“It seems to be as well, darling,” said Barbara with a twinkle, “that my stay here is to be short. How short?”

“Until Ransome arrives in Triton,” answered Hornblower.

“You should know that, dear, considering how much gossip you picked up from Lady Exmouth and the others.”

“Yes, but it’s still confusing to me. When does your appointment end?”

“It ended yesterday, legally. But my command continues until I am legally relieved of it by Ransome when he comes. Triton has made a long passage.”

“And when Ransome comes?”

“He takes over from me, and, of course, moves into this house. His Excellency has invited us to be his guests at Government House until we sail for home, dear.”

“I see. And if Ransome is so late that we miss the packet?”

“Then we wait for the next. I hope not. It would be uncomfortable.”

“Is Government House as bad as that?”

“It’s tolerable, dear. But I was thinking of Ransome. No new Commander-in-Chief wants to have his predecessor staying on.”

“Criticising all his actions, of course. Is that what you’d do, dear?”

“I wouldn’t be human if I did not.”

“And I know so well you’re human, dear,” said Barbara, putting out her hands to him. They were in the bedroom now, out of sight of servants and staff, and they could be human for a few precious moments until a thunderous knock at the door heralded the arrival of Gerard and the baggage, and on his heels came Spendlove with a note for Barbara.

“A note of welcome from Her Excellency, dear,” explained Barbara when she had read it. “We are commanded to dinner en famille.”

“No more than I expected,” said Hornblower, and then, looking round to see that Spendlove had withdrawn, “no more than I feared.”

Barbara smiled into his eyes conspiratorially.

“A time will come,” she said.

There was so much to talk about, so much news to be exchanged; the long, long letters that had passed between them during their three years’ separation needed amplification and explanation, and in any case, Barbara had been five weeks at sea without news. Late on the second day, while they were dining alone together, a mention of Hudnutt came into the conversation. Hornblower explained the situation briefly.

“You’re going to court martial him?” asked Barbara.

“Likely enough, when I can convene a court.”

“And what will the verdict be?”

“Guilty, of course. There’s no doubt about it.”

“I don’t mean the verdict. I mean the sentence. What will that be?” Barbara was entitled to ask questions like this, and even to express an opinion regarding her husband’s performance of his official duties, now that he had let slip a mention of the subject to her.

Hornblower quoted from the Articles of War which had regulated his official life for nearly thirty years.

“Every person so offending, being convicted thereof by the sentence of the court martial, shall suffer death, or such less punishment as from the nature and degree of the offence the court martial shall deem him to deserve.”

“You don’t mean that, dear?” Barbara’s grey eyes opened wide across the little table from him. “Death? But you said ‘such less punishment’. What could that be?”

“Flogging round the fleet. Five hundred lashes.”

“Five hundred lashes? For playing B natural instead of B flat?”

That was exactly what one might expect a woman to say.

“Dear, that’s not the charge. The charge is wilful disobedience to orders.”

“But it’s such a trifling matter.”

“Dear, disobedience to orders can never be a trifling matter.”

“Would you flog a man to death because he won’t play a B flat? What a bloodthirsty way to balance the account!”

“There’s no thought of balancing accounts, dear. Punishment is inflicted to deter other men from disobeying orders. It’s not revenge.”

But woman-like Barbara clung to her position, however much her flank might be turned by cold logic.

“But if you hang him—or if you flog him, I expect—he’ll never play another B natural again. What good does that do?”

“It’s the good of the Service, dear—”

Hornblower, on his part, was holding a position which he knew to be not quite tenable, but Barbara’s vehemence was causing him to grow heated in defence of his beloved Service.

“They’ll hear about this in England,” said Barbara, and then a new thought struck her. “He can appeal, of course—can he?”

“In home waters he could. But I am a Commander-in-Chief in a foreign station, and from my decision there is no appeal.”

It was a sobering speech. Barbara gazed across the table at this man, changed suddenly from her tender, loving, sensitive husband into a potentate who held the power of life and death. And she knew that she could not, she must not, exploit her privileged position as wife to influence his decision. Not because of the good of the Service, but for the sake of their married happiness.

“And the trial will be soon?” she asked; the change in her was apparent in her tone.

“The moment I can convene a court. Delay in matters of discipline defeats its own object. If a man were to mutiny on Monday he should be tried on Tuesday and hanged on Wednesday. But there are not enough captains available. Triton’s captain, when Ransome arrives, would give the necessary number, but then I shall be relieved of command and the matter will be out of my hands. But if Flora should come in before that—I detached her to the Gulf Coast—I shall be responsible.”

“I see, dear,” said Barbara, not taking her eyes from his face. Even before he spoke again she was aware that there was something which would modify the harshness of what he had said so far.

“Naturally, I have not made up my mind yet, dear,” he said. “But there is a further possibility which I’m considering.”

“Yes?” She could hardly breathe the word.

“The confirmation of the finding and the sentence would be the last act of my command. That would present an excuse—a reason. I could commute the sentence as an act of clemency in recognition of the good behaviour of the squadron during the period I have commanded it.”

“I see, dear. And if Ransome arrives before Flora?”

“I can do nothing except—”

“Except—?”

“I could suggest to Ransome that he might begin his command with an act of clemency.”

“And would he?”

“I know very little about Ransome, dear. I simply cannot say.”

Barbara opened her mouth to speak. She was going to say, ‘Will he think a B flat more important than a man’s life?’ but she changed her speech in the nick of time. Instead she said the other thing that had also, and longer, been hovering on her lips.

“I love you, darling,” she said.

Again their eyes met across the table, and Hornblower felt his passion flooding to meet hers like a union of two rushing rivers. He knew perfectly well that all he had said about discipline and examples had been of no effect in changing Barbara’s mind; a woman (even more than a man) convinced against her will was of the same opinion still. But Barbara had not said so; she had said something else—and something (as always) more appropriate to the occasion. And not by one single variation of tone, not by a hair’s-breadth raising of an eyebrow, had she brought into the conversation the fact that he was tone deaf. A lesser woman would have used that as if it were a relevant argument in this matter. She knew of his tone deafness, and he knew she knew, and she knew that he knew; and so on ad infinitum, but there had never been any need for him to admit the defect or for her to admit her knowledge, and he loved her.

Next morning he had to tell himself that the Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies, even if he were awaiting his relief, still had duties to do; even if his wife had newly joined him. But it was delightful to have Barbara walk down with him through the Admiralty House gardens to see him on his way as far as the wicket gate in the lofty dockyard palisade. It was a little unfortunate that at the moment when Evans was unlocking the gate Hudnutt should appear on the other side of the palisade taking his exercise. He was marching up and down between a file of marines under command of a corporal, the guard in parade uniform with bayonets fixed, Hudnutt hatless, as a prisoner under charges had to be.