“I think so. Lanky fellow with a scar on his cheek?”
“Yes. Sir Richard believes that the sun rises and sets on him. And I believe that Lieutenant Dutton—Commander as he soon will be—is of the same opinion.”
Bush had no comment to make, and he would not have made one if he had. Surgeon Sankey was quite obviously a scatterbrained old gossip, and quite capable of repeating any remarks made to him. He merely nodded—as much of a nod as his sore neck and his recumbent position allowed—and waited for Sankey to continue his monologue.
“So Dutton will be a commander. That’ll mean vacancies for three lieutenants. Sir Richard will be able to gladden the hearts of three of his friends by promoting their sons from midshipmen. Assuming, that is to say, that Sir Richard has as many as three friends.”
“Oars! Bowman!” said the coxswain of the launch; they were rounding the tip of the jetty. The boat ran gently along side and was secured; Sankey climbed out and supervised the lifting of the stretcher. With steady steps the Negro bearers began to carry the stretcher up the road towards the hospital, while the heat of the island closed round Bush like the warm water in a bath.
“Let me see,” said Sankey, falling into step beside the stretcher. “We had just promoted three midshipmen to lieutenant. So among the warrant ranks there will be three vacancies. But let me see—I fancy you had casualties in the Renown?”
“Plenty,” said Bush.
Midshipmen and master’s mates had given their lives in defence of their ship.
“Of course. That was only to be expected. So there will be many more than three vacancies. So the hearts of the supernumeraries, of the volunteers, of all those unfortunates serving without pay in the hope of eventual preferment, will be gladdened by numerous appointments. From the limbo of nothingness to the inferno of warrant rank. The path of glory—I do not have to asperse your knowledge of literature by reminding you of what the poet said.”
Bush had no idea what the poet said, but he was not going to admit it.