A Ship of the Line. C. S. Forester

“Master-at-arms wishes to report, sir,” said Gray. “Send for him, then,” answered Hornblower.

The master-at-arms was the warrant officer responsible for enforcing discipline, and was a man new to Hornblower, named Price. Hornblower concluded that he had allegations of indiscipline to lodge, and he sighed even while he set his face in an expression of merciless rigidity. Probably it would be a matter of flogging, and he hated the thought of the blood and the agony. But, at the beginning of a commission like this, with a restive crew under his orders, he must not hesitate to flog if necessary — to have the skin and flesh stripped from the offenders’ backbones.

Price was coming along the gangway now at the head of the strangest procession. Two by two behind him came a column of thirty men, each one handcuffed to his neighbour, save for the last two who clanked drearily along with leg irons at their ankles. Nearly all of them were in rags, and the rags had no sort of nautical flavour about them at all. The rags of a great many of them were sacking, some had corduroy, and Hornblower, peering closer, saw that one wore the wrecks of a pair of moleskin breeches. Yet another wore the remains of what had once been a respectable black broadcloth suit — white skin showed through a rent in the shoulder. All of them had stubbly beards, black, brown, golden, and grey, and those who were not bald had great mops of tangled hair. The two ship’s corporals brought up the rear.

“‘Alt,” ordered Price. “Orf ‘ats.”

The procession shuffled to a halt, and the men stood sullenly on the quarterdeck. Some of them kept their eyes on the deck, while the others gaped sheepishly round them.

“What the devil’s all this?” demanded Hornblower sharply.

“New ‘ands, sir,” said Price. “I signed a receipt to the sodgers what brought ’em, sir.”

“Where did they bring them from?” rasped Hornblower.

“Exeter Assizes, sir,” said Price, producing a list. “Poachers, four of ’em. Waites, that’s ‘im in the moleskin breeches, sir, ‘e was found guilty of sheepstealing. That ‘un in black, ‘is crime’s bigamy, sir — ‘e was a brewer’s manager before this ‘appened to ‘im. The others is larceny mostly, sir, ‘cept for them two in front what’s in for rick burning and t’other two in irons. Robbery with violence is what they done.”

“Ha-h’m,” said Homblower, wordless for the moment. The new hands blinked at him, some with hope in their eyes, some with hatred, some with indifference. They had chosen service at sea rather than the gallows, or transportation, or the gaol. Months in prison awaiting trial accounted for their dilapidated appearance. Here was a fine addition to the ship’s company, thought Hornblower, bitterly — budding mutineers, sullen skulkers, half-witted yokels. But hands they were and he must make the most of them. They were frightened, sullen, resentful. It would be worth trying to win their affection. His naturally humanitarian instincts dictated the course he decided to pursue after a moment’s quick thinking.

“Why are they still handcuffed?” he demanded, loud enough for them all to hear. “Release them at once.”

“Begging you pardon, sir,” apologised Price. “I didn’t want to without orders, sir, seeing what they are and ‘ow they come ‘ere.”

“That’s nothing to do with it,” snapped Hornblower. “They’re enlisted in the King’s service now. And I’ll have no man in irons in my ship unless he’s given me cause to order it.”

Hornblower kept his gaze from wavering towards the new hands, and steadily addressed his declamation to Price — it was more effective delivered that way, he knew, even while he despised himself for using rhetorical tricks.

“I never want to see new hands in charge of the master-at-arms again,” he continued, hotly. “They are recruits in an honourable service, with an honourable future before them. I’ll thank you to see to it another time. Now find one of the purser’s mates and see that each of these men is properly dressed in accordance with my orders.”

Normally it might be harmful to discipline to rate a subordinate officer in front of the men, but in the case of the master-at-arms Hornblower knew that little damage was being done. The men would come to hate the master-at-arms any way sooner or later — his privileges of rank and pay were given him so that he might be a whipping boy for the crew’s discontent. Hornblower could drop the rasp in his voice and address the hands directly, now.

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