Buckland turned his deadfish eyes towards him; Hornblower was not quite as neat in appearance, but he had clearly gone to some pains with his uniform.
“Thank you,” said Buckland; and then, after a pause, he asked his question explosively: “Tell me, Mr. Hornblower—this is the last chance—how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?”
“I am quite unable to tell you, sir,” said Hornblower.
There was no hint whatever to be gleaned from his expressionless face or from the words he used.
“Now, Mr. Hornblower,” said Buckland, nervously tapping the reports in his hand. “I’m treating you well. You’ll find I’ve given you all the praise I could in these reports. I’ve given you full credit for what you did at Santo Domingo, and for boarding the ship when the prisoners rose. Full credit, Mr. Hornblower. Won’t you—won’t you—?”
“I really cannot add anything to what you already know, sir,” said Hornblower.
“But what am I going to say when they start asking me?” asked Buckland.
“Just say the truth, sir, that the captain was found under the hatchway and that no inquiry could establish any other indication than that he fell by accident.”
“I wish I knew,” said Buckland.
“You know all that will ever be known, sir. Your pardon, sir”—Hornblower extended his hand and picked a thread of oakum from off Buckland’s lapel before he went on speaking—“the admiral will be overjoyed at hearing that we’ve wiped out the Dons at Samaná, sir. He’s probably been worrying himself grayhaired over convoys in the Mona Passage. And we’ve brought three prizes in. He’ll have his oneeighth of their value. You can’t believe he’ll resent that, can you, sir?”