A marine sentry at the door moved out of the way, and the masteratarms shone the light of his candle lantern on a keyhole in the door and inserted the key.
“I put ‘im in this empty storeroom, sir,” went on the masteratarms. “’E’s got two of my corporals along wit ‘im.”
The door opened, revealing the light of another candle lantern. The air inside the room was foul; McCool was sitting on a chest, while two of the ship’s corporals sat on the deck with their backs to the bulkhead. The corporals rose at an officer’s entrance, but even so, there was almost no room for the two newcomers. Hornblower cast a vigilant eye round the arrangements. There appeared to be no chance of escape or suicide. In the end, he steeled himself to meet McCool’s eyes.
“I have been put in charge of you,” he said.
“That is most gratifying to me, Mr — Mr—” said McCool, rising from the chest.
“Hornblower.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hornblower.”
McCool spoke in a cultured voice, with only enough of Ireland in it to betray his origin. He had tied back the red locks into a neat queue, and even in the faint candlelight his blue eyes gave strange reflections.
“Is there anything you need?” asked Hornblower.
“I could eat and I could drink,” replied McCool. “Seeing that nothing has passed my lips since the Espérance was captured.”
That was yesterday. The man had had neither food nor water for more than twentyfour hours.
“I will see to it,” said Hornblower. “Anything more?”
“A mattress — a cushion — something on which I can sit,” said McCool. He waved a hand towards his sea chest. “I bear an honoured name, but I have no desire to bear it imprinted on my person.”
The sea chest was of a rich mahogany. The lid was a thick slab of wood whose surface had been chiselled down to leave his, name — B. I. McCool — standing out in high relief.
“I’ll send you in a mattress too,” said Hornblower.
A lieutenant in uniform appeared at the door.
“I’m Payne, on the admiral’s staff,” he explained to Hornblower. “I have orders to search this man.”
“Certainly,” said Hornblower.
“You have my permission,” said McCool.
The masteratarms and his assistants had to quit the crowded little room to enable Payne to do his work, while Hornblower stood in the corner and watched. Payne was quick and efficient. He made McCool strip to the skin and examined his clothes with care — seams, linings, and buttons. He crumpled each portion carefully, with his ear to the material, apparently to hear if there were papers concealed inside. Then he knelt down to the chest; the key was already in the lock, and he swung it open. Uniforms, shirts, underclothing, gloves; each article was taken out, examined, and laid aside. There were two small portraits of children, to which Payne gave special attention without discovering anything.
“The things you are looking for,” said McCool, “were all dropped overside before the prize crew could reach the Espérance. You’ll find nothing to betray my fellow countrymen, and you may as well save yourself that trouble.”
“You can put your clothes on again,” said Payne curtly to McCool. He nodded to Hornblower and hurried out again.
“A man whose politeness is quite overwhelming,” said McCool, buttoning his breeches.
“I’ll attend to your requests,” said Hornblower.
He paused only long enough to enjoin the strictest vigilance on the masteratarms and the ship’s corporals before hastening away to give orders for McCool to be given food and water, and he returned quickly. McCool drank his quart of water eagerly, and made effort to eat the ship’s biscuit and meat.
“No knife. No fork,” he commented.
“No,” replied Hornblower in a tone devoid of expression.
“I understand.”
It was strange to stand there gazing down at this man who was going to die tomorrow, biting not very efficiently at the lump of tough meat which he held to his teeth.
The bulkhead against which Hornblower leaned vibrated slightly, and the sound of a gun came faintly down to them. It was the signal that the court martial was about to open.
“Do we go?” asked McCool.
“Yes.”
“Then I can leave this delicious food without any breach of good manners.”
Up the ladders to the main deck, two marines leading, McCool following them, Hornblower following him, and two ship’s corporals bringing up the rear.
“I have frequently traversed these decks,” said McCool, looking round him, “with less ceremonial.”
Hornblower was watching carefully lest he should break away and throw himself into the sea.
The court martial. Gold lace and curt efficient routine, as the Renown swung to her anchors and the timbers of the ship transmitted the sound of the rigging vibrating in the gale. Evidence of identification. Curt questions.
“Nothing I could say would be listened to amid these emblems of tyranny,” said McCool in reply to the President of the Court.
It needed no more than fifteen minutes to condemn a man to death: “The sentence of this Court is that you, Barry Ignatius McCool, be hanged by the neck—”
The storeroom to which Hornblower escorted McCool back was now a condemned cell. A hurrying midshipman asked for Hornblower almost as soon as they arrived there.
“Captain’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to speak to you.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower.
“The admiral’s with him, sir,” added the midshipman in a burst of confidence.
RearAdmiral the Honourable Sir William Cornwallis was indeed in the captain’s cabin, along with Payne and Captain Sawyer. He started to go straight to the point the moment Hornblower had been presented to him.
“You’re the officer charged with carrying out the execution?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now look’ee here, young sir—”
Cornwallis was a popular admiral, strict but kindly, and of unflinching courage and towering professional ability. Under his nickname of ‘Billy Blue’ he was the hero of uncounted anecdotes and ballads. But having got so far in what he was intending to say, he betrayed a hesitation alien to his character. Hornblower waited for him to continue.
“Look’ee here,” said Cornwallis again. “There’s to be no speechifying when he’s strung up.”