“Very good,” said Bush.
He did not meet Wellard’s eyes as he said the meaningless words; he did not want Wellard to see how he took the news, nor did he want to see any expression that Wellard’s face might wear. Here came the captain, his shaggy long hair whipping in the wind and his hook nose turned this way and that as usual.
“You want to take in another reef, Mr. Bush?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bush, and waited for the cutting remark that he expected. It was a pleasant surprise that none was forthcoming. The captain seemed almost genial.
“Very good, Mr. Bush. Call all hands.”
The pipes shrilled along the decks.
“All hands! All hands! All hands to reef tops’ls. All hands!”
The men came pouring out; the cry of ‘All hands’ brought out the officers from the wardroom and the cabins and the midshipmen’s berths, hastening with their stationbills in their pockets to make sure that the reorganised crew were properly at their stations. The captain’s orders pealed against the wind. Halliards and reef tackles were manned; the ship plunged and rolled over the grey sea under the grey sky so that a landsman might have wondered how a man could keep his footing on deck, far less venture aloft. Then in the midst of the evolution a young voice, soaring with excitement to a high treble, cut through the captain’s orders.
“’Vast hauling there! ‘Vast hauling!”
There was a piercing urgency about the order, and obediently the men ceased to pull. Then the captain bellowed from the poop:
“Who’s that countermanding my orders?”
“It’s me, sir—Wellard.”
The young volunteer faced aft and screamed into the wind to make himself heard. From his station aft Bush saw the captain advance to the poop rail; Bush could see he was shaking with rage, his nose pointing forward as though seeking a victim.
“You’ll be sorry, Mr. Wellard. Oh yes, you’ll be sorry.”
Hornblower now made his appearance at Wellard’s side. He was green with seasickness, as he had been ever since the Renown left Plymouth Sound.
“There’s a reef point caught in the reef tackle block, sir—weather side,” he hailed, and Bush, shifting his position, could see that this was so; if the men had continued to haul on the tackle, damage to the sail might easily have followed.
“What d’you mean by coming between me and a man who disobeys me?” shouted the captain. “It’s useless to try to screen him.”
“This is my station, sir,” replied Hornblower. “Mr. Wellard was doing his duty.”
“Conspiracy!” replied the captain. “You two are in collusion!”
In the face of such an impossible statement Hornblower could only stand still, his white face turned towards the captain.
“You go below, Mr. Wellard,” roared the captain, when it was apparent that no reply would be forthcoming, “and you too, Mr. Hornblower. I’ll deal with you in a few minutes. You hear me? Go below! I’ll teach you to conspire.”
It was a direct order, and had to be obeyed. Hornblower and Wellard walked slowly aft: it was obvious that Hornblower was rigidly refraining from exchanging a glance with the midshipman, lest a fresh accusation of conspiracy should be hurled at him. They went below while the captain watched them. As they disappeared down the companion the captain raised his big nose again.
“Send a hand to clear that reef tackle!” he ordered, in a tone as nearly normal as the wind permitted. “Haul away!”
The topsails had their second reef, and the men began to lay in off the yards. The captain stood by the poop rail looking over the ship as normal as any man could be expected to be.
“Wind’s coming aft,” he said to Buckland. “Aloft there! Send a hand to bear those backstays abreast the topbrim. Hands to the weatherbraces. After guard! Haul in the weather main brace! Haul together, men! Well with the fore-yard! Well with the main yard! Belay every inch of that!”
The orders were given sensibly and sanely, and the hands stood waiting for the watch below to be dismissed.
“Bosun’s mate! My compliments to Mr. Lomax and I’ll be glad to see him on deck.”
Mr. Lomax was the purser, and the officers on the quarterdeck could hardly refrain from exchanging glances; it was hard to imagine any reason why the purser should be wanted on deck at this moment.
“You sent for me, sir?” said the purser, arriving short of breath on the quarterdeck.
“Yes, Mr. Lomax. The hands have been hauling in the weather main brace.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Now we’ll splice it.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. We’ll splice the main brace. A tot of rum to every man. Aye, and to every boy.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. A tot of rum, I said. Do I have to give my orders twice? A tot of rum for every man. I’ll give you five minutes, Mr. Lomax, and not a second longer.”
The captain pulled out his watch and looked at it significantly.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Lomax, which was all he could say. Yet he still stood for a second or two, looking first at the captain and then at the watch, until the big nose began to lift in his direction and the shaggy eyebrows began to come together. Then he turned and fled; if the unbelievable order had to be obeyed five minutes would not be long in which to collect his party together, unlock the spirit room, and bring up the spirits. The conversation between captain and purser could hardly have been overheard by more than half a dozen persons, but every hand had witnessed it, and the men were looking at each other unbelievingly, some with grins on their faces which Bush longed to wipe off.
“Bosun’s mate! Run and tell Mr. Lomax two minutes have gone. Mr. Buckland! I’ll have the hands aft here, if you please.”
The men came trooping along the waist; it may have been merely Bush’s overwrought imagination that made him think their manner slack and careless. The captain came forward to the quarterdeck rail, his face beaming in smiles that contrasted wildly with his scowls of a moment before.
“I know where loyalty’s to be found, men,” he shouted, “I’ve seen it. I see it now. I see your loyal hearts. I watch your unremitting labours. I’ve noticed them as I notice everything that goes on in this ship. Everything, I say. The traitors meet their deserts and the loyal hearts their reward. Give a cheer, you men.”
The cheer was given, halfheartedly in some cases, with over-exuberance in others. Lomax made his appearance at the main hatchway, four men with him each carrying a twogallon anker.
“Just in time, Mr. Lomax. It would have gone hard with you if you had been late. See to it that the issue is made with none of the unfairness that goes on in some ships. Mr. Booth! Lay aft here.”
The bulky bosun came hurrying on his short legs.
“You have your rattan with you, I hope?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Booth displayed his long silvermounted cane, ringed at every two inches by a pronounced joint. The dilatory among the crew knew that cane well and not only the dilatory—at moments of excitement Mr. Booth was likely to make play with it on all within reach.
“Pick the two sturdiest of your mates. Justice will be executed.”
Now the captain was neither beaming nor scowling. There was a smile on his heavy lips, but it might be a smile without significance as it was not reechoed in his eyes.
“Follow me,” said the captain to Booth and his mates, and he left the deck once more to Bush, who now had leisure to contemplate ruefully the disorganization of the ship’s routine and discipline occasioned by this strange whim.
When the spirits had been issued and drunk he could dismiss the watch below and set himself to drive the watch on deck to their duties again, slashing at their sulkiness and indifference with bitter words. And there was no pleasure now in standing on the heaving deck watching the corkscrew roll of the ship and the hurrying Atlantic waves, the trim of the sails and the handling of the wheel—Bush still was unaware that there was any pleasure to be found in these everyday matters, but he was vaguely aware that something had gone out of his life.