Bush heard the pipes of the bosun’s mates and strained his ears to hear the orders given.
“Gig’s crew away! Hands to lower the gig!”
Buckland would of course be going off at once to report to the admiral, and just as Bush came to that conclusion Buckland came into the cabin. Naturally he was dressed with the utmost care, in spotless white trousers and his best uniform coat. He was smoothly shaved, and the formal regularity of his neckcloth was the best proof of the anxious attention he had given to it. He carried his cocked hat in his hand as he stooped under the deck beams, and his sword hung from his hip. But he could not speak immediately; he could only stand and stare at Bush. Usually his cheeks were somewhat pudgy, but this morning they were hollow with care; the staring eyes were glassy, and the lips were twitching. A man on his way to the gallows might look like that.
“You’re going to make your report, sir?” asked Bush, after waiting for his superior to speak first.
“Yes,” said Buckland.
Beside his cocked hat he held in his hand the sealed reports over which he had been labouring. Bush had been called in to help him compose the first, the anxious one regarding the displacement of Captain Sawyer from command; and his own personal report was embodied in the second one, redolent with conscious virtue, telling of the capitulation of the Spanish forces in Santo Domingo. But the third, with its account of the uprising of the prisoners on board, and its confession that Buckland had been taken prisoner asleep in bed, had been written without Bush’s help.
“I wish to God I was dead,” said Buckland.
“Don’t say that, sir,” said Bush, as cheerfully as his own apprehensions and his weak state would allow.
“I wish I was,” repeated Buckland.
“Your gig’s alongside, sir,” said Hornblower’s voice. “And the prizes are just anchoring astern of us.”
Buckland turned his dead‑fish eyes towards him; Hornblower was not quite as neat in appearance, but he had clearly gone to some pains with his uniform.
“Thank you,” said Buckland; and then, after a pause, he asked his question explosively: “Tell me, Mr Hornblower — this is the last chance — how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?”
“I am quite unable to tell you, sir,” said Hornblower.
There was no hint whatever to be gleaned from his expressionless face or from the words he used.
“Now, Mr Hornblower,” said Buckland, nervously tapping the reports in his hand. “I’m treating you well. You’ll find I’ve given you all the praise I could in these reports. I’ve given you full credit for what you did at Santo Domingo, and for boarding the ship when the prisoners rose. Full credit, Mr Hornblower. Won’t you — won’t you — ?”
“I really cannot add anything to what you already know, sir,” said Hornblower.
“But what am I going to say when they start asking me?” asked Buckland.
“Just say the truth, sir, that the captain was found under the hatchway and that no inquiry could establish any other indication than that he fell by accident.”
“I wish I knew,” said Buckland.
“You know all that will ever be known, sir. Your pardon, sir” — Hornblower extended his hand and picked a thread of oakum from off Buckland’s lapel before he went on speaking — “the admiral will be overjoyed at hearing that we’ve wiped out the Dons at Samaná, sir. He’s probably been worrying himself gray‑haired over convoys in the Mona Passage. And we’ve brought three prizes in. He’ll have his one‑eighth of their value. You can’t believe he’ll resent that, can you, sir?”
“I suppose not,” said Buckland.
“He’ll have seen the prizes coming in with us — everyone in the flagship’s looking at them now and wondering about them. He’ll be expecting good news. He’ll be in no mood to ask questions this morning, sir. Except perhaps to ask you if you’ll take Madeira or sherry.”
For the life of him Bush could not guess whether Hornblower’s smile was natural or not, but he was a witness of the infusion of new spirits into Buckland.