“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 sixfoot 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 ‘archway, sir.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to turn ‘im over, sir. ‘Is face was all bloodylike. ‘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 selfconsciously 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 overloudly, 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 mummylike 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 definitive 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 courtmartial—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.”
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.