“But why should that be all they had?”
“The Dons have nothing to fear on that side of the island. They’re holding out against the blacks, and the French, maybe, and the English in Jamaica. There’s nothing to tempt the blacks to attack ’em across the marshes. It’s south of Samaná Bay that the danger lies. The Dons’ll have every man that can carry a musket on that side. That’s where the cities are. That’s where this fellow Toussaint, or whatever his name is, will be threatening ’em, sir.”
The last word of this long speech came as a fortunate afterthought; Hornblower clearly was restraining himself from pointing out the obvious too didactically to his superior officer. And Bush could see Buckland squirm in discomfort at this casual mention of blacks and French. Those secret orders — which Bush had not been allowed to read — must lay down some drastic instructions regarding the complicated political situation in Santo Domingo, where the revolted slaves, the French, and the Spaniards (nominal allies though these last might be, elsewhere in the world) all contended for the mastery.
“We’ll leave the blacks and the French out of this,” said Buckland, confirming Bush’s suspicions.
“Yes, sir. But the Dons won’t,” said Hornblower, not very abashed. “They’re more afraid of the blacks than of us at present.”
“So you think this attack might succeed?” asked Buckland, desperately changing the subject.
“I think it might, sir. But time’s getting on.”
Buckland sat looking at his two juniors in painful indecision, and Bush felt full sympathy for him. A second bloody repulse — possibly something even worse, the cutting off and capitulation of the entire landing party — would be Buckland’s certain ruin.
“With the fort in our hands, sir,” said Hornblower, “we can deal with the privateers up the bay. They could never use it as an anchorage again.”
“That’s true,” agreed Buckland. It would be a neat and economical fulfillment of his orders; it would restore his credit.
The timbers of the ship creaked rhythmically as the Renown rode over the waves. The trade wind came blowing into the cabin, relieving it of some of its stuffiness, breathing cooler air on Bush’s sweaty face.
“Damn it,” said Buckland with sudden reckless decision, “let’s do it.”
“Very good, sir,” said Hornblower.
Bush had to restrain himself from saying something that would express his pleasure; Hornblower had used a neutral tone — too obvious pushing of Buckland along the path of action might have a reverse effect and goad him into reversing his decision even now.
And although this decision had been reached there was another one, almost equally important, which had to be reached at once.
“Who will be in command?” asked Buckland. It could only be a rhetorical question; nobody except Buckland could possibly supply the answer, and to Bush and Hornblower this was obvious. They could only wait.
“It’d be poor Roberts’ duty if he had lived,” said Buckland, and then he turned to look at Bush.
“Mr Bush, you will take command.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush got up from his chair and stood with his head bowed uneasily under the deck timbers above.
“Who do you want to take with you?”
Hornblower had been on his feet during the whole interview; now he shifted his weight self‑consciously from one foot to the other.
“Do you require me any more, sir?” he said to Buckland.
Bush could not tell by looking at him what emotions were at work in him; he had the pose merely of a respectful, attentive officer. Bush thought about Smith, the remaining lieutenant in the shin. He thought about Whiting, the captain of marines, who would certainly have to take part in the landing. There were midshipmen and master’s mates to be used as subordinate officers. He was going to be responsible for a risky and desperate operation of war — now it was his own credit, as well as Buckland’s, that was at stake. Whom did he want at his side at this, one of the most important moments in his career? Another lieutenant, if he asked for one, would be second in command, might expect to have a voice in the decisions to be made.