The responsibility was Buckland’s, entirely Buckland’s, by the law of the navy, and Bush was a little irked at Buckland’s trying to share it.
“But what else can we do?” asked Buckland. “What do you suggest?”
Bush remembered the plan of campaign Hornblower had sketched out to him, but he did not put it instantly forward; he had not weighed it sufficiently in his mind—he did not even know if he thought it practicable. Instead he temporised.
“If we head for Jamaica it’ll be with our tail between our legs, sir,” he said.
“That s perfectly true,” agreed Buckland, with a helpless gesture. ‘There’s the captain.”
“Yes,” said Bush. “There’s the captain.”
If the Renown were to report to the admiral at Kingston with a resounding success to her record there might not be too diligent an inquiry into past events; but if she came limping in, defeated, battered, it would be far more likely that inquiry might be made into the reasons why her captain had been put under restraint, why Buckland had read the secret orders, why he had taken upon himself the responsibility of making the attack upon Samaná.
“It was young Hornblower who said the same thing to me,” complained Buckland pettishly. “I wish I’d never listened to him.”
“What did you ask him, sir?” asked Bush.
“Oh, I can’t say that I asked him anything,” replied Buckland, pettishly again. “We were yarning together on the quarterdeck one evening. It was his watch.”