“Come with me, Mr. Wellard,” said Hornblower, and turned away.
Several new arrivals made their appearance as he did so—Buckland, his face white and strained, Roberts at his shoulder, Clive in his shirt and trousers walking sleepily from ho cabin. All of them started a little at the sight of the marines forming line on the cumbered deck, their musket barrels glinting in the feeble light of the lanterns.
“Would you come at once, sir?” asked Hornblower, turning back at sight of Buckland.
“I’ll come,” said Buckland.
“What in the name of God is going on?” asked Clive.
“The captain’s hurt,” said Hornblower curtly. “Come at once. You’ll need a light.”
“The captain?” Clive blinked himself wider awake. “Where is he? Give me that lantern, you. Where are my mates? You there, run and rouse my mates. They sling their hammocks in the sick bay.”
So it was a procession of half a dozen that carried their lanterns down the ladder—the four lieutenants, Clive and Wellard. While waiting at the head of the ladder Bush stole a side glance at Buckland; his face was working with anxiety. He would infinitely rather have been walking a shottorn deck with grape flying round him. He rolled an inquiring eye at Bush, but with Clive within earshot Bush dared say no word—he knew no more than Buckland did, for that matter. There was no knowing what was awaiting them at the foot of the ladder—arrest, ruin, disgrace, perhaps death.
The faint light of a lantern revealed the scarlet tunic and white crossbelts of a marine, standing by the hatchway. He wore the chevrons of a corporal.
“Anything to report?” demanded Hornblower.