“Captain’s orders, sir,” he said; and then with a roar at the men, “Come on! Slap it about, there!”
“Where’s the captain, then?” asked Bush with all the innocence he could muster.
“Aft some’eres, sir. ‘E sent for the corpril’s guard same time as we was told to turn out.”
Four marine privates and a corporal supplied the sentry who stood day and night outside the captain’s cabin. A single order was all that was needed to turn out the guard and provide the captain with at least a nucleus of armed and disciplined men ready for action.
“Very well, sergeant,” said Bush, and he tried to look puzzled and to hurry naturally aft to find out what was going on. But he knew what fear was. He felt he would do anything rather than continue this walk to encounter whatever was awaiting him at the end of it. Whiting, the captain of marines, made his appearance, sleepy and unshaven, belting on his sword over his shirt.
“What in hell?” he began as he saw Bush.
“Don’t ask me!” said Bush, striving after that natural appearance. So tense and desperate was he at that moment that his normally quiescent imagination was hard at work. He could imagine the prosecutor in the deceptive calm of a court‑martial saying to Whiting, “Did Mr Bush appear to be his usual self?” and it was frightfully necessary that Whiting should be able to answer, “Yes.” Bush could even imagine the hairy touch of a rope round his neck. But next moment there was no more need for him to simulate surprise or ignorance. His reactions were genuine.
“Pass the word for the doctor,” came the cry. “Pass the word, there.”
And here came Wellard, white‑faced, hurrying.
“Pass the word for the doctor. Call Dr Clive.”
“Who’s hurt, Wellard?” asked Bush.
“The c‑captain, sir.”
Wellard looked distraught and shaken, but now Hornblower made his appearance behind him. Hornblower was pale, too, and breathing hard, but he seemed to have command of himself. The glance which he threw round him in the dim light of the lanterns passed over Bush without apparent recognition.
“Get Dr Clive!” he snapped at one midshipman peering out from the midshipmen’s berth; and then to another, “You there. Run for the first lieutenant. Ask him to come below here. Run!”
Hornblower’s glance took in Whiting and travelled forward to where the marines were snatching their muskets from the racks.
“Why are your men turning out, Captain Whiting?”
“Captain’s orders.”
“Then you can form them up. But I do not believe there is any emergency.”
Only then did Hornblower’s glance comprehend Bush.
“Oh, Mr Bush. Will you take charge, sir, now that you’re here? I’ve sent for the first lieutenant. The captain’s hurt — badly hurt, I’m afraid, sir.”
“But what’s happened?” asked Bush.
“The captain’s fallen down the hatchway, sir,” said Hornblower.
In the dim light Hornblower’s eyes stared straight into Bush’s, but Bush could read no message in them. This after part of the lower gundeck was crowded now, and Hornblower’s definite statement, the first that had been made, raised a buzz of excitement. It was the sort of undisciplined noise that most easily roused Bush’s wrath, and, perhaps fortunately, it brought a natural reaction from him.
“Silence, there!” he roared. “Get about your business.”
When Bush glowered round at the excited crowd it fell silent.
“With your permission I’ll go below again, sir,” said Hornblower. “I must see after the captain.”
“Very well, Mr Hornblower,” said Bush; the stereotyped phrase had been uttered so often before that it escaped sounding stilted.
“Come with me, Mr Wellard,” said Hornblower, and turned away.
Several new arrivals made their appearance as he did so — Buckland, his face white and strained, Roberts at his shoulder, Clive in his shirt and trousers walking sleepily from ho cabin. All of them started a little at the sight of the marines forming line on the cumbered deck, their musket barrels glinting in the feeble light of the lanterns.
“Would you come at once, sir?” asked Hornblower, turning back at sight of Buckland.
“I’ll come,” said Buckland.
“What in the name of God is going on?” asked Clive.