“Bush!” whispered Buckland’s voice.
“Yes.”
“The others are here.”
Ten minutes before, at two bells, in the middle watch Bush and Roberts had reported to Buckland in his cabin in obedience to the captain’s order. A wink, a gesture, a whisper, and the appointment to meet here was made; it was an utterly fantastic state of affairs that the lieutenants of a King’s ship should have to act in such a fashion for fear of spies and eavesdroppers, but it had been necessary. Then they had dispersed and by devious routes and different hatchways had made their way here. Hornblower, relieved by Smith on watch, had preceded them.
“We mustn’t be here long,” whispered Roberts.
Even by his whisper, even in the dark, one could guess at his nervousness. There could be no doubt about this being a mutinous assembly. They could all hang for what they were doing.
“Suppose we declare him unfit for command?” whispered Buckland. “Suppose we put him in irons?”
“We’d have to do it quick and sharp if we do it at all,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll call on the hands and they might follow him. And then —”
There was no need for Hornblower to go on with that speech. Everyone who heard it formed a mental picture of corpses swaying at the yard‑arms.
“Supposing we do it quick and sharp?” agreed Buckland. “Supposing we get him into irons?”
“Then we go on to Antigua,” said Roberts.
“And a court‑martial,” said Bush, thinking as far ahead as that for the first time in this present crisis.
“Yes,” whispered Buckland.
Into that flat monosyllable were packed various moods — inquiry and despair, desperation and doubt.
“That’s the point,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll give evidence. It’ll sound different in court. We’ve been punished — watch and watch, no liquor. That could happen to anybody. It’s not grounds for mutiny.”
“But he’s spoiling the hands.”
“Double rum. Make and mend. It’ll sound quite natural in court. It’s not for us to criticise the captain’s methods — so the court will think.”
“But they’ll see him.”
“He’s cunning. And he’s no raving lunatic. He can talk — he can find reasons for everything. You’ve heard him. He’ll be plausible.”
“But he’s held us up to contempt before the hands. He’s set Hobbs to spy on us.”
“That’ll be a proof of how desperate his situation was, surrounded by us criminals. If we arrest him we’re guilty until we’ve proved ourselves innocent. Any court’s bound to be on the captain’s side. Mutiny means hanging.”
Hornblower was putting into words all the doubts that Bush felt in his bones and yet had been unable to express.
“That’s right,” whispered Bush.
“What about Wellard?” whispered Roberts. “Did you hear him scream the last time?”
“He’s only a volunteer. Not even a midshipman. No friends. No family. What’s the court going to say when they hear the captain had a boy beaten half a dozen times? They’ll laugh. So would we if we didn’t know. Do him good, we’d say, the same as it did the rest of us good.”
A silence followed this statement of the obvious, broken in the end by Buckland whispering a succession of filthy oaths that could give small vent to his despair.
“He’ll bring charges against us,” whispered Roberts. “The minute we’re in company with other ships. I know he will.”
“Twenty‑two years I’ve held my commission,” said Buckland. “Now he’ll break me. He’ll break you as well.”
There would be no chance at all for officers charged before a court‑martial by their captain with behaving with contempt towards him in a manner subversive of discipline. Every single one of them knew that. It gave an edge to their despair. Charges pressed by the captain with the insane venom and cunning he had displayed up to now might not even end in dismissal from the service — they might lead to prison and the rope.
“Ten more days before we make Antigua,” said Roberts. “If this wind holds fair — and it will.”
“But we don’t know we’re destined for Antigua,” said Hornblower. “That’s only our guess. It might be weeks — it might be months.”
“God help us!” said Buckland.