Lieutenant Hornblower h-2

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “But what did you do, in the end?”

  “I left my two men with the cap’n, sir, an’ I come up to give the alarm. I didn’t know who to trust, sir.”

  There was irony in this situation—the corporal frightened lest he should be taken to task about a petty question as to whether he should have sent a messenger or come himself, while the four lieutenants eyeing him were in danger of hanging.

  “Well?”

  “I saw Mr. Hornblower, sir.” The relief in the corporal’s voice echoed the relief he must have felt at finding someone to take over his enormous responsibility. “’E was with young Mr. Wellard, I think ‘is name is. Mr. Hornblower, ‘e told me to stand guard ‘ere, sir, after I told ‘im about the cap’n.”

  “It sounds as if you did right, corporal,” said Buckland, judicially.

  “Thank ‘ee, sir. Thank ‘ee, sir.”

  Coleman came climbing up the ladder, and with another glance at Buckland for permission passed the gear he had left down to someone else under the hatchway. Then he descended again. Bush was looking at the corporal, who, now his tale was told, was selfconsciously awkward again under the concentrated gaze of four lieutenants.

  “Now, corporal,” said Hornblower, speaking unexpectedly and with deliberation. “You have no idea how the captain came to fall down the hatchway?”

  “No, sir. Indeed I haven’t, sir.”

  Hornblower shot one single glance at his colleagues, one and no more. The corporal’s words and Hornblower’s glance were vastly reassuring.

  “He was excited, you say? Come on, man, speak up.”

  “Well, yessir.” The corporal remembered his earlier unguarded statement, and then in a sudden flood of loquacity he went on: “’E was yellin’ after us down the hatchway, sir. I expect ‘e was leanin’ over. ‘E must ‘ave been leanin’ when the ship pitched, sir. ‘E could catch ‘is foot on the coamin’ and fall ‘ead first, sir.”

  “That’s what must have happened,” said Hornblower.

  Clive came climbing up the ladder and stepped stiffly over the coaming.

  “I’m going to sway him up now,” he said. He looked at the four lieutenants and then put his hand in the bosom of his shirt and took out a pistol. “This was lying at the captain’s side.”

  “I’ll take charge of that,” said Buckland.

  “There ought to be another one down there, judging by what we’ve just heard,” said Roberts, speaking for the first time. He spoke overloudly, too; excitement had worked on him, and his manner might appear suspicious to anyone with anything to suspect. Bush felt a twinge of annoyance and fear.

  “I’ll have ‘em look for it after we’ve got the captain up,” said Clive. He leaned over the hatchway and called down, “Come on up.”

  Coleman appeared first, climbing the ladder with a pair of lines in his hand, and after him a marine, clinging awkwardly to the ladder with one arm while the other supported a burden below him.

  “Handsomely, handsomely, now,” said Clive.

  Coleman and the marine, emerging, drew the end of the plank up after them; swathed mummylike in the canvas and bound to the plank was the body of the captain. That was the best way in which to mount ladders carrying a man with broken bones. Pierce, the other surgeon’s mate, came climbing up next, holding the foot of the plank steady. The lieutenants clustered round to give a hand as the plank was hoisted over the coaming. In the light of the lanterns Bush could see the captain’s face above the canvas. It was still and expressionless, what there was to be seen of it, for a white bandage concealed one eye and the nose. One temple was still stained with the traces of blood which the doctor had not entirely wiped away.

  “Take him to his cabin,” said Buckland.

  That was the definitive order. This was an important moment. The captain being incapacitated, it was the first lieutenant’s duty to take command, and those five words indicated that he had done so. In command, he could even give orders for dealing with the captain. But although this was a momentous step, it was one of routine; Buckland had assumed temporary command of the ship, during the captain’s absences, a score of times before. Routine had carried him through this present crisis; the habits of thirty years of service in the navy, as midshipman and lieutenant, had enabled him to carry himself with his usual bearing towards his juniors, to act normally even though he did not know what dreadful fate awaited him at any moment in the immediate future.

  And yet Bush, turning his eyes on him now that he had assumed command, was not too sure about the permanence of the effect of habit. Buckland was clearly a little shaken. That might be attributed to the natural reaction of an officer with responsibility thrust upon him in such startling circumstances. So an unsuspicious person—someone without knowledge of the hidden facts—might conclude. But Bush, with fear in his heart, wondering and despairing about what the captain would do when he recovered consciousness, could see that Buckland shared his fear. Chains—a courtmartial—the hangman’s rope; thoughts of these were unmanning Buckland. And the lives, certainly the whole futures, of the officers in the ship might depend on Buckland’s actions.

  “Pardon, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes?” said Buckland; and then with an effort, “Yes, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “Might I take the corporal’s statement in writing now, while the facts are clear in his memory?”

  “Very good. Mr. Hornblower.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower. There was nothing to be read in his expression at all, nothing except a respectful attention to duty. He turned to the corporal. “Report to me in my berth after you have reposted the sentry.”

  The doctor and his party had already carried the captain away. Buckland was making no effort to move from the spot. It was as if he was paralysed.

  “There’s the matter of the captain’s other pistol, sir,” said Hornblower, respectfully as ever.

  “Oh yes.” Buckland looked round him.

  “Here’s Wellard, sir.”

  “Oh yes. He’ll do.”

  “Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, “go down with a lantern and see if you can find the other pistol. Bring it to the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Wellard had recovered from most of his agitation; he had not taken his eyes from Hornblower for some time. Now he picked up the lantern and went down the ladder with it. What Hornblower had said about the quarterdeck penetrated into Buckland’s mind, and he began to move off with the others following him. On the lower gundeck Captain Whiting saluted him.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  No doubt the word that the captain was incapacitated and that Buckland was in command had sped through the ship like wildfire. It took Buckland’s numbed brain a second or two to function.

  “No, captain,” he said at length; and then, “Dismiss your men.”

  When they reached the quarterdeck the trade wind was still blowing briskly from over the starboard quarter, and the Renown was soaring along over the magic sea. Over their heads the great pyramids of sails were reaching up—up—up towards the uncounted stars; with the easy motion of the ship the mastheads were sweeping out great circles against the sky. On the port quarter a halfmoon had just lifted itself out of the sea and hung, miraculously, above the horizon, sending a long glittering trail of silver towards the ship. The dark figures of the men on deck stood out plainly against the whitened planks.

  Smith was officer of the watch. He came eagerly up to them as they came up the companionway. For the last hour and more he had been pacing about in a fever, hearing the noise and bustle down below, hearing the rumours which had coursed through the ship, and yet unable to leave his post to find out what was really going on.

  “What’s happened, sir?” he asked.

  Smith had not been in the secret of the meeting of the other lieutenants. He had been less victimised by the captain, too. But he could not help being aware of the prevailing discontent; he must know that the captain was insa
ne. Yet Buckland was not prepared for this question. He had not thought about it and had no particular reply. In the end it was Hornblower who answered.

  “The captain fell down the hold,” he said; his tone was even and with no particular stress. “They’ve just carried him to his cabin unconscious.”

  “But how in God’s name did he come to fall down the hold?” asked the bewildered Smith.

  “He was looking for mutineers,” said Hornblower, in that same even tone.

  “I see,” said Smith. “But—”

  There he checked himself. That even tone of Hornblower’s had warned him that this was a delicate subject; if he pursued it the question of the captain’s sanity would arise, and he would be committed to an opinion on it. He did not want to ask any more questions in that case.

  “Six bells, sir,” reported the quartermaster to him.

  “Very good,” said Smith, automatically.

  “I must take the marine corporal’s deposition, sir,” said Hornblower. “I come on watch at eight bells.”

  If Buckland were in command he could put an end to the ridiculous order that Hornblower should stand watch and watch, and that Bush and Roberts should report to him hourly. There was a moment’s awkward pause. No one knew how long; the captain would remain unconscious nor in what condition he would regain consciousness. Wellard came running up to the quarterdeck.

  “Here’s the other pistol, sir,” he said, handing it to Buckland, who took it, at the same time drawing its fellow from his pocket; he stood rather helplessly with them in his hands.

  “Shall I relieve you of those, sir?” asked Hornblower, taking them. “And Wellard might be of help to me with the marine’s deposition. Can I take him with me, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Buckland.

  Hornblower turned to go below, followed by Wellard.

  “Oh, Mr. Hornblower “ said Buckland.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing,” said Buckland, the inflection in his voice revealing the indecision under which he laboured.

  “Pardon, sir, but I should take some rest if I were you,” said Hornblower, standing at the head of the companionway. “You’ve had a tiring night.”

  Bush was in agreement with Hornblower; not that he cared at all whether Buckland had had a tiring night or not, but because if Buckland were to retire to his cabin there would be no chance of his betraying himself—and his associates—by an unguarded speech. Then it dawned upon Bush that this was just what Hornblower had in mind. And at the same time he was aware of regret at Hornblower’s leaving them, and knew that Buckland felt the same regret. Hornblower was levelheaded, thinking fast whatever danger menaced him. It was his example which had given a natural appearance to the behaviour of all of them since the alarm down below. Perhaps Hornblower had a secret unshared with them; perhaps he knew more than they did about how the captain came to fall down the hold—Bush was puzzled and anxious about that—but if such was the case Hornblower had given no sign of it.

  “When in God’s name is that damned doctor going to report?” said Buckland, to no one in particular.

  “Why don’t you turn in, sir, until he does?” said Bush.

  “I will.” Buckland hesitated before he went on speaking. “You gentlemen had best continue to report to me every hour as the captain ordered.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Bush and Roberts.

  That meant, as Bush realised, that Buckland would take no chances; the captain must hear, when he should recover consciousness, that his orders had been carried out. Bush was anxious—desperate—as he went below to try to snatch half an hour’s rest before he would next have to report. He could not hope to sleep. Through the slight partition that divided his cabin from the next he could hear a drone of voices as Hornblower took down the marine corporal’s statement in writing.

  Chapter 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 hookedopen 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 captains 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 collarbone—and a couple of ribs. He must have fallen headfirst down the hatchway, as might be expected if he tripped over the roaming.”

  “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 masklike 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 stat
ement, 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.