He knew the Drum-Major, Cobb, perfectly well, or at least as well as the peculiar circumstances permitted. As Admiral and Commander-in-Chief Hornblower had his own band, which was under the command of Cobb, holding warrant rank. Previous to all official occasions where music had to be provided Cobb reported to Hornblower for orders and instructions, and Hornblower would go through the farce of agreeing with the suggestions put forward. He had never publicly admitted that he could not tell one note from another; he could actually distinguish one tune from another by the jigginess or otherwise of the time. He was a little uneasy in case all this was more common knowledge than he hoped.
“What d’you mean by ‘a curious case’, Spendlove?” he asked.
“I believe an artistic conscience is involved, My Lord,” replied Spendlove, cautiously. Hornblower was pouring, and tasting, his second cup of coffee; that might have a bearing on the breaking of Bandsman Hudnutt’s neck, thought Spendlove. At the same time Hornblower was feeling the inevitable irritation resulting from having to listen to gossip. An Admiral in his splendid isolation never — or only rarely — knew as much about what was going on as his most junior subordinate.
“An artistic conscience?” he repeated. “I’ll see the Drum-Major this morning. Send for him now.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
He had received the one necessary clue, and need not demean himself by prying further unless the interview with Cobb should prove unfruitful.
“Now let’s have that draught report until he comes.”
Drum-Major Cobb did not arrive for some time, and his resplendent uniform when he did arrive hinted that he had taken care about his appearance; tunic and pantaloons were freshly ironed, his buttons glittered, his sash was exactly draped, his sword-hilt shone like silver. He was an enormous man with an enormous moustache, and he made an enormous entrance into the room, striding over the resounding floor as if he were twice as heavy as he actually was, clashing his boot-heels together as he halted before the desk and swept his hand upward in the salute fashionable at the moment among the Royal Marines.
“Good morning, Mr Cobb,” said Hornblower, mildly; the ‘Mr’, like the sword, was an indication that Cobb was a gentleman by virtue of his warrant even though he had risen from the ranks.
“Good morning, My Lord.” There was as much flourish in the phrase as there had been in the salute.
“I want to hear about these charges against this bandsman — Hudnutt.”
“Well, My Lord —” A sideways glance from Cobb gave Hornblower a hint.
“Get out of here,” said Hornblower to his staff. “Leave Mr Cobb alone with me.”
When the door was shut Hornblower was all good manners.
“Please sit down, Mr Cobb. Then you can tell me at your ease what really happened.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“Well, now?”
“That young ‘Udnutt, My Lord, “e’s a fool if ever there was one. I’m sorry this ‘as ‘appened, My Lord, but ‘e deserves all ‘e’s going to get.”
“Yes? He’s a fool, you say?”
“‘E’s a downright fool, My Lord. I’m not saying ‘e isn’t a good musician, ‘cause ‘e is. There ain’t no one ‘oo can play the cornet the way ‘e does. That’s the truth, My Lord. ‘E’s a boy wonder at it. The cornet’s a newfangled instrument, My Lord. We ain’t ‘ad it in our bands for more’n a year. Blow it like a trumpet, you do, you ‘ave to ‘ave a lip for it, although it ‘as keys as well, My Lord. An’ ‘e’s a marvel at it, or ‘e was, My Lord.”
That change to the past tense indicated that in Cobb’s positive opinion Hudnutt, through death or disablement, would never play the cornet again.
“He’s young?”
“Nineteen, My Lord.”
“And what did he do?”
“It was mutiny, My Lord, flat mutiny, although I’ve only charged him with disobedience to orders.”
Mutiny meant death by the Articles of War; disobedience to orders meant ‘death or such less penalty —’
“How did it happen?”
“Well, My Lord, it was like this. We was rehearsing the new march that come out in the last packet. Dondello, it’s called, My Lord. Just the cornet an’ the drums. An’ it sounded different, an’ I had ‘Udnutt play it again. I could ‘ear what ‘e was doin’, My Lord. There’s a lot of B flat accidentals in that march, an’ ‘e wasn’t flatting them. I asked ‘im what ‘e meant by it, an’ he said it sounded too sweet. That’s what ‘e said, My Lord. An’ it’s written on the music. Dolce, it says, and dolce means sweet, My Lord.”
“I know,” lied Hornblower.
“So I says, ‘You can play that again and you flat those B’s.’ An’ ‘e says, ‘I can’t.’ An’ I says, ‘You mean you won’t?’ An’ then I says, ‘I’ll give you one more chance’ — although by rights I shouldn’t ‘ave, My Lord — an’ I says, ‘This is an order, remember,’ ‘an I gives ‘em the beat an’ they starts off and there, was the B naturals. So I says, ‘You ‘eard me give you an order?’ an’ ‘e says, ‘Yes.’ So there wasn’t nothing I could do after that, My Lord. I calls the guard an’ I ‘ad ‘im marched to the guard-‘ouse. An’ then I ‘ad to prefer charges, My Lord.”
“This happened with the band present?”
“Yes, My Lord. The ‘ole band, sixteen of ‘em.”
Wilful disobedience to an order, before sixteen witnesses. It hardly mattered if there were six or sixteen or sixty; the point was that everyone in Hornblower’s command knew by now that discipline had been defied, an order deliberately disobeyed. The man must die, or he must be flogged into a crippled wreck, lest other men defy orders. Hornblower knew he had his command well in hand, but he knew, too, of the turbulence that lay below the surface. And yet — if the order that had been disobeyed had been something different, if there had been a refusal to lay out along a yard, say, however perilous the conditions, Hornblower would not have given all this thought to the matter, despite his detestation of physical cruelty. That sort of order must be instantly obeyed. ‘Artistic conscience,’ Spendlove had said. Hornblower had no idea of any difference between B and B flat, but he could dimly understand that it might be important to some people. A man might be tempted to refuse to do something that offended his artistic sensibilities.
“I suppose the man was sober?” he demanded suddenly.
“As sober as you and me, My Lord.”
Another idea crossed Homblower’s mind.
“What’s the chances of a misprint in the music?” he asked; he was struggling with things he did not understand.
“Well, My Lord, there is such things. But it’s for me to say if there’s a misprint or not. An’ although he can read music I don’t know if ‘e can read print, My Lord, an’ if ‘e can I don’t expect ‘e can read Eyetalian, but there it says dolce, it says, on the official music, My Lord.”
In Cobb’s eyes this aggravated the offence, if aggravation were possible. Not only had his order been disobeyed, but Hudnutt had not respected the written instructions sent by whoever was responsible in London for sending out music to marine bands. Cobb was a marine first and a musician second; Hudnutt might be a musician first and a marine second. But — Hornblower pulled himself up sharply — that made Hudnutt’s condemnation all the more necessary. A marine had to be a marine, first, foremost, and all the time. If marines started to choose whether they could be marines or not, the Royal Regiment would cease to be a military body, and it was his duty to maintain it as a military body.
Hornblower studied Cobb’s expression intently. The man was speaking the truth, at least as far as the truth was apparent to him. He was not wilfully distorting facts because of personal prejudice or as a result of some old feud. If his action, and his report on it, had been influenced by jealousy or natural cruelty, he was unaware of it. A court martial would be impressed by his reliability as a witness. And he remained unperturbed under Hornblower’s steady stare.