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And in the same way the English methods were subject to criticism as well. There could be no doubt that the Irish people looked upon Wolfe Tone and Fitzgerald as martyrs, and would look upon McCool in the same light. There was nothing so effective as a few martyrdoms to e
The hanging of McCool would merely be adding fuel to the fire that England sought to extinguish. Two peoples actuated by the most urgent of motives — selfpreservation and patriotism — were at grips in a struggle which could have no satisfactory ending for any lengthy time to come.
Buckland, the first lieutenant, came into the gun room with the preoccupied look commonly worn by first lieutenants with a weight of responsibility on their shoulders. He ran his glance over the assembled company, and all the junior officers, sensing that unpleasant duties were about to be allocated, did their unobtrusive best not to meet his eye. Inevitably it was the name of the most junior lieutenant which rose to Buckland’s lips.
“Mr. Hornblower,” he said.
“Sir!” replied Hornblower, doing his best now to keep resignation out of his voice.
“I am going to make you responsible for the prisoner.”
“Sir?” said Hornblower, with a different intonation.
“Hart will be giving evidence at the court martial,” explained Buckland — it was a vast condescension that he should deign to explain at all. “The masteratarms is a fool, you know. I want McCool brought up for trial safe and sound, and I want him kept safe and sound afterwards. I’m repeating the captain’s own words, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Hornblower, for there was nothing else to be said.
“No Wolfe Tone tricks with McCool,” said Smith.
Wolfe Tone had cut his own throat the night before he was due to be hanged, and had died in agony a week later.
“Ask me for anything you may need, Mr. Hornblower,” said Buckland.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Side boys!” suddenly roared a voice on deck overhead, and Buckland hurried out; the approach of an officer of rank meant that the court martial was begi
Hornblower’s chin was on his breast. It was a hard, unrelenting world, and he was an officer in the hardest and most unrelenting service in that world — a service in which a man could no more say ‘I ca
“Bad luck, Horny,” said Smith, with surprising gentleness, and there were other murmurs of sympathy from round the table.
“Obey orders, young man,” said Roberts quietly.
Hornblower rose from his chair. He could not trust himself to speak, so that it was with a hurried bow that he quitted the company at the table.
“’E’s ‘ere, safe an’ sound, Mr. ‘Ornblower,” said the masteratarms, halting in the darkness of the lower ‘tween decks.
A marine sentry at the door moved out of the way, and the masteratarms shone the light of his candle lantern on a keyhole in the door and inserted the key.
“I put ‘im in this empty storeroom, sir,” went on the masteratarms. “’E’s got two of my corporals along wit ‘im.”
The door opened, revealing the light of another candle lantern. The air inside the room was foul; McCool was sitting on a chest, while two of the ship’s corporals sat on the deck with their backs to the bulkhead. The corporals rose at an officer’s entrance, but even so, there was almost no room for the two newcomers. Hornblower cast a vigilant eye round the arrangements. There appeared to be no chance of escape or suicide. In the end, he steeled himself to meet McCool’s eyes.
“I have been put in charge of you,” he said.
“That is most gratifying to me, Mr — Mr—” said McCool, rising from the chest.
“Hornblower.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hornblower.”
McCool spoke in a cultured voice, with only enough of Ireland in it to betray his origin. He had tied back the red locks into a neat queue, and even in the faint candlelight his blue eyes gave strange reflections.
“Is there anything you need?” asked Hornblower.
“I could eat and I could drink,” replied McCool. “Seeing that nothing has passed my lips since the Espérance was captured.”
That was yesterday. The man had had neither food nor water for more than twentyfour hours.
“I will see to it,” said Hornblower. “Anything more?”
“A mattress — a cushion — something on which I can sit,” said McCool. He waved a hand towards his sea chest. “I bear an honoured name, but I have no desire to bear it imprinted on my person.”
The sea chest was of a rich mahogany. The lid was a thick slab of wood whose surface had been chiselled down to leave his, name — B. I. McCool — standing out in high relief.
“I’ll send you in a mattress too,” said Hornblower.
A lieutenant in uniform appeared at the door.
“I’m Payne, on the admiral’s staff,” he explained to Hornblower. “I have orders to search this man.”
“Certainly,” said Hornblower.
“You have my permission,” said McCool.
The masteratarms and his assistants had to quit the crowded little room to enable Payne to do his work, while Hornblower stood in the corner and watched. Payne was quick and efficient. He made McCool strip to the skin and examined his clothes with care — seams, linings, and buttons. He crumpled each portion carefully, with his ear to the material, apparently to hear if there were papers concealed inside. Then he knelt down to the chest; the key was already in the lock, and he swung it open. Uniforms, shirts, underclothing, gloves; each article was taken out, examined, and laid aside. There were two small portraits of children, to which Payne gave special attention without discovering anything.
“The things you are looking for,” said McCool, “were all dropped overside before the prize crew could reach the Espérance. You’ll find nothing to betray my fellow countrymen, and you may as well save yourself that trouble.”
“You can put your clothes on again,” said Payne curtly to McCool. He nodded to Hornblower and hurried out again.
“A man whose politeness is quite overwhelming,” said McCool, buttoning his breeches.
“I’ll attend to your requests,” said Hornblower.
He paused only long enough to enjoin the strictest vigilance on the masteratarms and the ship’s corporals before hastening away to give orders for McCool to be given food and water, and he returned quickly. McCool drank his quart of water eagerly, and made effort to eat the ship’s biscuit and meat.
“No knife. No fork,” he commented.
“No,” replied Hornblower in a tone devoid of expression.
“I understand.”
It was strange to stand there gazing down at this man who was going to die tomorrow, biting not very efficiently at the lump of tough meat which he held to his teeth.
The bulkhead against which Hornblower leaned vibrated slightly, and the sound of a gun came faintly down to them. It was the signal that the court martial was about to open.
“Do we go?” asked McCool.
“Yes.”
“Then I can leave this delicious food without any breach of good ma
Up the ladders to the main deck, two marines leading, McCool following them, Hornblower following him, and two ship’s corporals bringing up the rear.
“I have frequently traversed these decks,” said McCool, looking round him, “with less ceremonial.”
Hornblower was watching carefully lest he should break away and throw himself into the sea.
The court martial. Gold lace and curt efficient routine, as the Renown swung to her anchors and the timbers of the ship transmitted the sound of the rigging vibrating in the gale. Evidence of identification. Curt questions.
“Nothing I could say would be listened to amid these emblems of tyra
It needed no more than fifteen minutes to condemn a man to death: “The sentence of this Court is that you, Barry Ignatius McCool, be hanged by the neck—”