Lieutenant Hornblower

“Sir!”

“Bring up the rear. Now follow me, you men, starting from the right of the line.”

Hornblower’s party filed off into the darkness. Already the marines were coming ashore, their scarlet tunics black against the phosphorescence. The white crossbelts were faintly visible side by side in a rigid twodeep line as they formed up, the noncommissioned officers snapping low-voiced orders at them. With his left hand still resting on his sword hilt Bush checked once more with his right hand that his pistols were in his belt and his cartridges in his pocket. A shadowy figure halted before them with a military click of the heels.

“All present and correct, sir. Ready to march off,” said Whiting’s voice.

“Thank you. We may as well start. Mr. Abbott!”

“Sir!”

“You have your orders. I’m leaving with the marine detachment now. Follow us.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was a long hard climb up the gully; the sand soon was replaced by rock, flat ledges of limestone, but even among the limestone there was a sturdy vegetation, fostered by the tropical rains which fell profusely on this northern face. Only in the bed of the watercourse itself, dry now with all the water having seeped into the limestone, was there a clear passage, if clear it could be called, for it was jagged and irregular, with steep ledges up which Bush had to heave himself. In a few minutes he was streaming with sweat, but he climbed on stubbornly. Behind him the marines followed clumsily, boots clashing, weapons and equipment clinking, so that anyone might think the noise would be heard a mile away. Someone slipped and swore.

“Keep a still tongue in yer ‘ead!” snapped a corporal.

“Silence!” snarled Whiting over his shoulder.

Onward and upward; here and there the vegetation was lofty enough to cut off the faint light from the stars, and Bush had to grope his way along over the rock, his breath coming with difficulty, powerfully built man though he was. Fireflies showed here and there as he climbed; it was years since he had seen fireflies last, but he paid no attention to them now. They excited irrepressible comment among the marines following him, though; Bush felt a bitter rage against the uncontrolled louts who were imperilling everything—their own lives as well as the success of the expedition—by their silly comments.

“I’ll deal with ‘em, sir,” said Whiting, and dropped back to let the column overtake him.

Higher up a squeaky voice, moderated as best its owner knew how, greeted him from the darkness ahead.

“Mr. Bush, sir?”

“Yes.”

“This is Wellard, sir. Mr. Hornblower sent me hack here to act as guide; There’s grassland begi

He halted for a space, wiping his streaming face with his coat sleeve, while the column closed up behind him. It was not much farther to climb when he moved on again; Wellard led him past a clump of shadowy trees, and, sure enough, Bush felt grass under his feet, and he could walk more freely, uphill still, but only a gentle slope compared with the gully. There was a low challenge ahead of them.

“Friend,” said Wellard. “This is Mr. Bush here.”

“Glad to see you, sir,” said another voice—Hornblower’s.

Hornblower detached himself from the darkness and came forward to make his report.

“My party is formed up just ahead, sir. I’ve sent Saddler and two reliable men on as scouts.”

“Very good,” said Bush, and meant it.

The marine sergeant was reporting to Whiting.

“All present, sir, ‘cept for Chapman, sir. ‘E’s sprained ‘is ankle, or ‘e says ‘e ‘as, sir. Left ‘im be’ind back there, sir.”

“Let your men rest, Captain Whiting,” said Bush.

Life in the confines of a ship of the line was no sort of training for climbing cliffs in the tropics, especially as the day before had been exhausting. The marines lay down, some of them with groans of relief which drew the unmistakable reproof of savage kicks from the sergeant’s toe.

“We’re on the crest here, sir,” said Hornblower. “You can see over into the bay from that side there.”

“Three miles from the fort, d’ye think?”

Bush did not mean to ask a question, for he was in command, but Hornblower was so ready with his report that Bush could not help doing so.

“Perhaps. Less than four, anyway, sir. Dawn in four hours from now, and the moon rises in half an hour.”

“Yes.”

“There’s some sort of track or path along the crest, sir, as you’d expect. It should lead to the fort.”

“Yes.”

Hornblower was a good subordinate, clearly. Bush realised now that there would naturally be a track along the crest of the peninsula—that would be the obvious thing—but the probability had not occurred to him until that moment.

“If you will permit me, sir,” went on Hornblower, “I’ll leave James in command of my party and push on ahead with Saddler and Wellard and see how the land lies.”

“Very good, Mr. Hornblower.”

Yet no sooner had Hornblower left than Bush felt a vague irritation. It seemed that Hornblower was taking too much on himself. Bush was not a man who would tolerate any infringement upon his authority. However, Bush was distracted from this train of thought by the arrival of the second division of seamen, who came sweating and gasping up to join the main body. With the memory of his own weariness when he arrived still fresh in his mind Bush allowed them a rest period before he should push on with his united force. Even in the darkness a cloud of insects had discovered the sweating force, and a host of them sang round Bush’s ears and bit him viciously at every opportunity. The crew of the Renown had been long at sea and were tender and desirable in consequence. Bush slapped at himself and swore, and every man in his command did the same.

“Mr. Bush, sir?”

It was Hornblower back again.

“Yes?”

“It’s a definite trail, sir. It crosses a gully just ahead, but it’s not a serious obstacle.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hornblower. We’ll move forward. Start with your division, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The advance began. The domed limestone top of the peninsula was covered with long grass, interspersed with occasional trees. Off the track walking was a little difficult on account of the toughness and irregularity of the bunches of high grass, but on the track it was comparatively easy. The men could move along it in something like a solid body, well closed up. Their eyes, thoroughly accustomed to the darkness, could see in the starlight enough to enable them to pick their way. The gully that Hornblower had reported was only a shallow depression with easily sloping sides and presented no difficulty.

Bush plodded on at the head of the marines with Whiting at his side, the darkness all about him like a warm blanket. There was a kind of dreamlike quality about the march, induced perhaps by the fact that Bush had not slept for twentyfour hours and was stupid with the fatigues he had undergone during that period. The path was ascending gently—naturally, of course, since it was rising to the highest part of the peninsula where the fort was sited.

“Ah!” said Whiting suddenly.

The path had wandered to the right, away from the sea and towards the bay, and now they had crossed the backbone of the peninsula and opened up the view over the bay. On their right they could see clear down the bay to the sea, and there it was not quite dark, for above the horizon a little moonlight was struggling through the clouds that lay at the lower edge of the sky.

“Mr. Bush, sir?”

This was Wellard, his voice more under command this time.

“Here I am.”

“Mr. Hornblower sent me back again, sir. There’s another gully ahead, crossing the path. An’ we’ve come across some cattle, sir. Asleep on the hill. We disturbed ‘em, and they’re wandering about.”

“Thank you, I understand,” said Bush.