Lieutenant Hornblower

Chapter XV

“Mr. Hornblower’s respects, sir,” said the messenger, putting his head inside Bush’s cabin after knocking on the door. “The admiral’s flag is flying off Mosquito Point, an’ we’re just goin’ to fire the salute, sir.”

“Very good.” said Bush.

Lying on his cot he had followed in his mind’s eye all that had been going on in the ship. She was on the port tack at the moment and had clewed up all sail save topsails and jib. They must be inside Gun Key, then. He heard Hornblower’s voice hailing.

“Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship.”

He heard the grumble of the tiller ropes as the wheel was put over, they must be rounding Port Royal point. The Renown rose to a level keel—she had been heeling very slightly—and then lay over to port, so little that, lying on his cot, Bush could hardly feel it. Then came the bang of the first saluting gun. Despite the kindly warning that Hornblower had sent down Bush was taken sufficiently by surprise to start a little at the sound. He was as weak and nervous as a kitten, he told himself. At fivesecond intervals the salute went on, while Bush resettled himself in bed. Movement was not very easy, even allowing for his weakness, on account of all the stitches that closed the numerous cuts and gashes on his body. He was sewn together like a crazy quilt; and any movement was painful.

The ship fell oddly quiet again when the salute was over—he was nearly sure it had been fifteen guns; Lambert presumably had been promoted to viceadmiral. They must be gliding northward up Port Royal bay; Bush tried to remember how Salt Pond Hill looked, and the mountains in the background—what were they called? Liguanea, or something like that—he could never tackle these Dago names. They called it the Long Mountain behind Rock Fort.

“Tops’l sheets!” came Hornblower’s voice from above. “Tops’l clew lines.”

The ship must be gliding slowly to her anchorage.

“Helmalee!”

Turning into the wind would take her way off her.

“Silence, there in the waist!”

Bush could imagine how the hands would be excited and chattering at coming into harbour—the old hands would be telling the new ones about the grog shops and the unholy entertainments that Kingston, just up the channel, provided for seamen.

“Let go!”

That rumble and vibration; no sailor, not even one as matteroffact as Bush, could hear the sound of the cable roaring through the hawsehole without a certain amount of emotion. And this was a moment of very mixed and violent emotions. This was no homecoming; it might be the end of an incident, but it would be most certainly the beginning of a new series of incidents. The immediate future held the likelihood of calamity. Not the risk of death or wounds; Bush would have welcomed that as an alternative to the ordeal that lay ahead. Even in his weak state he could still feel the tension mount in his body as his mind tried to foresee the future. He would like to move about, at least fidget and wriggle if he could not walk, in an endeavour to ease that tension, but he could not even fidget while fifty-three stitches held together the halfclosed gashes on his body. There would most certainly be an inquiry into the doings on board HMS Renown, and there was a possibility of a courtmartial—of a whole series of courtsmartial—as a result.

Captain Sawyer was dead. Someone among the Spaniards, drunk with blood lust, at the time when the prisoners had tried to retake the ship, had struck down the wretched lunatic when they had burst into the cabin where he was confined. Hell had no fire hot enough for the man—or woman—who could do such a thing, even though it might be looked upon as a merciful release for the poor soul which had cowered before imagined terrors for so long. It was a strange irony that at the moment a merciless hand had cut the madman’s throat some among the free prisoners had spared Buckland, had taken him prisoner as he lay in his cot and bound him with his bedding so that he lay helpless while the battle for his ship was being fought out to its bloody end. Buckland would have much to explain to a court of inquiry.

Bush heard the pipes of the bosun’s mates and strained his ears to hear the orders given.

“Gig’s crew away! Hands to lower the gig!”

Buckland would of course be going off at once to report to the admiral, and just as Bush came to that conclusion Buckland came into the cabin. Naturally he was dressed with the utmost care, in spotless white trousers and his best uniform coat. He was smoothly shaved, and the formal regularity of his neckcloth was the best proof of the anxious attention he had given to it. He carried his cocked hat in his hand as he stooped under the deck beams, and his sword hung from his hip. But he could not speak immediately; he could only stand and stare at Bush. Usually his cheeks were somewhat pudgy, but this morning they were hollow with care; the staring eyes were glassy, and the lips were twitching. A man on his way to the gallows might look like that.

“You’re going to make your report, sir?” asked Bush, after waiting for his superior to speak first.

“Yes,” said Buckland.

Beside his cocked hat he held in his hand the sealed reports over which he had been labouring. Bush had been called in to help him compose the first, the anxious one regarding the displacement of Captain Sawyer from command; and his own personal report was embodied in the second one, redolent with conscious virtue, telling of the capitulation of the Spanish forces in Santo Domingo. But the third, with its account of the uprising of the prisoners on board, and its confession that Buckland had been taken prisoner asleep in bed, had been written without Bush’s help.

“I wish to God I was dead,” said Buckland.

“Don’t say that, sir,” said Bush, as cheerfully as his own apprehensions and his weak state would allow.

“I wish I was,” repeated Buckland.

“Your gig’s alongside, sir,” said Hornblower’s voice. “And the prizes are just anchoring astern of us.”

Buckland turned his deadfish eyes towards him; Hornblower was not quite as neat in appearance, but he had clearly gone to some pains with his uniform.

“Thank you,” said Buckland; and then, after a pause, he asked his question explosively: “Tell me, Mr. Hornblower—this is the last chance—how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?”

“I am quite unable to tell you, sir,” said Hornblower.

There was no hint whatever to be gleaned from his expressionless face or from the words he used.

“Now, Mr. Hornblower,” said Buckland, nervously tapping the reports in his hand. “I’m treating you well. You’ll find I’ve given you all the praise I could in these reports. I’ve given you full credit for what you did at Santo Domingo, and for boarding the ship when the prisoners rose. Full credit, Mr. Hornblower. Won’t you—won’t you—?”

“I really cannot add anything to what you already know, sir,” said Hornblower.

“But what am I going to say when they start asking me?” asked Buckland.

“Just say the truth, sir, that the captain was found under the hatchway and that no inquiry could establish any other indication than that he fell by accident.”

“I wish I knew,” said Buckland.

“You know all that will ever be known, sir. Your pardon, sir”—Hornblower extended his hand and picked a thread of oakum from off Buckland’s lapel before he went on speaking—“the admiral will be overjoyed at hearing that we’ve wiped out the Dons at Samaná, sir. He’s probably been worrying himself grayhaired over convoys in the Mona Passage. And we’ve brought three prizes in. He’ll have his oneeighth of their value. You can’t believe he’ll resent that, can you, sir?”

“I suppose not,” said Buckland.

“He’ll have seen the prizes coming in with us—everyone in the flagship’s looking at them now and wondering about them. He’ll be expecting good news. He’ll be in no mood to ask questions this morning, sir. Except perhaps to ask you if you’ll take Madeira or sherry.”

For the life of him Bush could not guess whether Hornblower’s smile was natural or not, but he was a witness of the infusion of new spirits into Buckland.

“But later on—” said Buckland.

“Later on’s another day, sir. We can be sure of one thing, though—admirals don’t like to be kept waiting, sir.”

“I suppose I’d better go,” said Buckland.

Hornblower returned to Bush’s cabin after having supervised the departure of the gig. This time his smile was clearly not forced; it played whimsically about the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Bush.

He tried to ease his position under the sheet that covered him. Now that the ship was stationary and the nearby land interfered with the free course of the wind the ship was much warmer already; the sun was shining down mercilessly, almost vertically over the deck that lay hardly more than a yard above Bush’s upturned face.

“You’re quite right, sir,” said Hornblower, stooping over him and adjusting the sheet. “There’s nothing to laugh at.”

“Then take that damned grin off your face,” said Bush, petulantly. Excitement and the heat were working on his weakness to make his head swim again.

“Aye aye, sir. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No,” said Bush.

“Very good, sir. I’ll attend to my other duties, then.”

Alone in his cabin Bush rather regretted Hornblower’s absence. As far as his weakness would permit, he would have liked to discuss the immediate future; he lay and thought about it, muzzymindedly, while the sweat soaked the bandages that swathed him. But there could be no logical order in his thoughts. He swore feebly to himself. Listening, he tried to guess what was going on in the ship with hardly more success than when he had tried to guess the future. He closed his eyes to sleep, and he opened them again when he started wondering about how Buckland was progressing in his interview with Admiral Lambert.

A loblolly boy—sickberth attendant—came in with a tray that bore a jug and a glass. He poured out a glassful of liquid and with an arm supporting Bush’s neck he held it to Bush’s lips. At the touch of the cool liquid, and as its refreshing scent reached his nose, Bush suddenly realised he was horribly thirsty, and he drank eagerly, draining the glass.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Lemonade, sir, with Mr. Hornblower’s respects.”

“Mr. Hornblower?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a bumboat alongside an’ Mr. Hornblower bought some lemons an’ told me to squeeze ‘em for you.”

“My thanks to Mr. Hornblower.”

“Aye aye, sir. Another glass, sir?”

“Yes.”

That was better. Later on there were a whole succession of noises which he found hard to explain to himself: the tramp of booted feet on the deck, shouted orders, oars and more oars rowing alongside. Then there were steps outside his cabin door and Clive, the surgeon, entered, ushering in a stranger, a skinny, whitehaired man with twinkling blue eyes.

“I’m Sankey, surgeon of the naval hospital ashore,” he announced. “I’ve come to take you where you’ll be more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to leave the ship,” said Bush.

“In the service,” said Sankey, with professional cheerfulness, “you should have learned that it is the rule always to have to do what you don’t want to do.”

He turned back the sheet and contemplated Bush’s bandaged form.

“Pardon this liberty,” he said, still hatefully cheerful, “but I have to sign a receipt for you—I trust you’ve never signed a receipt for ship’s stores without examining into their condition, lieutenant.”

“Damn you to hell!” said Bush.

“A nasty temper,” said Sankey with a glance at Clive. “I fear you have not prescribed a sufficiency of opening medicine.”

He laid hands on Bush, and with Clive’s assistance dexterously twitched him over so that he lay face downward.

“The Dagoes seem to have done a crude job of carving; you, sir,” went on Sankey, addressing Bush’s defenceless back. “Nine wounds, I understand.”

“And fiftythree stitches,” added Clive.

“That will look well in the Gazette,” said Sankey with giggle; and proceeded to extemporise a quotation: “Lieutenant—ah—Bush received no fewer than nine wounds in the course of his heroic defence, but I am happy to state that he is rapidly recovering from them.”

Bush tried to turn his head so as to snarl out an appropriate reply, but his neck was one of the sorest parts of him and he could only growl unintelligibly, and he was not turned on to his back again until his growls had died down.

“And now we’ll whisk our little cupid away,” said Sankey. “Come in, you stretcher men.”

Carried out on to the maindeck Bush found the sunlight blinding, and Sankey stooped to draw the sheet over his eyes.

“Belay that!” said Bush, as he realised his intention, and there was enough of the old bellow in his voice to cause Sankey to pause. “I want to see!”

The explanation of the trampling and bustle on the deck was plain now. Across the waist was drawn up a guard of one of the West Indian regiments, bayonets fixed and every man at attention. The Spanish prisoners were being brought up through the hatchways for despatch to the shore in the lighters alongside. Bush recognised Ortega, limping along with a man on either side to support him; one trouser leg had been cut off and his thigh was bandaged, and the bandage and the other trouser leg were black with dried blood.

“A cutthroat crew, to be sure,” said Sankey. “And now, if you have feasted your eyes on them long enough, we can sway you down into the boat.”

Hornblower came hurrying down from the quarterdeck and went down on his knee beside the stretcher.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, thank’ee,” said Bush.

“I’ll have your gear packed and sent ashore after you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Careful with those slings,” snapped Hornblower, as the tackles were being attached to the stretcher.

“Sir! Sir!” Midshipman James was dancing about at Hornblower elbow, anxious for his attention. “Boat’s heading for us with a captain aboard.”

That was news demanding instant consideration.

“Goodbye, sir,” said Hornblower. “Best of luck, sir. See you soon.”

He turned away and Bush felt no ill will at this brief farewell, for a captain coming on board had to be received with the correct compliments. Moreover, Bush himself was desperately anxious to know the business that brought this captain on board.

“Hoist away!” ordered Sankey.

“Avast!” said Bush; and in reply to Sankey’s look of inquiry, “Let’s wait a minute.”

“I have no objection myself to knowing what’s going on,” said Sankey.

The calls of the bosun’s mates shrilled along the deck. The sideboys came running; the military guard wheeled to face the entry port; the marines formed up beside them. Up through the entry port came the captain, his gold lace flaming in the sunshine. Hornblower touched his hat.

“You are Mr. Hornblower, at present the senior lieutenant on board this ship?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, at your service.”

“My name is Cogshill,” said the captain, and he produced a paper which he proceeded to unfold and read aloud. “Orders from Sir Richard Lambert, Vice Admiral of the Blue, Knight of the Bath, Commanding His Majesty’s ships and vessels on the Jamaica station, to Captain James Edward Cogshill, of His Majesty’s ship Buckler. You are hereby requested and required to repair immediately on board of His Majesty’s ship Renown now lying in Port Royal bay and to take command pro tempore of the aforesaid ship Renown.”

Cogshill folded his paper again. The assumption of command, even temporarily, of a king’s ship was a solemn act, only to be performed with the correct ceremonial. No orders that Cogshill might give on board would be legal until he had read aloud the authority by which he gave them. Now he had ‘read himself in’, and now he held the enormous powers of a captain on board—he could make and unmake warrant officers, he could order imprisonment or the lash, by virtue of the delegation of power from the King in Council down through the Lords of the Admiralty and Sir Richard Lambert.

“Welcome on board, sir,” said Hornblower, touching his hat again.

“Very interesting,” said Sankey, when Bush had been swayed down into the hospital boat alongside and Sankey had taken his seat beside the stretcher. “Take charge, coxs’n. I knew Cogshill was a favourite of the admiral’s. Promotion to a ship of the line from a twentyeightgun frigate is a long step for our friend James Edward. Sir Richard has wasted no time.”

“The orders said it was only—only temporary,” said Bush, not quite able to bring out the words ‘pro tempore’ with any aplomb.

“Time enough to make out the permanent orders in due form,” said Sankey. “It is from this moment that Cogshill’s pay is increased from ten shillings to two pounds a day.”

The Negro oarsmen of the hospital boat were bending to their work, sending the launch skimming over the glittering water, and Sankey turned his head to look at the squadron lying at anchor in the distance—a threedecker and a couple of frigates.

“That’s the Buckler,” he said, pointing. “Lucky for Cogshill his ship was in here at this moment. There’ll be plenty of promotion in the admiral’s gift now. You lost two lieutenants in the Renown?”

“Yes,” said Bush. Roberts had been cut in two by a shot from Samaná during the first attack, and Smith had been killed at the post of duty defending the quarterdeck when the prisoners rose.

“A captain and two lieutenants,” said Sankey meditatively. “Sawyer had been insane for some time, I understand?”

“Yes.”

“And yet they killed him?”

“Yes.”

“A chapter of accidents. It might have been better for your first lieutenant if he had met the same fate.”

Bush did not make any reply to that remark; even though the same thought had occurred to him. Buckland had been taken prisoner in his bed, and he would never be able to live that down.

“I think,” said Sankey, judicially, “he will never be able to look for promotion. Unfortunate for him, seeing that he could otherwise have expected it as a result of your successes in Santo Domingo, on which so far I have not congratulated you, sir. My felicitations.”

“Thank you,” said Bush.

“A resounding success. Now it will be interesting to see what use Sir Richard—may his name be ever revered—will make of all these vacancies. Cogshill to the Renown. That seems certain. Then a commander must be promoted to the Buckler. The ineffable joy of post rank! There are four commanders on this station—I wonder which of them will enter through the pearly gates? You have been on this station before, I believe, sir?”

“Not for three years,” said Bush.

“Then you can hardly be expected to be up to date regarding the relative standing of the officers here in Sir Richard’s esteem. Then a lieutenant will be made commander. No doubt about who that will be.”

Sankey spared Bush a glance, and Bush asked the question which was expected of him.

“Who?”

“Dutton. First lieutenant of the flagship. Are you acquainted with him?”

“I think so. Lanky fellow with a scar on his cheek?”

“Yes. Sir Richard believes that the sun rises and sets on him. And I believe that Lieutenant Dutton—Commander as he soon will be—is of the same opinion.”

Bush had no comment to make, and he would not have made one if he had. Surgeon Sankey was quite obviously a scatterbrained old gossip, and quite capable of repeating any remarks made to him. He merely nodded—as much of a nod as his sore neck and his recumbent position allowed—and waited for Sankey to continue his monologue.

“So Dutton will be a commander. That’ll mean vacancies for three lieutenants. Sir Richard will be able to gladden the hearts of three of his friends by promoting their sons from midshipmen. Assuming, that is to say, that Sir Richard has as many as three friends.”

“Oars! Bowman!” said the coxswain of the launch; they were rounding the tip of the jetty. The boat ran gently along side and was secured; Sankey climbed out and supervised the lifting of the stretcher. With steady steps the Negro bearers began to carry the stretcher up the road towards the hospital, while the heat of the island closed round Bush like the warm water in a bath.

“Let me see,” said Sankey, falling into step beside the stretcher. “We had just promoted three midshipmen to lieutenant. So among the warrant ranks there will be three vacancies. But let me see—I fancy you had casualties in the Renown?”

“Plenty,” said Bush.

Midshipmen and master’s mates had given their lives in defence of their ship.

“Of course. That was only to be expected. So there will be many more than three vacancies. So the hearts of the supernumeraries, of the volunteers, of all those unfortunates serving without pay in the hope of eventual preferment, will be gladdened by numerous appointments. From the limbo of nothingness to the inferno of warrant rank. The path of glory—I do not have to asperse your knowledge of literature by reminding you of what the poet said.”

Bush had no idea what the poet said, but he was not going to admit it.

“And now we are arrived,” said Sankey. “I will attend you to your cabin.”

Inside the building the darkness left Bush almost blind for a space after the dazzling sunshine. There were whitewashed corridors; there was a long twilit ward divided by screens into minute rooms. He suddenly realised that he was quite exhausted, that all he wanted to do was to close his eyes and rest. The final lifting of him from the stretcher to the bed and the settling of him there seemed almost more than he could bear. He had no attention to spare for Sankey’s final chatter. When the mosquito net was at last drawn round his bed and he was left alone he felt as if he were at the summit of a long sleek green wave, down which he went gliding, gliding, endlessly gliding. It was almost a pleasant sensation, but not quite.

When he reached the foot of the wave he had to struggle up it again, recovering his strength, through a night and a day and another night, and during that time he came to learn about the life in the hospital—the sounds, the groans that came from other patients behind other screens, the notquite-muffled howls of lunatic patients at the far end of the whitewashed corridor; morning and evening rounds; by the end of his second day there he had begun to listen with appetite for the noises that presaged the bringing in of his meals.

“You are a fortunate man,” remarked Sankey, examining his stitchedup body. “These are all incised wounds. Not a single deep puncture. It’s contrary to all my professional experience. Usually the Dagoes can be relied upon to use their knives in a more effective manner. Just look at this cut here.”

The cut in question ran from Bush’s shoulder to his spine, so that Sankey could not literally mean what he had just said.

“Eight inches long at least,” went on Sankey. “Yet not more than two inches deep, even though, as I suspect, the scapula is notched. Four inches with the point would have been far more effective. This other cut here seems to be the only one that indicates any ambition to plumb the arterial depths. Clearly the man who wielded the knife here intended to stab. But it was a stab from above downwards, and the jagged beginning of it shows how the point was turned by the ribs down which the knife slid, severing a few fibres of latissimus dorsi but tailing off at the end into a mere superficial laceration. The effort of a tyro. Turn over, please. Remember, Mr. Bush, if ever you use a knife, to give an upward inclination to the point. The human ribs lie open to welcome an upward thrust; before a downward thrust they overlap and forbid all entrance, and the descending knife, as in this case, bounds in vain from one rib to the next, knocking for admission at each in turn and being refused.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Bush. “Ouch!”

“And every cut is healing well,” said Sankey. “No sign of mortification.”

Bush suddenly realised that Sankey was moving his nose about close to his body; it was by its smell that gangrene first became apparent.

“A good clean cut,” said Sankey, “rapidly sutured and bound up in its own blood, can be expected to heal by first intention more often than not. Many times more often than not. And these are mostly clean cuts, haggled, as I said, only a little here and there. Bend this knee if you please. Your honourable scars, Mr. Bush, will in the course of a few years become almost unnoticeable. Thin lines of white whose crisscross pattern will be hardly a blemish on your classic torso.”

“Good,” said Bush; he was not quite sure what his torso was, but he was not going to ask Sankey to explain all these anatomical terms.

This morning Sankey had hardly left him before he returned with a visitor.

“Captain Cogshill to inspect you,” he said. “Here he is, sir.”

Cogshill looked down at Bush upon the bed.

“Doctor Sankey gives me the good news that you are recovering rapidly,” he said.

“I think I am, sir.”

“The admiral has ordered a court of inquiry, and I am nominated a member of the court. Naturally your evidence will be required, Mr. Bush, and it is my duty to ascertain how soon you will be able to give it.”

Bush felt a little wave of apprehension ripple over him. A court of inquiry was only a shade less terrifying than the courtmartial to which it might lead. Even with a conscience absolutely clear Bush would rather—far rather—handle a ship on a lee shore in a gale than face questions and have to give answers, submit his motives to analysis and misconstruction, and struggle against the entanglements of legal forms. But it was medicine that had to be swallowed, and the sensible thing was to hold his nose and gulp it down, however nauseating.

“I’m ready at any time, sir.”

“Tomorrow I shall take out the sutures, sir,” interposed Sankey. “You will observe that Mr. Bush is still weak. He was entirely exsanguinated by his wounds.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he was drained of his blood. And the ordeal of taking out the sutures—”

“The stitches, do you mean?”

“The stitches, sir. The ordeal of removing them may momentarily retard Mr. Bush’s recovery of his strength. But if the court will indulge him with a chair when he gives his evidence—”

“That can certainly be granted.”

“Then in three days from now he can answer any necessary questions.”

“Next Friday, then?”

“Yes, sir. That is the earliest. I could wish it would be later.”

“To assemble a court on this station,” explained Cogshill with his cold courtesy, “is not easy, when every ship is away on necessary duty so much of the time. Next Friday will be convenient.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sankey.

It was some sort of gratification to Bush, who had endured so much of Sankey’s chatter, to see him almost subdued in his manner when addressing someone as eminent as a captain.

“Very well, then,” said Cogshill. He bowed to Bush. “I wish you the quickest of recoveries.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bush.

Even lying on his back he could not check the instinctive attempt to return the bow, but his wounds hurt him when he started to double up in the middle and prevented him from appearing ridiculous. With Cogshill gone Bush had time to worry about the future; the fear of it haunted him a little even while he ate his dinner, but the loblolly boy who came to take away the remains ushered in another visitor, the sight of whom drove away the black thoughts. It was Hornblower, standing at the door with a basket in his hand, and Bush’s face lit up at the sight of him.

“How are you, sir?” asked Homblower.

They shook hands, each reflecting the pleasure of the others greeting.

“All the better for seeing you,” said Bush, and meant it.

“This is my first chance of coming ashore,” said Hornblower. “You can guess that I’ve been kept busy.”

Bush could guess easily enough; it was no trouble to him to visualise all the duties that had been heaped on Hornblower, the necessity to complete Renown again with powder and shot, food and water, to clean up the ship after the prisoners had been removed, to eradicate the traces of the recent fighting, to attend to the formalities connected with the disposal of the prizes, the wounded, the sick, and the effects of the dead. And Bush was eager to hear the details, as a housewife might be when illness had removed her from the supervision of her household. He plied Hornblower with questions, and the technical discussion that ensued prevented Hornblower for some time from indicating the basket he had brought.

“Pawpaws,” he said. “Mangoes. A pineapple. That’s only the second pineapple I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. Very kind of you,” said Bush. But it was utterly beyond possibility that he could give the least hint of the feeling that the gift evoked in him, that after lying lonely for these days in the hospital he should find that someone cared about him—that in any case someone should give him so much as a thought. The words he spoke were limping and quite inadequate, and only a sensitive and sympathetic mind could guess at the feelings which the words concealed rather than expressed. But he was saved from further embarrassment by Hornblower abruptly introducing a new subject.

“The admiral’s taking the Gaditana into the navy,” he announced.

“Is he, by George!”

“Yes. Eighteen guns—sixpounders and nines. She’ll rate as a sloop of war.”

“So he’ll have to promote a commander for her.”

“Yes.”

“By George!” said Bush again.

Some lucky lieutenant would get that important step. It might have been Buckland—it still might be, if no weight were given to the consideration that he had been captured asleep in bed.

“Lambert’s renaming her the Retribution,” said Hornblower.

“Not a bad name, either.”

“No.”

There was silence for a moment; each of them was reliving, from his own point of view, those awful minutes while the Renown was being recaptured, while the Spaniards who tried to fight it out were slaughtered without mercy.

“You know about the court of inquiry, I suppose?” asked Bush; it was a logical step from his last train of thought.

“Yes. How did you know about it?”

“Cogshill’s just been in here to warn me that I’ll have to give evidence.”

“I see.”

There followed silence more pregnant than the last as they thought about the ordeal ahead. Hornblower deliberately broke it.

“I was going to tell you,” he said, “that I had to reeve new tiller lines in Renown. Both of them were frayed—there’s too much wear there. I think they’re led round too sharp an angle.”

That provoked a technical discussion which Hornblower encouraged until it was time for him to leave.