'Time!' roared a voice at that moment — the voice of Partridge, bosun's mate. Hornblower had been roused by it often enough to recognize it at once.
'Five dead,' said another voice. 'Pay all bets of evens or better.'
Hornblower plunged forward. Part of the cable had been coiled down to make a rat pit ten feet across in which knelt Styles with dead and living rats about his knees. Partridge squatted beside the ring with a sandglass — used for timing the casting of the log — in front of him.
'Six dead,' protected someone. 'that 'un's dead.'
'No, he ain't.'
''Is back's broken. 'E's a dead 'un.'
''E ain't a dead 'un,' said Partridge.
The man who had protested looked up at that moment and caught sight of Hornblower, and his words died away unspoken; at his silence the others followed his glance and stiffened into rigidity, and Hornblower stepped forward. He was still wondering what he should do; he was still fighting down the nausea excited by the horrible things he had seen. Desperately he mastered his horror, and, thinking fast, took his stand on discipline.
'Who's in charge here?' he demanded.
He ran his eye round the circle. Petty officers and secondclass warrant officers, mainly; bosun's mates, carpenter's mates. Muggridge, the surgeon's mate — his presence explained much. But his own position was not easy. A midshipman of scant service depended for his authority on board largely on the force of his own personality. He was only a warrant officer himself; when all was said and done a midshipman was not nearly as important to the ship's economy — and was far more easily replaced — than, say, Washburn, the cooper's mate over there, who knew all about the making and storage of the ship's water barrels.