“What about Wellard?” whispered Roberts. “Did you hear him scream the last time?”
“He’s only a volunteer. Not even a midshipman. No friends. No family. What’s the court going to say when they hear the captain had a boy beaten half a dozen times? They’ll laugh. So would we if we didn’t know. Do him good, we’d say, the same as it did the rest of us good.”
A silence followed this statement of the obvious, broken in the end by Buckland whispering a succession of filthy oaths that could give small vent to his despair.
“He’ll bring charges against us,” whispered Roberts. “The minute we’re in company with other ships. I know he will.”
“Twentytwo years I’ve held my commission,” said Buckland. “Now he’ll break me. He’ll break you as well.”
There would be no chance at all for officers charged before a courtmartial by their captain with behaving with contempt towards him in a manner subversive of discipline. Every single one of them knew that. It gave an edge to their despair. Charges pressed by the captain with the insane venom and cunning he had displayed up to now might not even end in dismissal from the service—they might lead to prison and the rope.
“Ten more days before we make Antigua,” said Roberts. “If this wind holds fair—and it will.”
“But we don’t know we’re destined for Antigua,” said Hornblower. “That’s only our guess. It might be weeks—it might be months.”
“God help us!” said Buckland.
A slight clatter farther aft along the hold—a noise different from the noises of the working of the ship—made them all start. Bush clenched his hairy fists. But they were reassured by a voice calling softly to them.