“A man whose politeness is quite overwhelming,” said McCool, buttoning his breeches.
“I’ll attend to your requests,” said Hornblower.
He paused only long enough to enjoin the strictest vigilance on the masteratarms and the ship’s corporals before hastening away to give orders for McCool to be given food and water, and he returned quickly. McCool drank his quart of water eagerly, and made effort to eat the ship’s biscuit and meat.
“No knife. No fork,” he commented.
“No,” replied Hornblower in a tone devoid of expression.
“I understand.”
It was strange to stand there gazing down at this man who was going to die tomorrow, biting not very efficiently at the lump of tough meat which he held to his teeth.
The bulkhead against which Hornblower leaned vibrated slightly, and the sound of a gun came faintly down to them. It was the signal that the court martial was about to open.
“Do we go?” asked McCool.
“Yes.”
“Then I can leave this delicious food without any breach of good manners.”
Up the ladders to the main deck, two marines leading, McCool following them, Hornblower following him, and two ship’s corporals bringing up the rear.
“I have frequently traversed these decks,” said McCool, looking round him, “with less ceremonial.”
Hornblower was watching carefully lest he should break away and throw himself into the sea.
The court martial. Gold lace and curt efficient routine, as the Renown swung to her anchors and the timbers of the ship transmitted the sound of the rigging vibrating in the gale. Evidence of identification. Curt questions.
“Nothing I could say would be listened to amid these emblems of tyranny,” said McCool in reply to the President of the Court.
It needed no more than fifteen minutes to condemn a man to death: “The sentence of this Court is that you, Barry Ignatius McCool, be hanged by the neck—”
The storeroom to which Hornblower escorted McCool back was now a condemned cell. A hurrying midshipman asked for Hornblower almost as soon as they arrived there.
“Captain’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to speak to you.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower.
“The admiral’s with him, sir,” added the midshipman in a burst of confidence.
RearAdmiral the Honourable Sir William Cornwallis was indeed in the captain’s cabin, along with Payne and Captain Sawyer. He started to go straight to the point the moment Hornblower had been presented to him.
“You’re the officer charged with carrying out the execution?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now look’ee here, young sir—”
Cornwallis was a popular admiral, strict but kindly, and of unflinching courage and towering professional ability. Under his nickname of ‘Billy Blue’ he was the hero of uncounted anecdotes and ballads. But having got so far in what he was intending to say, he betrayed a hesitation alien to his character. Hornblower waited for him to continue.
“Look’ee here,” said Cornwallis again. “There’s to be no speechifying when he’s strung up.”
“No, sir?” said Hornblower.
“A quarter of the hands in this ship are Irish,” went on Cornwallis. “I’d as lief have a light taken into the magazine as to have McCool make a speech to ‘em.”
“I understand, sir,” said Hornblower.
But there was a ghastly routine about executions. From time immemorial the condemned man had been allowed to address his last words to the onlookers.
“String him up,” said Cornwallis, “and that’ll show ‘em what to expect if they run off. But once let him open his mouth — That fellow has the gift of the gab, and we’ll have this crew unsettled for the next six months.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So see to it, young sir. Fill him full o’ rum, maybe. But let him speak at your peril.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Payne followed Hornblower out of the cabin when he was dismissed.
“You might stuff his mouth with oakum,” he suggested. “With his hands tied he could not get it out.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower, his blood running cold.
“I’ve found a priest for him,” went on Payne, “but he’s Irish too. We can’t rely on him to tell McCool to keep his mouth shut.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“McCool’s devilish cunning. No doubt he’d throw everything overboard before they capture him.”
“What was he intending to do?” asked Hornblower.
“Land in Ireland and stir up fresh trouble. Lucky we caught him. Lucky for that matter, we could charge him with desertion and make a quick business of it.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“Don’t rely on making him drunk,” said Payne, “although that was Billy Blue’s advice. Drunk or sober, these Irishmen can always talk. I’ve given you the best hint.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower, concealing a shudder.
He went back into the condemned cell like a man condemned himself. McCool was sitting on the straw mattress Hornblower had had sent in, and the two ship’s corporals still had him under their observation.
“Here comes Jack Ketch,” said McCool with a smile that almost escaped appearing forced.
Hornblower plunged into the matter in hand; he could see no tactful way of approach.
“Tomorrow—” he said.
“Yes, tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you are to make no speeches,” he said.
“None? No farewell to my countrymen?”
“No.”
“You are robbing a condemned man of his last privilege.”
“I have my orders,” said Hornblower.
“And you propose to enforce them?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask how?”
“I can stop your mouth with tow,” said Hornblower brutally.
McCool looked at the pale, strained face. “You do not appear to me to be the ideal executioner,” said McCool, and then a new idea seemed to strike him. “Supposing I were to save you that trouble?”
“How?”
“I could give you my parole to say nothing.”
Hornblower tried to conceal his doubts as to whether he could trust a fanatic about to die.
“Oh, you wouldn’t have to trust my bare word,” said McCool bitterly. “We can strike a bargain, if you will. You need not carry out your half unless I have already carried out mine.”
“A bargain?”
“Yes. Allow me to write to my widow. Promise me to send her the letter and my sea chest here — you can see it is of sentimental value — and I, on my side, promise to say no word from the time of leaving this place here until — until—” Even McCool faltered at that point. “Is that explicit enough?”
“Well—” said Hornblower.
“You can read the letter,” added McCool. “You saw that other gentleman search my chest. Even though you send these things to Dublin, you can be sure that they contain nothing of what you would call treason.”
“I’ll read the letter before I agree,” said Hornblower.
It seemed a way out of a horrible situation. There would be small trouble about finding a coaster destined for Dublin; for a few shillings he could send letter and chest there.
“I’ll send you in pen and ink and paper,” said Hornblower.
It was time to make the other hideous preparations. To have a whip rove at the portside fore yardarm, and to see that the line ran easily through the block. To weight the line and mark a ring with chalk on the gangway where the end rested. To see that the noose ran smooth. To arrange with Buckland for ten men to be detailed to pull when the time came. Hornblower went through it all like a man in a nightmare.