“I want to hear about these charges against this bandsman—Hudnutt.”

“Well, My Lord—” A sideways glance from Cobb gave Hornblower a hint.

“Get out of here,” said Hornblower to his staff. “Leave Mr. Cobb alone with me.”

When the door was shut Hornblower was all good manners.

“Please sit down, Mr. Cobb. Then you can tell me at your ease what really happened.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“Well, now?”

“That young ‘Udnutt, My Lord, “e’s a fool if ever there was one. I’m sorry this ‘as ‘appened, My Lord, but ‘e deserves all ‘e’s going to get.”

“Yes? He’s a fool, you say?”

“’E’s a downright fool, My Lord. I’m not saying ‘e isn’t a good musician, ‘cause ‘e is. There ain’t no one ‘oo can play the cornet the way ‘e does. That’s the truth, My Lord. ‘E’s a boy wonder at it. The cornet’s a newfangled instrument, My Lord. We ain’t ‘ad it in our bands for more’n a year. Blow it like a trumpet, you do, you ‘ave to ‘ave a lip for it, although it ‘as keys as well, My Lord. An’ ‘e’s a marvel at it, or ‘e was, My Lord.”

That change to the past tense indicated that in Cobb’s positive opinion Hudnutt, through death or disablement, would never play the cornet again.

“He’s young?”

“Nineteen, My Lord.”

“And what did he do?”

“It was mutiny, My Lord, flat mutiny, although I’ve only charged him with disobedience to orders.”

Mutiny meant death by the Articles of War; disobedience to orders meant ‘death or such less penalty—’

“How did it happen?”

“Well, My Lord, it was like this. We was rehearsing the new march that come out in the last packet. Dondello, it’s called, My Lord. Just the cornet an’ the drums. An’ it sounded different, an’ I had ‘Udnutt play it again. I could ‘ear what ‘e was doin’, My Lord. There’s a lot of B flat accidentals in that march, an’ ‘e wasn’t flatting them. I asked ‘im what ‘e meant by it, an’ he said it sounded too sweet. That’s what ‘e said, My Lord. An’ it’s written on the music. Dolce, it says, and dolce means sweet, My Lord.”

“I know,” lied Hornblower.

“So I says, ‘You can play that again and you flat those B’s.’ An’ ‘e says, ‘I can’t.’ An’ I says, ‘You mean you won’t?’ An’ then I says, ‘I’ll give you one more chance’—although by rights I shouldn’t ‘ave, My Lord—an’ I says, ‘This is an order, remember,’ ‘an I gives ‘em the beat an’ they starts off and there, was the B naturals. So I says, ‘You ‘eard me give you an order?’ an’ ‘e says, ‘Yes.’ So there wasn’t nothing I could do after that, My Lord. I calls the guard an’ I ‘ad ‘im marched to the guard-’ouse. An’ then I ‘ad to prefer charges, My Lord.”

“This happened with the band present?”

“Yes, My Lord. The ‘ole band, sixteen of ‘em.”

Wilful disobedience to an order, before sixteen witnesses. It hardly mattered if there were six or sixteen or sixty; the point was that everyone in Hornblower’s command knew by now that discipline had been defied, an order deliberately disobeyed. The man must die, or he must be flogged into a crippled wreck, lest other men defy orders. Hornblower knew he had his command well in hand, but he knew, too, of the turbulence that lay below the surface. And yet—if the order that had been disobeyed had been something different, if there had been a refusal to lay out along a yard, say, however perilous the conditions, Hornblower would not have given all this thought to the matter, despite his detestation of physical cruelty. That sort of order must be instantly obeyed. ‘Artistic conscience,’ Spendlove had said. Hornblower had no idea of any difference between B and B flat, but he could dimly understand that it might be important to some people. A man might be tempted to refuse to do something that offended his artistic sensibilities.

“I suppose the man was sober?” he demanded suddenly.

“As sober as you and me, My Lord.”

Another idea crossed Hornblower’s mind.

“What’s the chances of a misprint in the music?” he asked; he was struggling with things he did not understand.

“Well, My Lord, there is such things. But it’s for me to say if there’s a misprint or not. An’ although he can read music I don’t know if ‘e can read print, My Lord, an’ if ‘e can I don’t expect ‘e can read Eyetalian, but there it says dolce, it says, on the official music, My Lord.”

In Cobb’s eyes this aggravated the offence, if aggravation were possible. Not only had his order been disobeyed, but Hudnutt had not respected the written instructions sent by whoever was responsible in London for sending out music to marine bands. Cobb was a marine first and a musician second; Hudnutt might be a musician first and a marine second. But—Hornblower pulled himself up sharply—that made Hudnutt’s condemnation all the more necessary. A marine had to be a marine, first, foremost, and all the time. If marines started to choose whether they could be marines or not, the Royal Regiment would cease to be a military body, and it was his duty to maintain it as a military body.

Hornblower studied Cobb’s expression intently. The man was speaking the truth, at least as far as the truth was apparent to him. He was not wilfully distorting facts because of personal prejudice or as a result of some old feud. If his action, and his report on it, had been influenced by jealousy or natural cruelty, he was unaware of it. A court martial would be impressed by his reliability as a witness. And he remained unperturbed under Hornblower’s steady stare.

“Thank you, Mr. Cobb,” said Hornblower at last. “I am glad to have had such a clear statement of the facts. That will be all for the present.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” answered Cobb, shooting his great bulk up out of the chair with an astonishing mixture of agility and military rigidity. His heels clashed as his hand swept up in the salute; he turned about with parade precision, and marched out of the room with resounding steps as precise as if timed by his own metronome.

Gerard and Spendlove came back into the room to find Hornblower staring at nothing, but Hornblower shook off his preoccupation instantly. It would never do for his subordinates to guess that he was moved by human feelings over a mere administrative matter.

“Draft an answer to Sir Thomas for my signature, if you please, Mr. Spendlove. It can be a mere acknowledgement, but then add that there is no possibility of immediate action, because I cannot assemble the necessary number of captains at: present with so many ships detached.”

Except in emergency a court where sentence of death might be passed could not be convened unless there were seven captains and commanders at least available as judges. That gave him time to consider what action he should take.

“This man’s in the dockyard prison, I suppose,” went on Hornblower. “Remind me to take a look at him on my way through the dockyard today.”

“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Gerard, careful to betray no surprise at an Admiral allotting time to visit a mutinous marine.

Yet it was not far out of Hornblower’s way. When the time came he strolled slowly down through the beautiful garden of Admiralty House, and Evans, the disabled sailor who was head gardener, came in a jerky hurry to open the wicket gate in the fifteen-foot palisade that protected the dockyard from thieves, in this portion of its course dividing the Admiralty garden from the dockyard. Evans took off his hat and stood bobbing by the gate, his pigtail bobbing at his back, and his swarthy face split by a beaming smile.

“Thank you, Evans,” said Hornblower, passing through.

The prison stood isolated at the edge of the dockyard, a small cubical building of mahogany logs, set diagonally in a curious fashion, possibly—probably—more than one layer. It was roofed with palm thatch a yard or more thick, which might at least help to keep it cool under the glaring sun. Gerard had run on ahead from the gate—with Hornblower grinning at the thought of the healthful sweat the exercise would produce—to find the officer-in-charge and obtain the key to the prison, and Hornblower stood by while the padlock was unfastened and he could look into the darkness within. Hudnutt had risen to his feet at the sound of the key, and when he stepped forward into the light he was revealed as a painfully young man, his cheeks hardly showing a trace of his one-day’s beard. He was naked except for a waistcloth, and the officer-in-charge clucked with annoyance.