“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 selfconsciously 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 shin. 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 watchkeeping 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 coolheaded 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, ver
y well then. Carry on.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Chapter 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 land 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 Samaná 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, thighdeep 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’d 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 twodeep line as they formed up, the noncommissioned 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 them 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 hack 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 twentyfour 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.
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