“I see, dear,” said Barbara, not taking her eyes from his face. Even before he spoke again she was aware that there was something which would modify the harshness of what he had said so far.
“Naturally, I have not made up my mind yet, dear,” he said. “But there is a further possibility which I’m considering.”
“Yes?” She could hardly breathe the word.
“The confirmation of the finding and the sentence would be the last act of my command. That would present an excuse – a reason. I could commute the sentence as an act of clemency in recognition of the good behaviour of the squadron during the period I have commanded it.”
“I see, dear. And if Ransome arrives before Flora?”
“I can do nothing except -”
“Except – ?”
“I could suggest to Ransome that he might begin his command with an act of clemency.”
“And would he?”
“I know very little about Ransome, dear. I simply cannot say.”
Barbara opened her mouth to speak. She was going to say, ‘Will he think a B flat more important than a man’s life?’ but she changed her speech in the nick of time. Instead she said the other thing that had also, and longer, been hovering on her lips.
“I love you, darling,” she said.
Again their eyes met across the table, and Hornblower felt his passion flooding to meet hers like a union of two rushing rivers. He knew perfectly well that all he had said about discipline and examples had been of no effect in changing Barbara’s mind; a woman (even more than a man) convinced against her will was of the same opinion still. But Barbara had not said so; she had said something else – and something (as always) more appropriate to the occasion. And not by one single variation of tone, not by a hair’s-breadth raising of an eyebrow, had she brought into the conversation the fact that he was tone deaf. A lesser woman would have used that as if it were a relevant argument in this matter. She knew of his tone deafness, and he knew she knew, and she knew that he knew; and so on ad infinitum, but there had never been any need for him to admit the defect or for her to admit her knowledge, and he loved her.
Next morning he had to tell himself that the Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies, even if he were awaiting his relief, still had duties to do; even if his wife had newly joined him. But it was delightful to have Barbara walk down with him through the Admiralty House gardens to see him on his way as far as the wicket gate in the lofty dockyard palisade. It was a little unfortunate that at the moment when Evans was unlocking the gate Hudnutt should appear on the other side of the palisade taking his exercise. He was marching up and down between a file of marines under command of a corporal, the guard in parade uniform with bayonets fixed, Hudnutt hatless, as a prisoner under charges had to be.
“Pris’ner an’ escort – halt!” bellowed the corporal at sight of his Admiral. “Escort, present – arms!”
Hornblower formally acknowledged the salute before turning to say goodbye to his wife.
“Escort, sl-o-o-ope arms!” bellowed the corporal, in marine fashion, as if the escort had been at the other side of the dockyard instead of two yards from him.
“Is that the bandsman – Hudnutt, dear?” asked Barabara.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“Pris’ner an’ escort, by the right, quick – march!” bellowed the corporal, and the little group marched off. Barbara watched it go; she could look now that Hudnutt had his back to her and was unaware of it. Previously she had refrained from staring at the man who would soon be on trial for his life. The trim marine uniform could not conceal the gangling, undeveloped body; and the sun shone on the fair hair.
“He’s nothing more than a boy,” said Barbara.
That could be another irrelevant fact if she wanted to argue with her husband regarding his duty. Seventeen or seventy, a man under orders must obey orders.