“Yes, sir. But the Dons won’t,” said Hornblower, not very abashed. “They’re more afraid of the blacks than of us at present.”
“So you think this attack might succeed?” asked Buckland, desperately changing the subject.
“I think it might, sir. But time’s getting on.”
Buckland sat looking at his two juniors in painful indecision, and Bush felt full sympathy for him. A second bloody repulse—possibly something even worse, the cutting off and capitulation of the entire landing party—would be Buckland’s certain ruin.
“With the fort in our hands, sir,” said Hornblower, “we can deal with the privateers up the bay. They could never use it as an anchorage again.”
“That’s true,” agreed Buckland. It would be a neat and economical fulfillment of his orders; it would restore his credit.
The timbers of the ship creaked rhythmically as the Renown rode over the waves. The trade wind came blowing into the cabin, relieving it of some of its stuffiness, breathing cooler air on Bush’s sweaty face.
“Damn it,” said Buckland with sudden reckless decision, “let’s do it.”
“Very good, sir,” said Hornblower.
Bush had to restrain himself from saying something that would express his pleasure; Hornblower had used a neutral tone—too obvious pushing of Buckland along the path of action might have a reverse effect and goad him into reversing his decision even now.