And as dinner was approaching its end Hornblower was conscious of a glance darted at him by Barbara; it was only one glance, and of the most fleeting nature. Ransome could not have been conscious of it, but Hornblower understood. Barbara was jogging his memory regarding a matter that was important to her. He awaited a suitable turn in the conversation before mentioning the subject.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “there’s a court martial pending. A marine bandsman—”

He went on to tell Ransome the circumstances of the case, treating it lightly. He was aware, even if Ransome was not, of the closeness with which Barbara was studying Ransome’s expression as the narrative continued.

“’Repeated and deliberate disobedience to a lawful order,’” Ransome was repeating to himself Hornblower’s own words. “It could have been mutiny.”

“So it could,” agreed Hornblower. “But it’s rather a curious case. I’m glad you have the decision to make regarding it, and not I.”

“It seems to me as if the evidence will be quite incontrovertible.”

“No doubt.” Hornblower made himself smile, telepathically conscious of the intensity of Barbara’s interest. “But the circumstances are a little unusual.”

The stony expression on Ransome’s face was most discouraging. Hornblower knew the situation to be hopeless. He would have abandoned any further effort if Barbara had not been there, but as it was he went on, uselessly.

“If the trial had been held during the period of my command I might have—naturally I had not made up my mind—commuted the sentence to mark my appreciation of the good behaviour of the squadron.”

“Yes?” said Ransome; no monosyllable could have expressed greater disinterest, but Hornblower plunged on.

“It had occurred to me that you might find this a favourable opportunity to display clemency as your first official act.”

“That will be a matter for my own decision.”

“Of course,” agreed Hornblower.

“And I cannot imagine my taking any action of that sort, naturally. I cannot have the squadron believing that I shall be lenient as regards discipline. I cannot have my command unsettled at the start.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower again. He could see the uselessness of further argument, and he might as well be graceful about it. “You are the best judge of all the circumstances, as well as the only judge.”

“Now I shall leave you gentlemen to your wine,” said Barbara, suddenly. Hornblower looked at her just in time to see her frozen expression melt into the smile he knew so well. “I shall say goodnight to you, Admiral. I shall make every effort—as far as the rules of the Navy allow—to see that this house is in good condition for you to take over tomorrow, and I hope you will be comfortable in it.”

“Thank you,” said Ransome; the two men were on their feet now.

“Goodnight, dear,” said Barbara to Hornblower. The latter was aware that the smile she gave him was not quite real, and he knew her to be acutely upset.

She left them, and Hornblower passed the port, and settled down again to what proved to be a long evening. Ransome, having asserted himself, and having made it perfectly clear that he would remain uninfluenced by any suggestion Hornblower might put forward, was by no means averse to acquiring any information that might come his way. Nor to finishing the bottle of port and starting on another.

So that it was very late before he went to bed, and he used no light for fear of disturbing Barbara. He crept about the room as silently as he could. In the darkness the glances that he directed at the other bed (naval establishments made small allowance for wives, and that allowance did not include double beds) under its mosquito net revealed nothing to him, and he was glad. If Barbara had been awake they could hardly have avoided discussing the Hudnutt case.

Nor was there any time next morning, for the moment Hornblower was called he had to hurry into the dressing room and array himself in his best uniform with his ribbon and star and hasten away to the ceremony of the change of command. As the officer to be relieved he was first upon the quarterdeck of the Clorinda, and stationed himself on the starboard side, his staff behind him. Captain Sir Thomas Fell had received him, and next busied himself with receiving the other captains as they came on board. The marine band—without Hudnutt—played selections on the poop; the pipes of the bosun’s mates twittered unceasingly to welcome the continuous arrivals; the sun blazed down as if this were just some ordinary day. Then came a pause, intense in its drama. Then the band burst into a march again, there were ruffles of drums and flourishes of bugles as Ransome came up the side with his staff behind him, to take up his station on the port side. Fell came forward to Hornblower with his hand at his hat brim.

“Ship’s company fallen in, My Lord.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas.” Spendlove pressed a paper into Hornblower’s hand; Hornblower stepped forward. “Orders from the Lords Commissioners for the execution of the office of Lord High Admiral, to me, Horatio Lord Hornblower, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Red Squadron—”

He really had trouble in preventing his voice from trembling, forcing himself to read in a harsh and matter-of-fact tone. He folded the paper and gave his last order.

“Sir Thomas, please have the goodness to haul down my flag.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

The first of the thirteen saluting guns went off as the red ensign came slowly down from the mizzen peak. A long, long, descent; sixty seconds for thirteen guns, and when the flag completed its descent Hornblower was the poorer by forty-nine pounds three shillings and seven pence a month command pay. A moment later Ransome came forward, paper in hand, to read the orders of the Lords Commissioners to him, Henry Ransome, Companion of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Blue Squadron.

“Hoist my flag, Sir Thomas.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Up to the mizzen peak rose the Blue Ensign; until it broke at the peak the ship was silent, but then it unfolded itself in the breeze and the salute roared out and the band played. When the last gun fired Ransome was legally Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in West Indian waters. More blaring from the band, and in the midst of it Hornblower stepped forward raising his hand in salute to the new Commander-in-Chief.

“Permission to leave the ship, sir?”

“Permission granted.”

Ruffles of drums, bugle calls, pipes, and he went down the ship’s side. He might have been sentimental; he might have felt agony of regret, but there was instant distraction awaiting him.

“My Lord,” said Spendlove beside him in the stern-sheets.

“Well?”

“That prisoner—Hudnutt, the marine bandsman—”

“What about him?”

“He’s escaped, My Lord. He broke prison during the night.”

That settled Hudnutt’s fate beyond all doubt. Nothing could save him. He was as good as dead; or soon perhaps he would be worse than dead. No deserter, no escaped prisoner, ever succeeded in evading recapture in Jamaica. It was an island, and not too large an island. And there was a standing reward of ten pounds sterling for information resulting in the apprehension of a deserter, and in Jamaica, far more than in England, ten pounds was a fortune. A journeyman’s wages for a year or more; more money than any slave could hope to see in a lifetime. No deserter stood a chance; his white face, to say nothing of his uniform, would call attention to him wherever he might be in the island, and the standing reward made it certain that he would be betrayed. Hudnutt was doomed to recapture. And he was doomed beyond that. There would be additional charges at his court martial. Prison breaking. Desertion. Damage to government property. Damage to his uniform. He would probably be hanged. The only other chance was that he would be flogged round the fleet to die for certain under the lash. Hudnutt was a dead man, and this was the end of his talent for music.