“Oh, very well, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, and he turned eagerly away with another touch of his hat, while Roberts and Bush exchanged glances which were as much amused as puzzled. They watched Hornblower give his orders.
“Captain of the waist! Captain of the waist, there!”
“Sir?”
“Get the washdeck pump rigged at once.”
“Rig the washdeck pump, sir?”
“Yes. Four men for the handles. One for the hose. Jump to it, now. I’ll be with you in two minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The captain of the waist set about obeying the strange order after a glance at the receding figure. Hornblower was as good as his word; it was only two minutes before he returned, but now he was naked except for a towel draped sketchily round him. This was all very strange.
“Give way,” he said to the men at the pump handles.
They were dubious about all this, but they obeyed the order, and in alternate pairs they threw their weight upon the handles. Up—down, up—down; clank—clank. The seaman holding the hose felt it stir in his hands as the water from far overside came surging up along it; and next moment a clear stream of water came gushing out of it.
“Turn it on me,” said Hornblower, casting his towel aside and standing naked in the sunshine. The hoseman hesitated.
“Hurry up, now!”
As dubiously as ever the hoseman obeyed orders, turning the jet upon his officer, who rotated first this way and then that as it splashed upon him; an amused crowd was gathering to watch.
“Pump, you sons of seacooks!” said Hornblower; and obediently the men at the pump handles, now grinning broadly, threw all their weight on the handles, with such enthusiasm that their feet left the deck as they hauled down upon them and the clear water came hurtling out through the hose with considerable force. Hornblower twirled round and round under the stinging impact, his face screwed up in painful ecstasy.
Buckland had been standing aft at the taffrail, lost in thought and gazing down at the ship’s wake, but the clanking of the pump attracted his attention and he strolled forward to join Roberts and Bush and to look at the strange spectacle.
“Hornblower has some odd fancies,” he remarked, but he smiled as he said it—a rather pathetic smile, for his face bore the marks of the anxieties he was going through.
“He seems to be enjoying himself, sir,” said Bush.
Bush, looking at Hornblower revolving under the sparkling stream, was conscious of a prickling under his shirt in his heavy uniform coat, and actually had the feeling that it might be pleasurable to indulge in that sort of shower bath, however injurious it might be to the health.
“’Vast pumping!” yelled Hornblower. “Avast, there!”
The hands at the pumps ceased their labours, and the jet from the hose died away to a trickle, to nothing.
“Captain of the waist! Secure the pump. Get the deck swabbed.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower grabbed his towel and came trotting back along the maindeck. He looked up at the group of officers with a grin which revealed his exhilaration and high spirits.
“Dunno if it’s good for discipline,” commented Roberts, as Hornblower disappeared; and then, with a tardy flash of insight, “I suppose it’s all right.”
“I suppose so,” said Buckland. “Let’s hope he doesn’t get himself a fever, checking the perspiration like that.”
“He showed no sign of one, sir,” said Bush; lingering in Bush’s mind’s eye was the picture of Hornblower’s grin. It blended with his memory of Hornblower’s eager expression when they were discussing what Buckland had best do in the dilemma in which he found himself.
“Ten minutes to eight bells, sir,” reported the quartermaster.
“Very well!” said Roberts.
The wet patch on the deck was now almost dry; a faint steam rose from it as the sun, still fierce at four o’clock in the afternoon, beat on it.
“Call the watch,” said Roberts.
Hornblower came running up to the quarterdeck with his telescope; he must have pulled on his clothes with the orderly rapidity that marked all his actions. He touched his hat to the quarterdeck and stood by to relieve Roberts.
“You feel refreshed after your bath?” asked Buckland.
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
Bush looked at the pair of them, the elderly, worried first lieutenant and the young fifth lieutenant, the older man pathetically envying the youngster’s youth. Bush was learning something about personalities. He would never be able to reduce the results of his observations to a tabular system, and it would never occur to him to do so, but he could learn without doing so; his experience and observations would blend with his native wit to govern his judgments, even if he were too selfconscious to philosophise over them. He was aware that naval officers (he knew almost nothing of mankind on land) could be divided into active individuals and passive individuals, into those eager for responsibility and action and into those content to wait until action was forced on them. Before that he had learned the simpler lesson that officers could be divided into the efficient and the blunderers, and also into the intelligent and the stupid—this last division was nearly the same as the one immediately preceding, but not quite. There were the officers who could be counted on to act quickly and correctly in an emergency, and those who could not—again the dividing line did not quite coincide with the preceding. And there were officers with discretion and officers with none, patient officers and impatient ones, officers with strong nerves and officers with weak nerves. In certain cases Bush’s estimates had to contend with his prejudices—he was liable to be suspicious of brains and of originality of thought and of eagerness for activity, especially because in the absence of some of the other desirable qualities these things might be actual nuisances. The final and most striking difference Bush had observed during ten years of continuous warfare was that between the leaders and the led, but that again was a difference of which Bush was conscious without being able to express it in words, and especially not in words as succinct or as definite as these; but he was actually aware of the difference even though he was not able to bring himself to define it.
But he had that difference at the back of his mind, all the same, as he looked at Buckland and Hornblower chatting together on the quarterdeck. The afternoon watch had ended, and the first dogwatch had begun, with Hornblower as officer of the watch. It was the traditional moment for relaxation; the heat of the day had passed, and the hands collected forward, some of them to gaze down at the dolphins leaping round the bows, while the officers who had been dozing during the afternoon in their cabins came up to the quarterdeck for air and paced up and down in little groups deep in conversation.
A ship of war manned for active service was the most crowded place in the world—more crowded than the most rundown tenement in Seven Dials—but long and hard experience had taught the inhabitants how to live even in those difficult conditions. Forward there were groups of men yarning, men skylarking; there were solitary men who had each preempted a square yard of deck for himself and sat, crosslegged, with tools and materials about them, doing scrimshaw work—delicate carvings on bone—or embroidery or whittling at models oblivious to the tumult about them. Similarly aft on the crowded quarterdeck the groups of officers strolled and chatted, avoiding the other groups without conscious effort.
It was in accordance with the traditions of the service that these groups left the windward side of the quarterdeck to Buckland as long as he was on deck; and Buckland seemed to be making a long stay this afternoon. He was deep in conversation with Hornblower, the two of them pacing up and down beside the quarterdeck carronades, eight yards forward, eight yards back again; long ago the navy had discovered that when the walking distance was so limited conversation must not be interrupted by the necessarily frequent turns. Every pair of officers turned inwards as they reached the limits of their walk, f
acing each other momentarily and continuing the conversation without a break, and walking with their hands clasped behind them as a result of the training they had all received as midshipmen not to put their hands in their pockets.
So walked Buckland and Hornblower, and curious glances were cast at them by the others, for even on this golden evening, with the blueenamel sea overside and the sun sinking to starboard with the promise of a magnificent sunset, everyone was conscious that in the cabin just below their feet lay a wretched insane man, halfswathed in a straitjacket; and Buckland had to make up his mind how to deal with him. Up and down, up and down walked Buckland and Hornblower. Hornblower seemed to be as deferential as ever, and Buckland seemed to be asking questions; but some of the replies he received must have been unexpected, for more than once Buckland stopped in the middle of a turn and stood facing Hornblower, apparently repeating his question, while Hornblower seemed to be standing his ground both literally and figuratively, sturdy and yet respectful, as Buckland stood with the sun illuminating his haggard features.
Perhaps it had been a fortunate chance that had made Hornblower decide to take a bath under the washdeck pump—this conversation had its beginnings in that incident.
“Is that a council of war?” said Smith to Bush, looking across at the pair.
“Not likely,” said Bush.
A first lieutenant would not deliberately ask the advice or even the opinion of one so junior. Yet—yet—it might be possible, starting with idle conversation about different matters.
“Don’t tell me they’re discussing Catholic Emancipation,” said Lomax.
It was just possible, Bush realised guiltily, that they were discussing something else—that question as to how the captain had come to fall down the hatchway. Bush found himself automatically looking round the deck for Wellard when that thought occurred to him. Wellard was skylarking in the main rigging with the midshipmen and master’s mates as if he had not a care in the world. But it could not be that question which Buckland and Homblower were discussing. Their attitudes seemed to indicate that theories and not facts were the subject of the debate.
“Anyway, they’ve settled it,” said Smith.
Hornblower was touching his hat to Buckland, and Buckland was turning to go below again. Several curious pairs of eyes looked across at Hornblower now that he was left solitary, and as he became conscious of their regard he strolled over to them.
“Affairs of state?” asked Lomax, asking the question which everyone wanted asked.
Hornblower met his gaze with a level glance.
“No,” he said, and smiled.
“It certainly looked like matters of importance,” said Smith.
“That depends on the definition,” answered Hornblower.
He was still smiling, and his smile gave no clue at all regarding his thoughts. It would be rude to press him further; it was possible that he and Buckland had been discussing some private business. Nobody looking at him could guess.
“Come off those hammocks, there!” bellowed Hornblower; the skylarking midshipmen were not breaking one of the rules of the ship, but it was a convenient moment to divert the conversation.
Three bells rang out; the first dogwatch was threequarters completed.
“Mr. Roberts, sir!” suddenly called the sentry at the smokers’ slow match by the hatchway. “Passing the word for Mr. Roberts!”
Roberts turned from the group.
“Who’s passing the word for me?” he asked, although with the captain ill there could only be one man in the ship who could pass the word for the second lieutenant.
“Mr. Buckland, sir. Mr. Buckland passing the word for Mr. Roberts.”
“Very well,” said Roberts, hurrying down the companion.
The others exchanged glances. This might be the moment of decision. Yet on the other hand it might be only a routine matter. Hornblower took advantage of the distraction to turn away from the group and continue his walk on the weather side of the ship; he walked with his chin nearly down on his breast, his drooping head balanced by the hands behind his back. Bush thought he looked weary.
Now there came a fresh cry from below, repeated by the sentry at the hatchway.
“Mr. Clive! Passing the word for Mr. Clive. Mr. Buckland passing the word for Mr. Clive!”
“Ohho!” said Lomax in significant tones, as the surgeon hurried down.
“Something happens,” said Carberry, the master.
Time went on without either the second lieutenant or the surgeon reappearing. Smith, under his arm the telescope that was the badge of his temporary office, touched his hat to Hornblower and prepared to relieve him as officer of the watch as the second dogwatch was called. In the east the sky was turning dark, and the sun was setting over the starboard quarter in a magnificent display of red and gold; from the ship towards the sun the surface of the sea was gilded and glittering, but close overside it was the richest purple. A flying fish broke the surface and went skimming along, leaving a transient, momentary furrow behind it like a grove in enamel.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Hornblower to Bush.
“A flying fish,” said Bush, indifferently.
“Yes! There’s another!”
Hornblower leaned over to get a better view.
“You’ll see plenty of them before this voyage is over,” said Bush.
“But I’ve never seen one before.”
The play of expression on Hornblower’s face was curious. One moment he was full of eager interest; the next he assumed an appearance of stolid indifference, as a man might pull on a glove. His service at sea so far, varied though it might be, had been confined to European waters; years of dangerous activity on the French and Spanish coasts in a frigate, two years in the Renown in the Channel fleet, and he had been eagerly looking forward to the novelties he would encounter in tropical waters. But he was talking to a man to whom these things were no novelty, and who evinced no excitement at the sight of the first flying fish of the voyage. Hornblower was not going to be outdone in stolidity and selfcontrol; if the wonders of the deep failed to move Bush they were not going to evoke any childish excitement in Hornblower, at least any apparent excitement if Hornblower could suppress it. He was a veteran, and he was not going to appear like a raw hand.
Bush looked up to see Roberts and Clive ascending the companionway in the gathering night, and turned eagerly towards them. Officers came from every part of the quarterdeck to hear what they had to say.
“Well, sir?” asked Lomax.
“He’s done it,” said Roberts.
“He’s read the secret orders, sir?” asked Smith.
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Oh!”
There was a pause before someone asked the inevitable silly question.
“What did they say?”
“They are secret orders,” said Roberts, and now there was a touch of pomposity in his voice—it might be to compensate for his lack of knowledge, or it might be because Roberts was now growing more aware of the dignity of his position as second in command. “If Mr. Buckland had taken me into his confidence I still could not tell you.”
“True enough,” said Carberry.
“What did the captain do?” asked Lomax.
“Poor devil,” said Clive. With all attention turned to him Clive grew expansive. “We might be fiends from the pit! You should have seen him cower away when we came in. Those morbid terrors grow more acute.”
Clive awaited a request for further information, and even though none was forthcoming he went on with his story.
“We had to find the key to his desk. You would have thought we were going to cut his throat, judging by the way he wept and tried to hide. All the sorrows of the world—all the terrors of hell torment that wretched man.”
“But you found the key?” persisted Lomax.
“We found it. And we opened his desk.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Buckland found the orders. The usual linen e
nvelope with the Admiralty seal. The envelope had been already opened.”
“Naturally,” said Lomax. “Well?”
“And now, I suppose,” said Clive, conscious of the anticlimax, “I suppose he’s reading them.”
“And we are none the wiser.”
There was a disappointed pause.
“Bless my soul!” said Carberry. “We’ve been at war since ‘93. Nearly ten years of it. D’ye still expect to know what lies in store for you? The West Indies today—Halifax tomorrow. We obey orders. Helmalee—let go and haul. A bellyful of grape or champagne in a captured flagship. Who cares? We draw our four shillings a day, rain or shine.”
“Mr. Carberry!” came the word from below. “Mr. Buckland passing the word for Mr. Carberry.”
“Bless my soul!” said Carberry again.
“Now you can earn your four shillings a day,” said Lomax.
The remark was addressed to his disappearing back, for Carberry was already hastening below.
“A change of course,” said Smith. “I’ll wager a week’s pay on it.”
“No takers,” said Roberts.
It was the most likely new development of all, for Carberry, the master, was the officer charged with the navigation of the ship.
Already it was almost full night, dark enough to make the features of the speakers indistinct, although over to the westward there was still a red patch on the horizon, and a faint red trail over the black water towards the ship. The binnacle lights had been lit and the brighter stars were already visible in the dark sky, with the mastheads seeming to brush past them, with the motion of the ship, infinitely far over their heads. The ship’s bell rang out, but the group showed no tendency to disperse. And then interest quickened. Here were Buckland and Carberry returning, ascending the companionway; the group drew on one side to clear them a passage.
“Officer of the watch!” said Buckland.
“Sir!” said Smith, coming forward in the darkness.
“We’re altering course two points. Steer southwest.”
“Aye aye, sir. Course southwest. Mr. Abbott, pipe the hands to the braces.”
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