Into that flat monosyllable were packed various moods—inquiry and despair, desperation and doubt.
“That’s the point,” whispered Hornblower. “He’ll give evidence. It’ll sound different in court. We’ve been punished—watch and watch, no liquor. That could happen to anybody. It’s not grounds for mutiny.”
“But he’s spoiling the hands.”
“Double rum. Make and mend. It’ll sound quite natural in court. It’s not for us to criticise the captain’s methods—so the court will think.”
“But they’ll see him.”
“He’s cunning. And he’s no raving lunatic. He can talk—he can find reasons for everything. You’ve heard him. He’ll be plausible.”
“But he’s held us up to contempt before the hands. He’s set Hobbs to spy on us.”
“That’ll be a proof of how desperate his situation was, surrounded by us criminals. If we arrest him we’re guilty until we’ve proved ourselves innocent. Any court’s bound to be on the captain’s side. Mutiny means hanging.”
Hornblower was putting into words all the doubts that Bush felt in his bones and yet had been unable to express.
“That’s right,” whispered Bush.