“We mustn’t be here long,” whispered Roberts.
Even by his whisper, even in the dark, one could guess at his nervousness. There could be no doubt about this being a mutinous assembly. They could all hang for what they were doing.
“Suppose we declare him unfit for command?” whispered Buckland. “Suppose we put him in irons?”
“We’d have to do it quick and sharp if we do it at all,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll call on the hands and they might follow him. And then—”
There was no need for Hornblower to go on with that speech. Everyone who heard it formed a mental picture of corpses swaying at the yardarms.
“Supposing we do it quick and sharp?” agreed Buckland. “Supposing we get him into irons?”
“Then we go on to Antigua,” said Roberts.
“And a courtmartial,” said Bush, thinking as far ahead as that for the first time in this present crisis.
“Yes,” whispered Buckland.
Into that flat monosyllable were packed various moods—inquiry and despair, desperation and doubt.
“That’s the point,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll give evidence. It’ll sound different in court. We’ve been punished—watch and watch, no liquor. That could happen to anybody. It’s not grounds for mutiny.”
“But he’s spoiling the hands.”
“Double rum. Make and mend. It’ll sound quite natural in court. It’s not for us to criticise the captain’s methods—so the court will think.”
“But they’ll see him.”
“He’s cunning. And he’s no raving lunatic. He can talk—he can find reasons for everything. You’ve heard him. He’ll be plausible.”
“But he’s held us up to contempt before the hands. He’s set Hobbs to spy on us.”
“That’ll be a proof of how desperate his situation was, surrounded by us criminals. If we arrest him we’re guilty until we’ve proved ourselves innocent. Any court’s bound to be on the captain’s side. Mutiny means hanging.”
Hornblower was putting into words all the doubts that Bush felt in his bones and yet had been unable to express.
“That’s right,” whispered Bush.
“What about Wellard?” whispered Roberts. “Did you hear him scream the last time?”
“He’s only a volunteer. Not even a midshipman. No friends. No family. What’s the court going to say when they hear the captain had a boy beaten half a dozen times? They’ll laugh. So would we if we didn’t know. Do him good, we’d say, the same as it did the rest of us good.”
A silence followed this statement of the obvious, broken in the end by Buckland whispering a succession of filthy oaths that could give small vent to his despair.
“He’ll bring charges against us,” whispered Roberts. “The minute we’re in company with other ships. I know he will.”
“Twentytwo years I’ve held my commission,” said Buckland. “Now he’ll break me. He’ll break you as well.”
There would be no chance at all for officers charged before a courtmartial by their captain with behaving with contempt towards him in a manner subversive of discipline. Every single one of them knew that. It gave an edge to their despair. Charges pressed by the captain with the insane venom and cunning he had displayed up to now might not even end in dismissal from the service—they might lead to prison and the rope.
“Ten more days before we make Antigua,” said Roberts. “If this wind holds fair—and it will.”
“But we don’t know we’re destined for Antigua,” said Hornblower. “That’s only our guess. It might be weeks—it might be months.”
“God help us!” said Buckland.
A slight clatter farther aft along the hold—a noise different from the noises of the working of the ship—made them all start. Bush clenched his hairy fists. But they were reassured by a voice calling softly to them.
“Mr. Buckland—Mr. Hornblower—sir!”
“Wellard, by God!” said Roberts.
They could hear Wellard scrambling towards them.
“The captain, sir!” said Wellard. “He’s coming!”
“Holy God!”
“Which way?” snapped Hornblower.
“By the steerage hatchway. I got to the cockpit and came down from here. He was sending Hobbs—”
“Get for’ard, you three,” said Hornblower, cutting into the explanation. “Get for’ard and scatter when you’re on deck. Quick!”
Nobody stopped to think that Hornblower was giving orders to officers immensely his senior. Every instant of time was of vital importance, and not to be wasted in indecision or in silly blasphemy. That was apparent as soon as he spoke. Bush turned with the others and plunged forward in the darkness, barking his shins painfully as he fell over unseen obstructions. Bush heard Hornblower say, “Come along, Wellard,” as he parted from them in his mad flight with the others beside him.
The cable tier—the ladder—and then the extraordinary safety of the lower gundeck. After the utter blackness of the hold there was enough light here for him to see fairly distinctly. Buckland and Roberts continued to ascend to the maindeck; Bush turned to make his way aft. The watch below had been in their hammocks long enough to be sound asleep; here to the noises of the ship was added the blended snoring of the sleepers as the closehung rows of hammocks swayed with the motion of the ship in such a coincidence of timing as to appear like solid masses. Far down between the rows a light was approaching. It was a horn lantern with a lighted purser’s dip inside it, and Hobbs, the actinggunner, was carrying it, and two seamen were following him as he hurried along. There was an exchange of glances as Bush met the party. A momentary hesitation on Hobbs’ part betrayed the fact that he would have greatly liked to ask Bush what he was doing on the lower gundeck, but that was something no actingwarrant officer, even with the captain’s favour behind him, could ask of a lieutenant. And there was annoyance in Hobbs’ expression, too; obviously he was hurrying to secure all the exits from the hold, and was exasperated that Bush had escaped him. The seamen wore expressions of simple bewilderment at these goings on in the middle watch. Hobbs stood aside to let his superior pass, and Bush strode past him with no more than that one glance. It was extraordinary how much more confident he felt now that he was safely out of the hold and disassociated from any mutinous assembly. He decided to head for his cabin; it would not be long before four bells, when by the captain’s orders he had to report again to Buckland. The messenger sent by the officer of the watch to rouse him would find him lying on his cot. But as Bush went on and had progressed as far as the mainmast he arrived in the midst of a scene of bustle which he would most certainly have taken notice of if he had been innocent and which consequently he must (so he told himself) ask about now that he had seen it—he could not possibly walk by without a question or two. This was where the marines were berthed, and they were all of them out of their hammocks hastily equipping themselves—those who had their shirts and trousers on were putting on their crossbelts ready for action.
“What’s all this?” demanded Bush, trying to make his voice sound as it would have sounded if he had no knowledge of anything irregular happening in the ship except this.
“Dunno, sir,” said the private he addressed. “We was just told to turn out—muskets an’ side arms and ball cartridge, sir.”
A sergeant of marines looked out through the screen which divided the noncommissioned officers’ bay from the rest of the deck.
“Captain’s orders, sir,” he said; and then with a roar at the men, “Come on! Slap it about, there!”
“Where’s the captain, then?” asked Bush with all the innocence he could muster.
“Aft some’eres, sir. ‘E sent for the corpril’s guard same time as we was told to turn out.”
Four marine privates and a corporal supplied the sentry who stood day and night outside the captain’s cabin. A single order was all that was needed to turn out the guard and provide the captain with at least a nucleus of armed and disciplined m
en ready for action.
“Very well, sergeant,” said Bush, and he tried to look puzzled and to hurry naturally aft to find out what was going on. But he knew what fear was. He felt he would do anything rather than continue this walk to encounter whatever was awaiting him at the end of it. Whiting, the captain of marines, made his appearance, sleepy and unshaven, belting on his sword over his shirt.
“What in hell?” he began as he saw Bush.
“Don’t ask me!” said Bush, striving after that natural appearance. So tense and desperate was he at that moment that his normally quiescent imagination was hard at work. He could imagine the prosecutor in the deceptive calm of a courtmartial saying to Whiting, “Did Mr. Bush appear to be his usual self?” and it was frightfully necessary that Whiting should be able to answer, “Yes.” Bush could even imagine the hairy touch of a rope round his neck. But next moment there was no more need for him to simulate surprise or ignorance. His reactions were genuine.
“Pass the word for the doctor,” came the cry. “Pass the word, there.”
And here came Wellard, whitefaced, hurrying.
“Pass the word for the doctor. Call Dr Clive.”
“Who’s hurt, Wellard?” asked Bush.
“The ccaptain, sir.”
Wellard looked distraught and shaken, but now Hornblower made his appearance behind him. Hornblower was pale, too, and breathing hard, but he seemed to have command of himself. The glance which he threw round him in the dim light of the lanterns passed over Bush without apparent recognition.
“Get Dr Clive!” he snapped at one midshipman peering out from the midshipmen’s berth; and then to another, “You there. Run for the first lieutenant. Ask him to come below here. Run!”
Hornblower’s glance took in Whiting and travelled forward to where the marines were snatching their muskets from the racks.
“Why are your men turning out, Captain Whiting?”
“Captain’s orders.”
“Then you can form them up. But I do not believe there is any emergency.”
Only then did Hornblower’s glance comprehend Bush.
“Oh, Mr. Bush. Will you take charge, sir, now that you’re here? I’ve sent for the first lieutenant. The captain’s hurt—badly hurt, I’m afraid, sir.”
“But what’s happened?” asked Bush.
“The captain’s fallen down the hatchway, sir,” said Hornblower.
In the dim light Hornblower’s eyes stared straight into Bush’s, but Bush could read no message in them. This after part of the lower gundeck was crowded now, and Hornblower’s definite statement, the first that had been made, raised a buzz of excitement. It was the sort of undisciplined noise that most easily roused Bush’s wrath, and, perhaps fortunately, it brought a natural reaction from him.
“Silence, there!” he roared. “Get about your business.”
When Bush glowered round at the excited crowd it fell silent.
“With your permission I’ll go below again, sir,” said Hornblower. “I must see after the captain.”
“Very well, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush; the stereotyped phrase had been uttered so often before that it escaped sounding stilted.
“Come with me, Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, and turned away.
Several new arrivals made their appearance as he did so—Buckland, his face white and strained, Roberts at his shoulder, Clive in his shirt and trousers walking sleepily from ho cabin. All of them started a little at the sight of the marines forming line on the cumbered deck, their musket barrels glinting in the feeble light of the lanterns.
“Would you come at once, sir?” asked Hornblower, turning back at sight of Buckland.
“I’ll come,” said Buckland.
“What in the name of God is going on?” asked Clive.
“The captain’s hurt,” said Hornblower curtly. “Come at once. You’ll need a light.”
“The captain?” Clive blinked himself wider awake. “Where is he? Give me that lantern, you. Where are my mates? You there, run and rouse my mates. They sling their hammocks in the sick bay.”
So it was a procession of half a dozen that carried their lanterns down the ladder—the four lieutenants, Clive and Wellard. While waiting at the head of the ladder Bush stole a side glance at Buckland; his face was working with anxiety. He would infinitely rather have been walking a shottorn deck with grape flying round him. He rolled an inquiring eye at Bush, but with Clive within earshot Bush dared say no word—he knew no more than Buckland did, for that matter. There was no knowing what was awaiting them at the foot of the ladder—arrest, ruin, disgrace, perhaps death.
The faint light of a lantern revealed the scarlet tunic and white crossbelts of a marine, standing by the hatchway. He wore the chevrons of a corporal.
“Anything to report?” demanded Hornblower.
“No, sir. Nothink, sir.”
“Captains down there unconscious. There are two marines guarding him,” said Hornblower to Clive, pointing down the hatchway, and Clive swung his bulk painfully on to the ladder and descended.
“Now, corporal,” said Hornblower, “tell the first lieutenant all you know about this.”
The corporal stood stiffly to attention. With no fewer than four lieutenants eyeing him he was nervous, and he probably had a gloomy feeling based on his experience of the service that when there was trouble among the higher ranks it was likely to go ill with a mere corporal who was unfortunate enough to be involved, however innocently. He stood rigid, trying not to meet anybody’s eye.
“Speak up, man,” said Buckland, testily. He was nervous as well, but that was understandable in a first lieutenant whose captain had just met with a serious accident.
“I was corporal of the guard, sir. At two bells I relieved the sentry at the captain’s door.”
“Yes?”
“An—an—then I went to sleep again.”
“Damn it,” said Roberts. “Make your report.”
“I was woke up, sir,” went on the corporal, “by one of the gentlemen. Gunner, I think ‘e is.”
“Mr. Hobbs?”
“That may be ‘is name, sir. ‘E said, ‘Cap’n’s orders, and guard turn out.’ So I turns out the guard, sir, an’ there’s the cap’n with Wade, the sentry I’d posted. ‘E ‘ad pistols in ‘is ‘ands, sir.”
“Who—Wade?”
“No, sir, the cap’n, sir.”
“What was his manner like?” demanded Hornblower.
“Well, sir—” The corporal did not want to offer any criticism of a captain, not even to a lieutenant.
“Belay that, then. Carry on.”
“Cap’n says, sir, ‘e says ‘e says, sir, ‘Follow me’; an’ then ‘e says to the gennelman, ‘e says, ‘Do your duty, Mr. Hobbs.’ So Mr. Hobbs, ‘e goes one way, sir, and we comes with the captain down ‘ere, sir. ‘There’s mutiny brewing,’ says the cap’n, ‘black bloody mutiny. We’ve got to catch the mutineers. Catch ‘em red’anded,’ says the cap’n.”
The surgeon’s head appeared in the hatchway.
“Give me another of those lanterns,” he said.
“How’s the captain?” demanded Buckland.
“Concussion and some fractures, I would say.”
“Badly hurt?”
“No knowing yet. Where are my mates? Ah, there you are, Coleman. Splints and bandages, man, as quick as you can get ‘em. And a carryingplank and a canvas and lines. Run, man! You, Pierce, come on down and help me.”
So the two surgeon’s mates had hardly made their appearance than they were hurried away.
“Carry on, corporal,” said Buckland.
“I dunno what I said, sir.”
“The captain brought you down here.”
“Yessir. ‘E ‘ad ‘is pistols in ‘is ‘ands, sir, like I said, sir. ‘E sent one file for’ard. ‘Stop every bolt’ole,’ ‘e says; an’ ‘e says, ‘You, corporal, take these two men down an’ search.’ ‘E—’e was yellin’, like. ‘E ‘ad ‘is pistols in ‘is ‘ands.”
The corporal looked anxiously at Buckland as he spoke.
“That’s all right, corporal,” said Buckland. “Just tell the truth.”
The knowledge that the captain was unconscious and perhaps badly hurt had reassured him, just as it had reassured Bush.
“So I took the other file down the ladder, sir,” said the corporal. “I went first with the lantern, seein’ as ‘ow I didn’t ‘ave no musket with me. We got down to the foot of the ladder in among those cases down there, sir. The cap’n, ‘e was yellin’ down the hatchway. ‘’Urry,’ he says. ‘’Urry. Don’t let ‘em escape. ‘Urry.’ So we started climbin’ for’ard over the stores, sir.”
The corporal hesitated as he approached the climax of his story. He might possibly have been seeking a crude dramatic effect, but more likely he was still afraid of being entangled in circumstances that might damage him despite his innocence.
“What happened then?” demanded Buckland.
“Well, sir—”
Coleman reappeared at this moment, encumbered with various gear, including a light sixfoot plank he had been carrying on his shoulder. He looked to Buckland for permission to carry on, received a nod, laid the plank on the deck along with the canvas and lines, and disappeared with the rest down the ladder.
“Well?” said Buckland to the corporal.
“I dunno what ‘appened, sir.”
“Tell us what you know.”
“I ‘eard a yell, sir. An’ a crash. I ‘adn’t ‘ardly gone ten yards, sir. So I came back with the lantern.”
“What did you find?”
“It was the cap’n, sir. Layin’ there at the foot of the ladder. Like ‘e was dead, sir. ‘E’d fallen down the ‘archway, sir.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to turn ‘im over, sir. ‘Is face was all bloodylike. ‘E was stunned, sir. I thought ‘e might be dead but I could feel ‘is ‘eart.”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t know what I ought to do, sir. I didn’t know nothink about this ‘ere meeting, sir.”
Lieutenant Hornblower h-2 Page 4