“You and that cub Hornblower. Mister Hornblower. You plotted and you planned, so that my lawful authority should be set at nought.”
“No, sir!”
“It is only the hands who are faithful to me in this ship where everyone else conspires against me. And cunningly you seek to undermine my influence over them. To make me a figure of fun in their sight. Confess it!”
“No, sir. I didn’t, sir.”
“Why attempt to deny it? It is plain, it is logical. Who was it who planned to catch that reef point in the reef tackle block?”
“No one, sir. It —”
“Then who was it that countermanded my orders? Who was it who put me to shame before both watches, with all hands on deck? It was a deep‑laid plot. It shows every sign of it.”
The captain’s hands were behind his back, and he stood easily balancing on the deck with the wind flapping his coattails and blowing his hair forward over his cheeks, but Bush could see he was shaking with rage again — if it was not fear. Wellard turned the minute glass again and made a fresh mark on the slate.
“So you hide your face because of the guilt that is written on it?” blared the captain suddenly. “You pretend to be busy so as to deceive me. Hypocrisy!”
“I gave Mr Wellard orders to test the glasses against each other, sir,” said Bush.
He was intervening reluctantly, but to intervene was less painful than to stand by as a witness. The captain looked at him as if this was his first appearance on deck.
“You, Mr Bush? You’re sadly deceived if you believe there is any good in this young fellow. Unless” — the captain’s expression was one of sudden suspicious fear — “unless you are part and parcel of this infamous affair. But you are not, are you, Mr Bush? Not you. I have always thought better of you, Mr Bush.”
The expression of fear changed to one of ingratiating good fellowship.
“Yes, sir,” said Bush.
“With the world against me I have always counted on you, Mr Bush,” said the captain, darting restless glances from under his eyebrows. “So you will rejoice when this embodiment of evil meets his deserts. We’ll get the truth out of him.”
Bush had the feeling that if he were a man of instant quickness of thought and readiness of tongue he would take advantage of this new attitude of the captain’s to free Wellard from his peril; by posing as the captain’s devoted companion in trouble and at the same time laughing off the thought of danger from any conspiracy, he might modify the captain’s fears. So he felt, but he had no confidence in himself.
“He knows nothing, sir,” he said, and he forced himself to grin. “He doesn’t know the bobstay from the spankerboom.”
“You think so?” said the captain doubtfully, teetering on his heels with the roll of the ship. He seemed almost convinced, and then suddenly a new line of argument presented itself to him.
“No, Mr Bush. You’re too honest. I could see that the first moment I set eyes on you. You are ignorant of the depths of wickedness into which this world can sink. This lout has deceived you. Deceived you!”
The captain’s voice rose again to a hoarse scream, and Wellard turned a white face towards Bush, lopsided with terror.
“Really, sir —” began Bush, still forcing a death’s‑head grin.
“No, no, no!” roared the captain. “Justice must be done! The truth must be brought to light! I’ll have it out of him! Quartermaster! Quartermaster! Run for’ard and tell Mr Booth to lay aft here. And his mates!”
The captain turned away and began to pace the deck as if to offer a safety valve to the pressure within him, but he turned back instantly.
“I’ll have it out of him! Or he’ll jump overboard! You hear me? Where’s that bosun?”
“Mr Wellard hasn’t finished testing the glasses, sir,” said Bush in one last feeble attempt to postpone the issue.
“Nor will he,” said the captain.
Here came the bosun hurrying aft on his short legs, his two mates striding behind him.