The storeroom to which Hornblower escorted McCool back was now a condemned cell. A hurrying midshipman asked for Hornblower almost as soon as they arrived there.

“Captain’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to speak to you.”

“Very good,” said Hornblower.

“The admiral’s with him, sir,” added the midshipman in a burst of confidence.

RearAdmiral the Honourable Sir William Cornwallis was indeed in the captain’s cabin, along with Payne and Captain Sawyer. He started to go straight to the point the moment Hornblower had been presented to him.

“You’re the officer charged with carrying out the execution?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now look’ee here, young sir—”

Cornwallis was a popular admiral, strict but kindly, and of unflinching courage and towering professional ability. Under his nickname of ‘Billy Blue’ he was the hero of uncounted anecdotes and ballads. But having got so far in what he was intending to say, he betrayed a hesitation alien to his character. Hornblower waited for him to continue.

“Look’ee here,” said Cornwallis again. “There’s to be no speechifying when he’s strung up.”

“No, sir?” said Hornblower.

“A quarter of the hands in this ship are Irish,” went on Cornwallis. “I’d as lief have a light taken into the magazine as to have McCool make a speech to ‘em.”

“I understand, sir,” said Hornblower.

But there was a ghastly routine about executions. From time immemorial the condemned man had been allowed to address his last words to the onlookers.

“String him up,” said Cornwallis, “and that’ll show ‘em what to expect if they run off. But once let him open his mouth — That fellow has the gift of the gab, and we’ll have this crew unsettled for the next six months.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So see to it, young sir. Fill him full o’ rum, maybe. But let him speak at your peril.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Payne followed Hornblower out of the cabin when he was dismissed.

“You might stuff his mouth with oakum,” he suggested. “With his hands tied he could not get it out.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, his blood running cold.

“I’ve found a priest for him,” went on Payne, “but he’s Irish too. We can’t rely on him to tell McCool to keep his mouth shut.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“McCool’s devilish cunning. No doubt he’d throw everything overboard before they capture him.”

“What was he intending to do?” asked Hornblower.

“Land in Ireland and stir up fresh trouble. Lucky we caught him. Lucky for that matter, we could charge him with desertion and make a quick business of it.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“Don’t rely on making him drunk,” said Payne, “although that was Billy Blue’s advice. Drunk or sober, these Irishmen can always talk. I’ve given you the best hint.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, concealing a shudder.

He went back into the condemned cell like a man condemned himself. McCool was sitting on the straw mattress Hornblower had had sent in, and the two ship’s corporals still had him under their observation.

“Here comes Jack Ketch,” said McCool with a smile that almost escaped appearing forced.

Hornblower plunged into the matter in hand; he could see no tactful way of approach.

“Tomorrow—” he said.

“Yes, tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you are to make no speeches,” he said.

“None? No farewell to my countrymen?”

“No.”

“You are robbing a condemned man of his last privilege.”

“I have my orders,” said Hornblower.

“And you propose to enforce them?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how?”

“I can stop your mouth with tow,” said Hornblower brutally.

McCool looked at the pale, strained face. “You do not appear to me to be the ideal executioner,” said McCool, and then a new idea seemed to strike him. “Supposing I were to save you that trouble?”

“How?”

“I could give you my parole to say nothing.”

Hornblower tried to conceal his doubts as to whether he could trust a fanatic about to die.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to trust my bare word,” said McCool bitterly. “We can strike a bargain, if you will. You need not carry out your half unless I have already carried out mine.”

“A bargain?”

“Yes. Allow me to write to my widow. Promise me to send her the letter and my sea chest here — you can see it is of sentimental value — and I, on my side, promise to say no word from the time of leaving this place here until — until—” Even McCool faltered at that point. “Is that explicit enough?”

“Well—” said Hornblower.

“You can read the letter,” added McCool. “You saw that other gentleman search my chest. Even though you send these things to Dublin, you can be sure that they contain nothing of what you would call treason.”

“I’ll read the letter before I agree,” said Hornblower.

It seemed a way out of a horrible situation. There would be small trouble about finding a coaster destined for Dublin; for a few shillings he could send letter and chest there.

“I’ll send you in pen and ink and paper,” said Hornblower.

It was time to make the other hideous preparations. To have a whip rove at the portside fore yardarm, and to see that the line ran easily through the block. To weight the line and mark a ring with chalk on the gangway where the end rested. To see that the noose ran smooth. To arrange with Buckland for ten men to be detailed to pull when the time came. Hornblower went through it all like a man in a nightmare.

Back in the condemned cell, McCool was pale and wakeful, but he could still force a smile.

“You can see that I had trouble wooing the muse,” he said.

At his feet lay a couple of sheets of paper, and Hornblower, glancing at them, could see that they were covered with what looked like attempts at writing poetry. The erasures and alterations were numerous.

“But here is my fair copy,” said McCool, handing over another sheet.

’My darling wife,’ the letter began. ‘It is hard to find words to say farewell to my very dearest—’

It was not easy for Hornblower to force himself to read that letter. It was as if he had to peer through a mist to make out the words. But they were only the words of a man writing to his beloved, whom he would never see again. That at least was plain. He compelled himself to read through the affectionate sentences. At the end it said: ‘I append a poor poem by which in the years to come you may remember me, my dearest love. And now goodbye, until we shall be together in heaven. Your husband, faithful unto death, Barry Ignatius McCool.’

Then came the poem.

Hornblower read through the turgid lines and puzzled over their obscure imagery. But he wondered if he would be able to write a single line that would make sense if he knew he was going to die in a few hours.

“The superscription is on the other side,” said McCool, and Hornblower turned the sheet over. The letter was addressed to the Widow McCool, in some street in Dublin. “Will you accept my word now?” asked McCool.

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

The horrible thing was done in the grey hours of the morning.

“Hands to witness punishment.”

The pipes twittered and the hands assembled in the waist, facing forward. The marines stood in lines across the deck. There were masses and masses of white faces, which Hornblower saw when he brought McCool up from below. There was a murmur when McCool appeared. Around the ship lay boats from all the rest of the fleet, filled with men — men sent to witness the punishment, but ready also to storm the ship should the crew stir. The chalk ring on the gangway, and McCool standing in it. The signal gun; the rush of feet as the ten hands heaved away on the line. And McCool died, as he had promised, without saying a word.