The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  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 his 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.

  “The captain’s hurt,” said Hornblower curtly. “Come at once. You’ll need a light.”

  “The captain?” Clive blinked himself wider awake. “Where is he? Give me that lantern, you. Where are my mates? You, there, run and rouse my mates. They sling their hammocks in the sick bay.”

  So it was a procession of half a dozen that carried their lanterns down the ladder—the four lieutenants, Clive, and Wellard. While waiting at the head of the ladder Bush stole a side glance at Buckland; his face was working with anxiety. He would infinitely rather have been walking a shot-torn deck with grape flying round him. He rolled an inquiring eye at Bush, but with Clive within earshot Bush dared say no word—he knew no more than Buckland did, for that matter. There was no knowing what was awaiting them at the foot of the ladder—arrest, ruin, disgrace, perhaps death.

  The faint light of a lantern revealed the scarlet tunic and white crossbelts of a marine, standing by the hatchway. He wore the chevrons of a corporal.

  “Anything to report?” demanded Hornblower.

  “No, sir. Nothink, sir.”

  “Captain’s down there unconscious. There are two marines guarding him,” said Hornblower to Clive, pointing down the hatchway, and Clive swung his bulk painfully onto the ladder and descended.

  “Now, Corporal,” said Hornblower, “tell the first lieutenant all you know about this.”

  The corporal stood stiffly at attention. With no fewer than four lieutenants eyeing him he was nervous, and he probably had a gloomy feeling based on his experience of the service that when there was trouble among the higher ranks it was likely to go ill with a mere corporal who was unfortunate enough to be involved, however innocently. He stood rigid, trying not to meet anybody’s eye.

  “Speak up, man,” said Buckland, testily. He was nervous as well, but that was understandable in a first lieutenant whose captain had just met with a serious accident.

  “I was corporal of the guard, sir. At two bells I relieved the sentry at the captain’s door.”

  “Yes?”

  “An’—an’—then I went to sleep again.”

  “Damn it,” said Roberts. “Make your report.”

  “I was woke up, sir,” went on the corporal, “by one of the gennelmen. Gunner, I think ’e is.”

  “Mr. Hobbs?”

  “That may be ’is name, sir. ’E said, ‘Cap’n’s orders, and guard turn out.’ So I turns out the guard, sir, an’ there’s the cap’n with Wade, the sentry I’d posted. ’E ’ad pistols in ’is ’ands, sir.”

  “Who—Wade?”

  “No, sir, the cap’n, sir.”

  “What was his manner like?” demanded Hornblower.

  “Well, sir—” the corporal did not want to offer any criticism of a captain, not even to a lieutenant.

  “Belay that, then. Carry on.”

  “Cap’n says, sir, ’e says ’e says, sir, ‘Follow me’; an’ then ’e says to the gennelman ’e says, ‘Do your duty, Mr. Hobbs.’ So Mr. Hobbs, ’e goes one way, sir, an’ we comes with the captain down ’ere, sir. ‘There’s mutiny brewing’ says the cap’n, ‘black bloody mutiny. We’ve got to catch the mutineers. Catch ’em red ’anded’ says the cap’n.”

  The surgeon’s head appeared in the hatchway.

  “Give me another of those lanterns,” he said.

  “How’s the captain?” demanded Buckland.

  “Concussion and some fractures, I would say.”

  “Badly hurt?”

  “No knowing yet. Where are my mates? Ah, there you are, Coleman. Splints and bandages, man, as quick as you can get ’em. And a carrying-plank and a canvas and lines. Run, man! You, Pierce, come on down and help me.”

  So the two surgeon’s mates had hardly made their appearance than they were hurried away.

  “Carry on, Corporal,” said Buckland.

  “I dunno what I said, sir.”

  “The captain brought you down here.”

  “Yessir. ’E ’ad ’is pistols in ’is ’ands, sir, like I said, sir. ’E sent one file for’ard ‘Stop every bolt’ole’ ’e says; an’ ’e says, ‘You, Corporal, take these two men down an’ search.’ ’E—’e was yellin’, like. ’E ’ad ’is pistols in ’is ’ands.”

  The corporal looked anxiously at Buckland as he spoke.

  “That’s all right, Corporal,” said Buckland. “Just tell the truth.”

  The knowledge that the captain was unconscious and perhaps badly hurt had reassured him, just as it had reassured Bush.

  “So I took the other file down the ladder, sir,” said the corporal. “I went first with the lantern, seein’ as ’ow I didn’t ’ave no musket with me. We got down to the foot of the ladder in among those cases down there, sir. The cap’n, ’e was yellin’ down the hatchway. ‘ ’Urry,’ he says. ‘ ’Urry. Don’t let ’em escape. ‘Urry.’ So we started climbin’ for’ard over the stores, sir.”

  The corporal hesitated as he approached the climax of his story. He might possibly have been seeking a crude dramatic effect, but more likely he was still afraid of being entangled in circumstances that might damage him despite his innocence.

  “What happened then?” demanded Buckland.

  “Well, sir—”

  Coleman reappeared at this moment,
encumbered with various gear including a light six-foot plank he had been carrying on his shoulder. He looked to Buckland for permission to carry on, received a nod, laid the plank on the deck along with the canvas and lines, and disappeared with the rest down the ladder.

  “Well?” said Buckland to the corporal.

  “I dunno what ‘appened, sir.”

  “Tell us what you know.”

  “I ’eard a yell, sir. An’ a crash. I ‘adn’t ‘ardly gone ten yards, sir. So I came back with the lantern.”

  “What did you find?”

  “It was the cap’n, sir. Layin’ there at the foot of the ladder. Like ’e was dead, sir. ’E’d fallen down the ’atchway, sir.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to turn ’im over, sir. ’Is face was all bloody-like. ’E was stunned, sir. I thought ’e might be dead but I could feel ’is ’eart.”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t know what I ought to do, sir. I didn’t know nothink about this ’ere meeting, sir.”

  “But what did you do, in the end?”

  “I left my two men with the cap’n, sir, an’ I come up to give the alarm. I didn’t know who to trust, sir.”

  There was irony in this situation—the corporal frightened lest he should be taken to task about a petty question as to whether he should have sent a messenger or come himself, while the four lieutenants eyeing him were in danger of hanging.

  “Well?”

  “I saw Mr. Hornblower, sir.” The relief in the corporal’s voice echoed the relief he must have felt at finding someone to take over his enormous responsibility. “ ’E was with young Mr. Wellard, I think ‘is name is. Mr. Hornblower, ’e told me to stand guard ’ere, sir, after I told ’im about the cap’n.”

  “It sounds as if you did right, Corporal,” said Buckland, judicially.

  “Thank ’ee, sir. Thank ’ee, sir.”

  Coleman came climbing up the ladder, and with another glance at Buckland for permission passed the gear he had left down to someone else under the hatchway. Then he descended again. Bush was looking at the corporal who, now his tale was told, was self-consciously awkward again under the concentrated gaze of four lieutenants.

  “Now, Corporal,” said Hornblower, speaking unexpectedly and with deliberation. “You have no idea how the captain came to fall down the hatchway?”

  “No, sir. Indeed I haven’t, sir.”

  Hornblower shot one single glance at his colleagues, one and no more. The corporal’s words and Hornblower’s glance were vastly reassuring.

  “He was excited, you say? Come on, man, speak up.”

  “Well, yessir.” The corporal remembered his earlier unguarded statement, and then in a sudden flood of loquacity he went on. “ ’E was yellin’ after us down the hatchway, sir. I expect ’e was leanin’ over. ’E must ’ave been leanin’ when the ship pitched, sir. ’E could catch ’is foot on the coamin’ and fall ’ead first, sir.”

  “That’s what must have happened,” said Hornblower.

  Clive came climbing up the ladder and stepped stiffly over the coaming.

  “I’m going to sway him up now,” he said. He looked at the four lieutenants and then put his hand in the bosom of his shirt and took out a pistol. “This was lying at the captain’s side.”

  “I’ll take charge of that,” said Buckland.

  “There ought to be another one down there, judging by what we’ve just heard,” said Roberts, speaking for the first time. He spoke over-loudly, too; excitement had worked on him, and his manner might appear suspicious to anyone with anything to suspect. Bush felt a twinge of annoyance and fear.

  “I’ll have ’em look for it after we’ve got the captain up,” said Clive. He leaned over the hatchway and called down, “Come on up.”

  Coleman appeared first, climbing the ladder with a pair of lines in his hand, and after him a marine, clinging awkwardly to the ladder with one arm while the other supported a burden below him.

  “Handsomely, handsomely, now,” said Clive.

  Coleman and the marine, emerging, drew the end of the plank up after them; swathed mummy-like in the canvas and bound to the plank was the body of the captain. That was the best way in which to mount ladders carrying a man with broken bones. Pierce, the other surgeon’s mate, came climbing up next, holding the foot of the plank steady. The lieutenants clustered round to give a hand as the plank was hoisted over the coaming. In the light of the lanterns Bush could see the captain’s face above the canvas. It was still and expressionless, what there was to be seen of it, for a white bandage concealed one eye and the nose. One temple was still stained with the traces of blood which the doctor had not entirely wiped away.

  “Take him to his cabin,” said Buckland.

  That was the definite order. This was an important moment. The captain being incapacitated, it was the first lieutenant’s duty to take command, and those five words indicated that he had done so. In command, he could even give orders for dealing with the captain. But although this was a momentous step, it was one of routine; Buckland had assumed temporary command of the ship, during the captain’s absences, a score of times before. Routine had carried him through this present crisis; the habits of thirty years of service in the navy, as midshipman and lieutenant, had enabled him to carry himself with his usual bearing towards his juniors, to act normally even though he did not know what dreadful fate awaited him at any moment in the immediate future.

  And yet Bush, turning his eyes on him now that he had assumed command, was not too sure about the permanence of the effect of habit. Buckland was clearly a little shaken. That might be attributed to the natural reaction of an officer with responsibility thrust upon him in such startling circumstances. So an unsuspicious person—someone without knowledge of the hidden facts—might conclude. But Bush, with fear in his heart, wondering and despairing about what the captain would do when he recovered consciousness, could see that Buckland shared his fear. Chains—a court-martial—the hangman’s rope; thoughts of these were unmanning Buckland. And the lives, certainly the whole futures, of the officers in the ship might depend on Buckland’s actions.

  “Pardon, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes?” said Buckland; and then with an effort, “Yes, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “Might I take the corporal’s statement in writing now, while the facts are clear in his memory?”

  “Very good, Mr. Hornblower.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower. There was nothing to be read in his expression at all, nothing except a respectful attention to duty. He turned to the corporal. “Report to me in my berth after you have reposted the sentry.”

  “Yessir.”

  The doctor and his party had already carried the captain away. Buckland was making no effort to move from the spot. It was as if he was paralysed.

  “There’s the matter of the captain’s other pistol, sir,” said Hornblower, respectfully as ever.

  “Oh yes.” Buckland looked round him.

  “Here’s Wellard, sir.”

  “Oh yes. He’ll do.”

  “Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, “go down with a lantern and see if you can find the other pistol. Bring it to the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Wellard had recovered from most of his agitation; he had not taken his eyes from Hornblower for some time. Now he picked up the lantern and went down the ladder with it. What Hornblower had said about the quarterdeck penetrated into Buckland’s mind, and he began to move off with the others following him. On the lower gundeck Captain Whiting saluted him.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  No doubt the word that the captain was incapacitated and that Buckland was in command had sped through the ship like wildfire. It took Buckland’s numbed brain a second or two to function.

  “No, captain,” he said at length; and then, “Dismiss your men.”

  When they reached the quarterdeck the trade wind was still blowing briskly f
rom over the starboard quarter, and the Renown was soaring along over the magic sea. Over their heads the great pyramids of sails were reaching up—up—up towards the uncounted stars; with the easy motion of the ship the mastheads were sweeping out great circles against the sky. On the port quarter a half-moon had just lifted itself out of the sea and hung, miraculously, above the horizon, sending a long glittering trail of silver towards the ship. The dark figures of the men on deck stood out plainly against the whitened planks.

  Smith was officer of the watch. He came eagerly up to them as they came up the companionway. For the last hour and more he had been pacing about in a fever, hearing the noise and bustle down below, hearing the rumours which had coursed through the ship, and yet unable to leave his post to find out what was really going on.

  “What’s happened, sir?” he asked.

  Smith had not been in the secret of the meeting of the other lieutenants. He had been less victimized by the captain, too. But he could not help being aware of the prevailing discontent; he must know that the captain was insane. Yet Buckland was not prepared for this question. He had not thought about it and had no particular reply. In the end it was Hornblower who answered.

  “The captain fell down the hold,” he said; his tone was even and with no particular stress. “They’ve just carried him to his cabin unconscious.”

  “But how in God’s name did he come to fall down the hold?” asked the bewildered Smith.

  “He was looking for mutineers,” said Hornblower, in that same even tone.

  “I see,” said Smith. “But—”

  There he checked himself. That even tone of Hornblower’s had warned him that this was a delicate subject; if he pursued it the question of the captain’s sanity would arise, and he would be committed to an opinion on it. He did not want to ask any more questions in that case.

  “Six bells, sir,” reported the quartermaster to him.

  “Very good,” said Smith, automatically.

  “I must take the marine corporal’s deposition, sir,” said Hornblower. “I come on watch at eight bells.”

  If Buckland were in command he could put an end to the ridiculous order that Hornblower should stand watch and watch, and that Bush and Roberts should report to him hourly. There was a moment’s awkward pause. No one knew how long the captain would remain unconscious, nor in what condition he would regain consciousness. Wellard came running up to the quarterdeck.