“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, sirs 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 Samaná 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 Samaná 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 Samaná Bay that the danger lies. The Dons’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 fulfillment 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.