a good
turn."

Hornblower looked at him for a long time without speaking, and then he
made a little hopeless gesture, as though despairing of ever making Bush
see the matter from his point of view.

"You can look like that if you like" said Bush, steadily, determined to
stick to his guns, "but there's no need to act as if the French had
landed just because a girl slips half a crown into your pocket."

"But don't you see----" began Hornblower, and then he finally abandoned
all attempt at explanation. Under Bush's puzzled gaze he mastered
himself. The unhappiness left his face, and he assumed his old
inscrutable look--it was as if he had shut down the vizor of a helmet
over his face.

"Very well" he said. "We'll make the most of it, by God!"

Then he rapped on the table.

"Boy!"

"Yessir."

"We'll have a pint of wine. Let someone run and fetch it at once. A pint
of wine--port wine."

"Yessir."

"And what's the pudding today?"

"Currant duff, sir."

"Good. We'll have some. Both of us. And let's have a saucer of jam to
spread on it."

"Yessir."

"And we'll need cheese before our wine. Is there any cheese in the
house, or must you send out for some?"

"There's some in the house, sir."

"Then put it on the table."

"Yessir."

Now was it not, thought Bush, exactly what might be expected of
Hornblower that he should push away the half of his huge slice of
currant duff unfinished? And he only had a nibble of cheese, hardly
enough to clear his palate. He raised his glass, and Bush followed his
example.

"To a lovely lady" said Hornblower.

They drank, and now there was an irresponsible twinkle in Hornblower's
eyes that worried Bush even while he told himself that he was tired of
Hornblower's tantrums. He decided to change the subject, and he prided
himself on the tactful way in which he did so.

"To a fortunate evening" he said, raising his glass in his turn.

"A timely toast" said Hornblower.

"You can afford to play?" asked Bush.

"Naturally."

"You can stand another run of bad luck?"

"I can afford to lose one rubber" answered Hornblower.

"Oh."

"But on the other hand if I win the first I can afford to lose the next
two. And if I win the first and second I can afford to lose the next
three. And so on."

"Oh."

That did not sound too hopeful; and Hornblower's gleaming eyes looking
at him from his wooden countenance were positively disturbing. Bush
shifted uneasily in his seat and changed the conversation again.

"They're putting the _Hastings_ into commission again" he said. "Had you
heard?"

"Yes. Peacetime establishment--three lieutenants, and all three selected
two months back."

"I was afraid that was so."

"But our chance will come" said Hornblower. "Here's to it."

"D'you think Parry will bring Lambert to the Long Rooms?" asked Bush
when he took the glass from his lips.

"I have no doubt about it" said Hornblower.

Now he was restless again.

"I must be back there soon" he said. "Parry might hurry Lambert through
his dinner."

"My guess is that he would" said Bush, preparing to rise.

"There's no necessity for you to come back with me if you don't care to"
said Hornblower. "You might find it wearisome to sit idle there."

"I wouldn't miss it for worlds" said Bush.




                                   XX


The Long Rooms were full with the evening crowd. At nearly every table
in the outer room there were earnest parties playing serious games,
while through the curtained door that opened into the inner room came a
continuous murmur that indicated that play in there was exciting and
noisy. But for Bush standing restlessly by the fire, occasionally
exchanging absent-minded remarks with the people who came and went,
there was only one point of interest, and that was the candle-lit table
near the wall where Hornblower was playing in very exalted society. His
companions were the two admirals and a colonel of infantry, the latter a
bulky man with a face almost as red as his coat, whom Parry had brought
with him along with Admiral Lambert. The flag lieutenant who had
previously partnered Parry was now relegated to the role of onlooker,
and stood beside Bush, and occasionally made incomprehensible remarks
about the play. The Marquis had looked in more than once. Bush had
observed his glance to rest upon the table with something of approval.
No matter if there were others who wanted to play; no matter if the
rules of the room gave any visitor the right to join a table at the
conclusion of a rubber; a party that included two flag officers and a
field officer could do as it pleased.

Hornblower had won the first rubber to Bush's enormous relief, although
actually he had not been able to follow the details of the play and the
score well enough to know that such was the case until the cards were
swept up and payments made. He saw Hornblower tuck away some money into
that breast pocket.

"It would be pleasant" said Admiral Parry, "if we could restore the old
currency, would it not? If the country could dispense with these dirty
notes and go back again to our good old golden guineas?"

"Indeed it would" said the colonel.

"The longshore sharks" said Lambert, "meet every ship that comes in from
abroad. Twenty-three and sixpence they offer for every guinea, so you
can be sure they are worth more than that."

Parry took something from his pocket and laid it on the table.

"Boney has restored the French currency, you see" he said. "They call
this a napoleon, now that he is First Consul for life. A twenty-franc
piece--a louis d'or, as we used to say."

"Napoleon, First Consul" said the colonel, looking at the coin with
curiosity, and then he turned it over. "French Republic."

"The 'republic' is mere hypocrisy, of course" said Parry. "There never
was a worse tyranny since the days of Nero."

"We'll show him up" said Lambert.

"Amen to that" said Parry, and then he put the coin away again. "But we
are delaying the business of the evening. I fear that is my fault. Let
us cut again. Ah, I partner you this time, colonel. Would you care to
sit opposite me? I omitted to thank you, Mr. Hornblower, for your
excellent partnership."

"You are too kind, my lord" said Hornblower, taking the chair at the
admiral's right.

The next rubber began and progressed silently to its close.

"I am glad to see that the cards have decided to be kind to you, Mr.
Hornblower" said Parry, "even though our honours have reduced your
winnings. Fifteen shillings, I believe?"

"Thank you" said Hornblower, taking the money.

Bush remembered what Hornblower had said about being able to afford to
lose three rubbers if he won the first two.

"Damned small stakes in my opinion, my lord" said the colonel. "Must we
play as low as this?"

"That is for the company to decide" replied Parry. "I myself have no
objection. Half a crown instead of a shilling? Let us ask Mr.
Hornblower."

Bush turned to look at Hornblower with renewed anxiety.

"As you will, my lord" said Hornblower, with the most elaborate
indifference.

"Sir Richard?"

"I don't mind at all" said Lambert.

"Half a crown a trick, then" said Parry. "Waiter, fresh cards, if you
please."

Bush had hurriedly to revise his estimate of the amount of losses
Hornblower could endure. With the stakes nearly trebled it would be bad
if he lost a single rubber.

"You and I again, Mr. Hornblower" said Parry, observing the cut. "You
wish to retain your present seat?"

"I am indifferent, my lord."

"I am not" said Parry. "Nor am I yet so old as to decline to change my
seat in accordance with the run of the cards. Our philosophers have not
yet decided that it is a mere vulgar superstition."

He heaved himself out of his chair and moved opposite Hornblower, and
play began again, with Bush watching more anxiously even than at the
start. He watched each side in turn take the odd trick, and then three
times running he saw Hornblower lay the majority of tricks in front of
him. During the next couple of hands he lost count of the score, but
finally he was relieved to see only two tricks before the colonel when
the rubber ended.

"Excellent" said Parry, "a profitable rubber, Mr. Hornblower. I'm glad
you decided to trump my knave of hearts. It must have been a difficult
decision for you, but it was undoubtedly the right one."

"It deprived me of a lead I could well have used" said Lambert. "The
opposition was indeed formidable, colonel."

"Yes" agreed the colonel, not quite as good-temperedly. "And twice I
held hands with neither an ace nor a king, which helped the opposition
to be formidable. Can you give me change, Mr. Hornblower?"

There was a five-pound note among the money that the colonel handed over
to Hornblower, and it went into the breast pocket of his coat.

"At least, colonel" said Parry, when they cut again, "you have Mr.
Hornblower as your partner this time."

As the rubber proceeded Bush was aware that the flag lieutenant beside
him was watching with greater and greater interest.

"By the odd trick, by George!" said he when the last cards were played.

"That was a close shave, partner" said the colonel, his good humour
clearly restored. "I hoped you held that queen, but I couldn't be sure."

"Fortune was with us, sir" said Hornblower.

The flag lieutenant glanced at Bush; it seemed as if the flag lieutenant
was of opinion that the colonel should have been in no doubt, from the
previous play, that Hornblower held the queen. Now that Bush's attention
was drawn to it, he decided that Hornblower must have thought just the
same--the slightest inflection in his voice implied it--but was sensibly
not saying so.

"I lose a rubber at five pounds ten and win one at fifteen shillings"
said the colonel, receiving his winnings from Lambert. "Who'd like to
increase the stakes again?"

To the credit of the two admirals they both glanced at Hornblower
without replying.

"As you gentlemen wish" said Hornblower.

"In that case I'm quite agreeable" said Parry.

"Five shillings a trick, then" said the colonel. "That makes the game
worth playing."

"The game is always worth playing" protested Parry.

"Of course, my lord" said the colonel, but without suggesting that they
should revert to the previous stakes.

Now the stakes were really serious; by Bush's calculation a really
disastrous rubber might cost Hornblower twenty pounds, and his further
calculation told him that Hornblower could hardly have more than twenty
pounds tucked away in his breast pocket. It was a relief to him when
Hornblower and Lambert won the next rubber easily.

"This is a most enjoyable evening" said Lambert, and he smiled with a
glance down at the fistful of the colonel's money he was holding; "nor
am I referring to any monetary gains."

"Instructive as well as amusing" said Parry, paying out to Hornblower.

Play proceeded, silently as ever, the silence only broken by the brief
interchanges of remarks between rubbers. Now that he could afford it,
fortunately, Hornblower lost a rubber, but it was a cheap one, and he
immediately won another profitable one. His gains mounted steadily with
hardly a setback. It was growing late, and Bush was feeling weary, but
the players showed few signs of fatigue, and the flag lieutenant stayed
on with the limitless patience he must have acquired during his present
appointment, philosophic and fatalistic since he could not possibly do
anything to accelerate his admiral's decision to go to bed. The other
players drifted away from the room; later still the curtained door
opened and the gamblers from the inner room came streaming out, some
noisy, some silent, and the Marquis made his appearance, silent and
unruffled, to watch the final rubbers with unobtrusive interest, seeing
to it that the candles were snuffed and fresh ones brought, and new
cards ready on demand. It was Parry who first glanced at the clock.

"Half-past three" he said. "Perhaps you gentlemen----?"

"Too late to go to bed now, my lord" said the colonel. "Sir Richard and
I have to be up early, as you know."

"My orders are all given" said Lambert.

"So are mine" said the colonel.

Bush was stupid with long late hours spent in a stuffy atmosphere, but
he thought he noticed an admonitory glance from Parry, directed at the
two speakers. He wondered idly what orders Lambert and the colonel would
have given, and still more idly why they should be orders that Parry did
not wish to be mentioned. There seemed to be just the slightest trace of
hurry, just the slightest hint of a desire to change the subject, in
Parry's manner when he spoke.

"Very well, then, we can play another rubber, if Mr. Hornblower has no
objection?"

"None at all, my lord."

Hornblower was imperturbable; if he had noticed anything remarkable
about the recent interchange he gave no sign of it. Probably he was
weary, though--Bush was led to suspect that by his very
imperturbability. Bush knew by now that Hornblower worked as hard to
conceal his human weaknesses as some men worked to conceal ignoble
birth.

Hornblower had the colonel as partner, and no one could be in the room
without being aware that this final rubber was being played in an
atmosphere of even fiercer competition than its predecessors. Not a word
was spoken between the hands; the score was marked, the tricks swept up,
the other pack proffered and cut in deadly silence. Each hand was
desperately close, too. In nearly every case it was only a single trick
that divided the victors and the vanquished, so that the rubber dragged
on and on with painful slowness. Then a hand finished amid a climax of
tension. The flag lieutenant and the Marquis had kept count of the
score, and when Lambert took the last trick they uttered audible sighs,
and the colonel was so moved that he broke the silence at last.

"Neck and neck, by God!" he said. "This next hand must settle it."

But he was properly rebuked by the stony silence with which his remark
was received. Parry merely took the cards from the colonel's right side
and passed them over to Hornblower to cut. Then Parry dealt, and turned
up the king of diamonds as trump, and the colonel led. Trick succeeded
trick. For a space, after losing a single trick, Lambert and Parry
carried all before them. Six tricks lay before Parry, and only one
before Hornblower. The colonel's remark about being neck and neck was
fresh in Bush's ears. One more trick out of the next six would give the
rubber to the two admirals. Five to one was long odds, and Bush
uncomfortably resigned himself to his friend losing this final rubber.
Then the colonel took a trick and the game was still alive. Hornblower
took the next trick, so that there was still hope. Hornblower led the
ace of diamonds, and before it could be played to he laid down his other
three cards to claim the rest of the tricks; the queen and knave of
diamonds lay conspicuously on the table.

"Rubber!" exclaimed the colonel, "we've won it, partner! I thought all
was lost."

Parry was ruefully contemplating his fallen king.

"I agree that you had to lead your ace, Mr. Hornblower" he said, "but I
would be enchanted to know why you were so certain that my king was
unguarded. There were two other diamonds unaccounted for. Would it be
asking too much of you to reveal the secret?"

Hornblower raised his eyebrows in some slight surprise at a question
whose answer was so obvious.

"You were marked with the king, my lord" he said, "but it was the rest
of your hand which was significant, for you were also marked with
holding three clubs. With only four cards in your hand the king could
not be guarded."

"A perfect explanation" said Parry; "it only goes to confirm me in my
conviction that you are an excellent whist player, Mr. Hornblower."

"Thank you, my lord."

Parry's quizzical smile had a great deal of friendship in it. If
Hornblower's previous behaviour had not already won Parry's regard, this
last coup certainly had.

"I'll bear your name in mind, Mr. Hornblower" he said. "Sir Richard has
already told me the reason why it was familiar to me. It was regrettable
that the policy of immediate economy imposed on the Admiralty by the
Cabinet should have resulted in your commission as commander not being
confirmed."

"I thought I was the only one who regretted it, my lord."

Bush winced again when he heard the words; this was the time for
Hornblower to ingratiate himself with those in authority, not to offend
them with unconcealed bitterness. This meeting with Parry was a stroke
of good fortune that any half-pay naval officer would give two fingers
for. Bush was reassured, however, by a glance at the speakers.
Hornblower was smiling with infectious lightheartedness, and Parry was
smiling back at him. Either the implied bitterness had escaped Parry's
notice or it had only existed in Bush's mind.

"I was actually forgetting that I owe you a further thirty-five
shillings" said Parry, with a start of recollection. "Forgive me. There,
I think that settles my monied indebtedness; I am still in your debt for
a valuable experience."

It was a thick wad of money that Hornblower put back in his pocket.

"I trust you will keep a sharp lookout for footpads on your way back,
Mr. Hornblower" said Parry with a glance.

"Mr. Bush will be walking home with me, my lord. It would be a valiant
footpad that would face him."

"No need to worry about footpads tonight" interposed the colonel. "Not
tonight."

The colonel wore a significant grin; the others displayed a momentary
disapproval of what apparently was an indiscretion, but the disapproval
faded out again when the colonel waved a hand at the clock.

"Our orders go into force at four, my lord" said Lambert.

"And now it is half-past. Excellent."

The flag lieutenant came in at that moment; he had slipped out when the
last card was played.

"The carriage is at the door, my lord" he said.

"Thank you. I wish you gentlemen a good evening, then."

They all walked to the door together; there was the carriage in the
street, and the two admirals, the colonel, and the flag lieutenant
mounted into it. Hornblower and Bush watched it drive away.

"Now what the devil are those orders that come into force at four?"
asked Bush. The earliest dawn was showing over the rooftops.

"God knows" said Hornblower.

They headed for the corner of Highbury Street.

"How much did you win?"

"It was over forty pounds--it must be about forty-five pounds" said
Hornblower.

"A good night's work."

"Yes. The chances usually right themselves in time." There was something
flat and listless in Hornblower's tone as he spoke. He took several more
strides before he burst out into speech again with a vigour that was in
odd contrast. "I wish to God it had happened last week. Yesterday,
even."

"But why?"

"That girl. That poor girl."

"God bless my soul!" said Bush. He had forgotten all about the fact that
Maria had slipped half a crown into Hornblower's pocket and he was
surprised that Hornblower had not forgotten as well. "Why trouble your
head about her?"

"I don't know" said Hornblower, and then he took two more strides. "But
I do."

Bush had no time to meditate over this curious avowal, for he heard a
sound that made him grasp Hornblower's elbow with sudden excitement.

"Listen!"

Ahead of them, along the silent street, a heavy military tread could be
heard. It was approaching. The faint light shone on white crossbelts and
brass buttons. It was a military patrol, muskets at the slope, a
sergeant marching beside it, his chevrons and his half-pike revealing
his rank.

"Now, what the deuce----?" said Bush.

"Halt!" said the sergeant to his men; and then to the other two, "May I
ask you two gentlemen who you are?"

"We are naval officers" said Bush.

The lantern the sergeant carried was not really necessary to reveal
them. The sergeant came to attention.

"Thank you, sir" he said.

"What are you doing with this patrol, sergeant?" asked Bush.

"I have my orders, sir" replied the sergeant. "Begging your pardon, sir.
By the left, quick--march!"

The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his
half-pike in salute as he passed on.

"What in the name of all that's holy?" wondered Bush. "Boney can't have
made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so.
You'd think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can't be."

"Look there!" said Hornblower.

Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red
coats, not with the military stillness of the soldiers. Checked shirts
and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on
his collar and his dirk at his side.

"The press gang for certain!" exclaimed Bush. "Look at the bludgeons!"

Every seaman carried a club in his hand.

"Midshipman!" said Hornblower, sharply. "What's all this?"

The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the
uniforms.

"Orders, sir" he began, and then, realising that with the growing
daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he
went on. "Press gang, sir. We've orders to press every seaman we find.
The patrols are out on every road."

"So I believe. But what's the press for?"

"Dunno, sir. Orders, sir."

That was sufficient answer, maybe.

"Very good. Carry on."

"The press, by jingo!" said Bush. "Something's happening."

"I expect you're right" said Hornblower.

They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way
along to Mrs. Mason's house.

"There's the first results" said Hornblower.

They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least,
escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in
command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were
talking volubly--the noise they were making was rousing the street.
Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those
who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.

"It's like old times" said Bush with a grin. "They've cut their
waistbands."

With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a
trouser pocket, as otherwise their trousers would fall down. No one
could run away when handicapped in this fashion.

"A likely looking lot of prime seamen" said Bush, running a professional
eye over them.

"Hard luck on them, all the same" said Hornblower.

"Hard luck?" said Bush in surprise.

Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was
the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant
seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as
for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to
secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed,
snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a
single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into
a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will
without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more
sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night
being replaced by day.

Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.

"It may be war" he said, slowly.

"War!" said Bush.

"We'll know when the mail comes in" said Hornblower. "Parry could have
told us last night, I fancy."

"But--war!" said Bush.

The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard, its noise
dwindling with the increasing distance, and Hornblower turned towards
the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they
entered the house they saw Maria standing at the foot of the staircase,
a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat
over her nightclothes; she had put on her mobcap hastily, for a couple
of curling papers showed under its edge.

"You're safe!" she said.

"Of course we're safe, Maria" said Hornblower. "What do you think could
happen to us?"

"There was all that noise in the street" said Maria. "I looked out. Was
it the press gang?"

"That's just what it was" said Bush.

"Is it--is it war?"

"That's what it may be."

"Oh!" Maria's face revealed her distress. "Oh!"

Her eyes searched their faces.

"No need to worry, Miss Maria" said Bush. "It'll be many a long year
before Boney brings his flat-bottoms up Spithead."

"It's not that" said Maria. Now she was looking only at Hornblower. In a
flash she had forgotten Bush's existence.

"You'll be going away!" she said.

"I shall have my duty to do if I am called upon, Maria" said Hornblower.

Now a grim figure appeared climbing the stairs from the basement--Mrs.
Mason; she had no mobcap on so that her curl papers were all visible.

"You'll disturb my other gentlemen with all this noise" she said.

"Mother, they think it's going to be war" said Maria.

"And not a bad thing perhaps if it means some people will pay what they
owe."

"I'll do that this minute" said Hornblower hotly. "What's my reckoning,
Mrs. Mason?"

"Oh, please, please----" said Maria interposing.

"You just shut your mouth, miss" snapped Mrs. Mason. "It's only because
of you that I've let this young spark run on."

"Mother!"

"'I'll pay my reckoning' he says, like a lord. And not a shirt in his
chest. His chest'd be at the pawnbroker's too if I hadn't nobbled it."

"I said I'd pay my reckoning and I mean it, Mrs. Mason" said Hornblower
with enormous dignity.

"Let's see the colour of your money, then" stipulated Mrs. Mason, not in
the least convinced. "Twenty-seven and six."

Hornblower brought a fistful of silver out of his trouser pocket. But
there was not enough there, and he had to extract a note from his breast
pocket, revealing as he did so that there were many more.

"So!" said Mrs. Mason. She looked down at the money in her hand as if it
were fairy gold, and opposing emotions waged war in her expression.

"I think I might give you a week's warning, too" said Hornblower,
harshly.

"Oh no!" said Maria.

"That's a nice room you have upstairs" said Mrs. Mason. "You wouldn't be
leaving me just on account of a few words."

"Don't leave us, Mr. Hornblower" said Maria.

If ever there was a man completely at a loss it was Hornblower. After a
glance at him Bush found it hard not to grin. The man who could keep a
cool head when playing for high stakes with admirals--the man who fired
the broadside that shook the _Renown_ off the mud when under the fire of
red-hot shot--was helpless when confronted by a couple of women. It
would be a picturesque gesture to pay his reckoning--if necessary to pay
an extra week's rent in lieu of warning--and to shake the dust of the
place from his feet. But on the other hand he had been allowed credit
here, and it would be a poor return for that consideration to leave the
moment he could pay. But to stay on in a house that knew his secrets was
an irksome prospect too. The dignified Hornblower who was ashamed of
ever appearing human would hardly feel at home among people who knew
that he had been human enough to be in debt. Bush was aware of all these
problems as they confronted Hornblower, of the kindly feelings and the
embittered ones. And Bush could be fond of him even while he laughed at
him, and could respect him even while he knew of his weaknesses.

"When did you gennelmen have supper?" asked Mrs. Mason.

"I don't think we did" answered Hornblower, with a side glance at Bush.

"You must be hungry, then, if you was up all night. Let me cook you a
nice breakfast. A couple of thick chops for each of you. Now how about
that?"

"By George!" said Hornblower.

"You go on up" said Mrs. Mason. "I'll send the girl up with hot water
an' you can shave. Then when you come down there'll be a nice breakfast
ready for you. Maria, run and make the fire up."

Up in the attic Hornblower looked whimsically at Bush.

"That bed you paid a shilling for is still virgin" he said. "You haven't
had a wink of sleep all night and it's my fault. Please forgive me."

"It's not the first night I haven't slept" said Bush. He had not slept
on the night they stormed Saman; many were the occasions in foul
weather when he had kept the deck for twenty-four hours continuously.
And after a month of living with his sisters in the Chichester cottage,
of nothing to do except to weed the garden, of trying to sleep for
twelve hours a night for that very reason, the variety of excitement he
had gone through had been actually pleasant. He sat down on the bed
while Hornblower paced the floor.

"You'll have plenty more if it's war" Hornblower said; and Bush shrugged
his shoulders.

A thump on the door announced the arrival of the maid of all work of the
house, a can of hot water in each hand. Her ragged dress was too large
for her--handed down presumably from Mrs. Mason or from Maria--and her
hair was tousled, but she, too, turned wide eyes on Hornblower as she
brought in the hot water. Those wide eyes were too big for her skinny
face, and they followed Hornblower as he moved about the room, and never
had a glance for Bush. It was plain that Hornblower was as much the hero
of this fourteen-year-old foundling as he was of Maria.

"Thank you, Susie" said Hornblower; and Susie dropped an angular curtsey
before she scuttled from the room with one last glance round the door as
she left.

Hornblower waved a hand at the wash-hand stand and the hot water.

"You first" said Bush.

Hornblower peeled off his coat and his shirt and addressed himself to
the business of shaving. The razor blade rasped on his bristly cheeks;
he turned his face this way and that so as to apply the edge. Neither of
them felt any need for conversation, and it was practically in silence
that Hornblower washed himself, poured the wash water into the slop
pail, and stood aside for Bush to shave himself.

"Make the most of it" said Hornblower. "A pint of fresh water twice a
week for shaving'll be all you'll get if you have your wish."

"Who cares?" said Bush.

He shaved, restropped his razor with care, and put it back into his roll
of toilet articles. The scars that seamed his ribs gleamed pale as he
moved. When he had finished dressing he glanced at Hornblower.

"Chops" said Hornblower. "Thick chops. Come on."

There were several places laid at the table in the dining-room opening
out of the hall, but nobody else was present; apparently it was not the
breakfast hour of Mrs. Mason's other gentlemen.

"Only a minute, sir" said Susie, showing up in the doorway for a moment
before hurrying down into the kitchen.

She came staggering back laden with a tray; Hornblower pushed back his
chair and was about to help her, but she checked him with a scandalised
squeak and managed to put the tray safely on the side table without
accident.

"I can serve you, sir" she said.

She scuttled back and forward between the two tables like the boys
running with the nippers when the cable was being hove in. Coffee-pot
and toast, butter and jam, sugar and milk, cruet and hot plates and
finally a wide dish which she laid before Hornblower; she took off the
cover and there was a noble dish of chops whose delightful scent,
hitherto pent up, filled the room.

"Ah!" said Hornblower, taking up a spoon and fork to serve. "Have you
had your breakfast, Susie?"

"Me, sir? No, sir. Not yet, sir."

Hornblower paused, spoon and fork in hand, looking from the chops to
Susie and back again. Then he put down the spoon and thrust his right
hand into his trouser pocket.

"There's no way in which you can have one of these chops?" he said.

"Me, sir? Of course not, sir."

"Now here's half a crown."

"Half a crown, sir!"

That was more than a day's wages for a labourer.

"I want a promise from you, Susie."

"Sir--sir----!"

Susie's hands were behind her.

"Take this, and promise me that the first chance that comes your way,
the moment Mrs. Mason lets you out, you'll buy yourself something to
eat. Fill that wretched little belly of yours. Faggots and pease
pudding, pig's trotters, all the things you like. Promise me."

"But sir----"

Half a crown, the prospect of unlimited food, were things that could not
be real.

"Oh, take it" said Hornblower testily.

"Yes, sir."

Susie clasped the coin in her skinny hand.

"Don't forget I have your promise."

"Yes, sir, please sir, thank you, sir."

"Now put it away and clear out quick."

"Yes, sir."

She fled out of the room and Hornblower began once more to serve the
chops.

"I'll be able to enjoy my breakfast now" said Hornblower
self-consciously.

"No doubt" said Bush; he buttered himself a piece of toast, dabbed
mustard on his plate--to eat mustard with mutton marked him as a sailor,
but he did it without a thought. With good food in front of him there
was no need for thought, and he ate in silence. It was only when
Hornblower spoke again that Bush realised that Hornblower had been
construing the silence as accusatory of something.

"Half a crown" said Hornblower, defensively "may mean many things to
many people. Yesterday----"

"You're quite right" said Bush, filling in the gap as politeness
dictated, and then he looked up and realised that it was not because he
had no more to say that Hornblower had left the sentence uncompleted.

Maria was standing framed in the dining-room door; her bonnet, gloves,
and shawl indicated that she was about to go out, presumably to early
marketing since the school where she taught was temporarily closed.

"I--I looked in to see that you had everything you wanted" she said. The
hesitation in her speech seemed to indicate that she had heard
Hornblower's last words, but it was not certain.

"Thank you. Delightful" mumbled Hornblower.

"Please don't get up" said Maria, hastily and with a hint of hostility,
as Hornblower and Bush began to rise. Her eyes were wet.

A knocking on the street door relieved the tension, and Maria fled to
answer it. From the dining-room they heard a masculine voice, and Maria
reappeared, a corporal of marines towering behind her dumpy form.

"Lieutenant Hornblower?" he asked.

"That's me."

"From the admiral, sir."

The corporal held out a letter and a folded newspaper. There was a
maddening delay while a pencil was found for Hornblower to sign the
receipt. Then the corporal took his leave with a clicking of heels and
Hornblower stood with the letter in one hand and the newspaper in the
other.

"Oh, open it--please open it" said Maria.

Hornblower tore the wafer and unfolded the sheet. He read the note, and
then reread it, nodding his head as if the note confirmed some
preconceived theory.

"You see that sometimes it is profitable to play whist" he said, "in
more ways than one."

He handed the note over to Bush; his smile was a little lopsided.

    SIR [read Bush]

    It is with pleasure that I take this opportunity of informing
    you in advance of any official notification that your promotion
    to Commander is now confirmed and that you will be shortly
    appointed to the Command of a Sloop of War.

"By God, sir!" said Bush. "Congratulations. For the second time, sir.
It's only what you deserve, as I said before."

"Thank you" said Hornblower. "Finish reading it."

    The arrival at this moment of the Mail Coach with the London
    newspapers [said the second paragraph] enables me to send you
    the information regarding the changed situation without being
    unnecessarily prolix in this letter. You will gather from what
    you read in the accompanying copy of the _Sun_ the reasons why
    conditions of military secrecy should prevail during our very
    pleasant evening so that I need not apologise for not having
    enlightened you, while I remain,

                                           Your obedient servant,
                                                              PARRY

By the time Bush had finished the letter Hornblower had opened the
newspaper at the relevant passage, which he pointed out to Bush.

                        Message from HIS MAJESTY
                                   _House of Commons, March 8, 1803_

    The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER brought down the following
    message from HIS MAJESTY:

    "His Majesty thinks it necessary to acquaint the House of
    Commons, that, as very considerable military preparations are
    carrying on in the ports of France and Holland, he has judged it
    expedient to adopt additional measures of precaution for the
    security of his dominions.

                                                         GEORGE R."

That was all Bush needed to read. Boney's fleet of flat-bottomed boats,
and his army of invasion mustered along the Channel coast, were being
met by the appropriate and necessary countermove. Last night's
press-gang measures, planned and carried out with a secrecy for which
Bush could feel nothing except wholehearted approval (he had led too
many press gangs not to know how completely seamen made themselves
scarce at the first hint of a press) would provide the crews for the
ships necessary to secure England's safety. There were ships in plenty,
laid up in every harbour in England; and officers--Bush knew very well
how many officers were available. With the fleet manned and at sea
England could laugh at the treacherous attack Boney had planned.

"They've done the right thing for once, by God!" said Bush, slapping the
newspaper.

"But what is it?" asked Maria.

She had been standing silent, watching the two men, her glance shifting
from one to the other in an endeavour to read their expressions. Bush
remembered that she had winced at his outburst of congratulation.

"It'll be war next week" said Hornblower. "Boney won't endure a bold
answer."

"Oh" said Maria. "But you--what about you?"

"I'm made commander" said Hornblower. "I'm going to be appointed to a
sloop of war."

"Oh" said Maria again.

There was a second or two of agonised effort at self-control, and then
she broke down. Her head drooped farther and farther, until she put her
gloved hands to her face, turning away from the two men so that they
only saw her shoulders with the shawl across them, shaking with sobs.

"Maria" said Hornblower gently. "Please, Maria, please don't."

Maria turned and presented a slobbered face to him, unevenly framed in
the bonnet which had been pushed askew.

"I'll n-n-never see you again" sobbed Maria. "I've been so happy with
the m-m-mumps at school, I thought I'd m-m-make your bed and do your
room. And n-now this happens!"

"But, Maria" said Hornblower--his hands flapped helplessly--"I've my
duty to do."

"I wish I was d-dead! Indeed I wish I was dead!" said Maria, and the
tears poured down her cheeks to drip upon her shawl; they streamed from
eyes which had a fixed look of despair, while the wide mouth was
shapeless.

This was something Bush could not endure. He liked pretty, saucy women.
What he was looking at now jarred on him unbearably--perhaps it rasped
his aesthetic sensibility, unlikely though it might seem that Bush
should have such a thing. Perhaps he was merely irritated by the
spectacle of uncontrolled hysteria, but if that was the case he was
irritated beyond all bearing. He felt that if he had to put up with
Maria's water-works for another minute he would break a blood vessel.

"Let's get out of here" he said to Hornblower.

In reply he received a look of surprise. It had not occurred to
Hornblower that he might run away from a situation for which his
temperament necessarily made him feel responsible. Bush knew perfectly
well that, given time, Maria would recover. He knew that women who
wished themselves dead one day could be as lively as crickets the next
day after another man had chucked them under the chin. In any case he
did not see why he and Hornblower should concern themselves about
something which was entirely Maria's fault.

"Oh!" said Maria; she stumbled forward and supported herself with her
hands upon the table with its cooling coffee-pot and its congealing
half-consumed chops. She lifted her head and wailed again.

"Oh, for God's sake----" said Bush in disgust. He turned to Hornblower.
"Come along."

By the time Bush was on the staircase he realised that Hornblower had
not followed him, would not follow him. And Bush did not go back to
fetch him. Even though Bush was not the man to desert a comrade in
peril; even though he would gladly take his place in a boat launching
out through the most dreadful surf to rescue men in danger; even though
he would stand shoulder to shoulder with Hornblower and be hewn to
pieces with him by an overwhelming enemy; for all this he would not go
back to save Hornblower. If Hornblower was going to be foolish Bush felt
he could not stop him. And he salved his conscience by telling himself
that perhaps Hornblower would not be foolish.

Up in the attic Bush set about rolling up his nightshirt with his toilet
things. The methodical checking over of his razor and comb and brushes,
seeing that nothing was left behind, soothed his irritated nerves. The
prospect of immediate employment and immediate action revealed itself to
him in all its delightful certainty, breaking through the evaporating
clouds of his irritation. He began to hum to himself tunelessly. It
would be sensible to call in again at the dockyard--he might even look
in at the Keppel's Head to discuss the morning's amazing news; both
courses would be advisable if he wanted to secure for himself quickly a
new appointment. Hat in hand he tucked his neat package under his arm
and cast a final glance round the room to make sure that he had left
nothing, and he was still humming as he closed the attic door behind
him. On the staircase, about to step down into the hall, he stood for a
moment with one foot suspended, not in doubt as to whether he should go
into the dining-room, but arranging in his mind what he should say when
he went in.

Maria had dried her tears. She was standing there smiling, although her
bonnet was still askew. Hornblower was smiling too; it might be with
relief that Maria had left off weeping. He looked round at Bush's
entrance, and his face revealed surprise at the sight of Bush's hat and
bundle.

"I'm getting under way" said Bush. "I have to thank you for your
hospitality, sir."

"But--" said Hornblower "you don't have to go just yet."

There was that "sir" again in Bush's speech. They had been through so
much together, and they knew so much about each other. Now war was
coming again, and Hornblower was Bush's superior officer. Bush explained
what he wanted to do before taking the carrier's cart back to
Chichester, and Hornblower nodded.

"Pack your chest" he said. "It won't be long before you need it."

Bush cleared his throat in preparation for the formal words he was going
to use.

"I didn't express my congratulations properly" he said portentously. "I
wanted to say that I don't believe the Admiralty could have made a
better choice out of the whole list of lieutenants when they selected
you for promotion, sir."

"You're too kind" said Hornblower.

"I'm sure Mr. Bush is quite right" said Maria.

She gazed up at Hornblower with adoration shining in her face, and he
looked down at her with infinite kindness. And already there was
something a little proprietorial about the adoration, and perhaps there
was something wistful about the kindness.






[End of Lieutenant Hornblower, by C. S. Forester]
