“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.”
“Twenty-two 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 court-martial 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 close-hung 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 acting-gunner, 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 acting-warrant 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 non-commissioned 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 men 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 court-martial 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.