And although this decision had been reached there was another one, almost equally important, which had to be reached at once.
“Who will be in command?” asked Buckland. It could only be a rhetorical question; nobody except Buckland could possibly supply the answer, and to Bush and Hornblower this was obvious. They could only wait.
“It’d be poor Roberts’ duty if he had lived,” said Buckland, and then he turned to look at Bush.
“Mr. Bush, you will take command.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush got up from his chair and stood with his head bowed uneasily under the deck timbers above.
“Who do you want to take with you?”
Hornblower had been on his feet during the whole interview; now he shifted his weight selfconsciously from one foot to the other.
“Do you require me any more, sir?” he said to Buckland.
Bush could not tell by looking at him what emotions were at work in him; he had the pose merely of a respectful, attentive officer. Bush thought about Smith, the remaining lieutenant in the shin. He thought about Whiting, the captain of marines, who would certainly have to take part in the landing. There were midshipmen and master’s mates to be used as subordinate officers. He was going to be responsible for a risky and desperate operation of war—now it was his own credit, as well as Buckland’s, that was at stake. Whom did he want at his side at this, one of the most important moments in his career? Another lieutenant, if he asked for one, would be second in command, might expect to have a voice in the decisions to be made.