The gig whisked them across the Grand Harbour from the Governor’s steps to the ship’s side, and Hornblower came on to the quarter‑deck with the bos’n’s mates’ pipes to welcome him. He was conscious even before he had taken his hand from his hat brim that there was something wrong. He looked round him at the ship illuminated by the wild sunset the Gregale had brought with it. There was no trouble with the hands, judging by their attitudes as they stood crowded forward. The three Ceylonese divers were there in their accustomed isolation by the knight‑heads. But the officers grouped aft wore an apprehensive look; Hornblower’s eyes moved from face to face, from Jones to Still, the two lieutenants, to Carslake, the purser, and to Silver, the master’s mate of the watch. It was Jones as senior officer who came forward to report.
“If you please, sir —”
“What is it, Mr. Jones?”
“If you please, sir, there has been a duel.”
No one could ever guess what would be the next burden to be laid on a captain’s shoulders. It might be an outbreak of plague, or the discovery of dry rot in the ship’s timbers. And Jones’s manner implied not merely that there had been a duel, but that someone had been hurt in it.
“Who fought?” demanded Hornblower.
“The doctor and Mr. McCullum, sir.”
Well, somewhere they could pick up another doctor, and if the worst came to the worst they could manage without one at all.
“What happened?”
“Mr. McCullum was shot through the lungs, sir.”
God! That was something entirely different, something of vital importance. A bullet through the lungs meant death almost for certain, and what was he to do with McCullum dead? McCullum had been sent for all the way from India. It would take a year and a half to get someone out from there to replace him. No ordinary men with salvage experience would do — it had to be someone who knew how to use the Ceylonese divers. Hornblower wondered with sick despair whether a man had ever been so plagued as he was. He had to swallow before he could speak again.
“Where is he now?”
“Mr. McCullum, sir? He’s in the hands of the garrison surgeon in the hospital ashore.”
“He’s still alive?”
Jones spread despairing hands.
“Yes, sir. He was alive half an hour ago.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“Down below in his berth, sir.”
“I’ll see him. No, wait. I’ll send for him when I want him.”
He wanted to think; he needed time and leisure to decide what was to be done. It was his instinct to walk the deck; that was how he could work off the high internal pressure of his emotions. It was only incidentally that the rhythmic exercise brought his thoughts into orderly sequence. And this little deck was crowded with idle officers — his cabin down below was of course quite useless. That was the moment when Jones came forward with something else to bother him.
“Mr. Turner’s come aboard, sir.”
Mr. Turner? Turner? That was the sailing master with experience of Turkish waters whom Collingwood had detailed specially to service in Atropos. He came from behind Jones as the words were said, a wizened old man with a letter in his hand, presumably the orders which had brought him on board.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower, forcing himself into cordiality while wondering whether he would ever make use of Turner’s services.
“Your servant, sir,” said Turner with old‑fashioned politeness.
“Mr. Jones, see that Mr. Turner’s comfortable.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
That was the only reply Jones could make, however hard of execution the order might be. But clearly Jones meditated some supplementary remark; it could be that was going to suggest putting Turner into McCullum’s quarters. Hornblower could not bear the thought of having to listen to anything of the sort while he had yet to reach a decision. It was the final irritation that roused him to the pitch of acting with the arbitrariness of a captain of the old school.
“Get below, all of you,” he snapped. “I want this deck clear.”
They looked at him as if they had not heard him aright, and he knew they had.