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 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 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.