“Maybe that’s true. You’ll still have two hours before midnight. Turn in until then. And have Whiting relieve you at eight bells again.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
At the very thought of abandoning himself to the sleep for which he yearned Hornblower swayed with fatigue.
“You could make that an order, sir,” suggested Bush to Buckland.
“What’s that? Oh yes, get a rest while you can, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush picked his way down the steep path to the landing stage at Buckland’s heels, and took his seat beside him in the stern sheets of the gig.
“I can’t make that fellow Hornblower out,” said Buckland a little peevishly on one occasion as they rowed back to the anchored Renown.
“He’s a good officer, sir,” answered Bush, but he spoke a little absently. Already in his mind he was tackling the problem of hoisting a long ninepounder up a cliff, and he was sorting out mentally the necessary equipment, and planning the necessary orders. Two heavy anchors—not merely boat grapnels—to anchor the buoy solidly. The thwarts of the launch had better be shored up to bear the weight of the gun. Travelling blocks. Slings—for the final hoist it might be safer to suspend the gun by its cascabel and trunnions.
Bush was not of the mental type that takes pleasure in theoretical exercises. To plan a campaign; to put himself mentally in the position of the enemy and think along alien lines; to devise unexpected expedients; all this was beyond his capacity. But to deal with a definite concrete problem, a simple matter of ropes and tackles and breaking strains, pure seamanship—he had a lifetime of experience to reinforce his natural bent in that direction.