Hornblower 01 - Fähnrich zur See Hornblower

as the ship heaved and rolled he found himself stumbling over the various obstacles that impeded his progress. Yet forward there was a faint light, a murmur of voices. Hornblower choked down his fear that perhaps mutiny was being planned. He put his hand over the horn window of the lantern, so as to obscure its light, and crept forward. Two lanterns swung from the low deck-beams, and crouching under them were a score or more of men — more than that, even — and the buzz of their talk came loudly but indistinguishably to Hornblower's ears. Then the buzz increased to a roar, and someone in the centre of the circle rose suddenly to as near his full height as the deck-beams allowed. He was shaking himself violently from side to side for no apparent reason; his face was away from Hornblower, who saw with a gasp that his hands were tied behind him. The men roared again, like spectators at a prizefight, and the man with his hands tied swung round so that Hornblower could see his face. It was Styles, the man who suffered from boils; Hornblower knew him at once. But that was not what made the most impression on Hornblower. Clinging to the man's face, weird in the shifting meagre light, was a grey writhing shape, and it was to shake this off that Styles was flinging himself about so violently. It was a rat; Hornblower's stomach turned over with horror.
    With a wild jerk of his head Styles broke the grip of the rat's teeth and flung the creature down, and then instantly pinged down on his knees, with his hands still bound behind him, to pursue it with his own teeth.
    "Time!" roared a voice at that moment — the voice of Partridge, bosun's mate. Hornblower had been roused by it often enough to recognize it at once.
    "Five dead," said another voice. "Pay all bets of evens or better."
    Hornblower plunged forward. Part of the cable had been coiled down to make a rat pit ten feet across in which knelt Styles with dead and living rats about his knees. Partridge squatted beside the ring with a sandglass — used for timing the casting of the log — in front of him.
    "Six dead," protected someone. "that 'un's dead."
    "No, he ain't."
    "'Is back's broken. 'E's a dead 'un."
    "'E ain't a dead 'un," said Partridge.
    The man who had protested looked up at that moment and caught sight of Hornblower, and his words died away unspoken; at his silence the others followed his glance and stiffened into rigidity, and Hornblower stepped forward. He was still wondering what he should do; he was still fighting down the nausea excited by the horrible things he had seen. Desperately he mastered his horror, and, thinking fast, took his stand on discipline.
    "Who's in charge here?" he demanded.
    He ran his eye round the circle. Petty officers and secondclass warrant officers, mainly; bosun's mates, carpenter's mates. Muggridge, the surgeon's mate — his presence explained much. But his own position was not easy. A midshipman of scant service depended for his authority on board largely on the force of his own personality. He was only a warrant officer himself; when all was said and done a midshipman was not nearly as important to the ship's economy — and was far more easily replaced — than, say, Washburn, the cooper's mate over there, who knew all about the making and storage of the ship's water barrels.
    "Who's in charge here?" he demanded again, and once more received no direct reply.
    "We ain't on watch," said a voice in the background.
    Hornblower by now had mastered his horror; his indignation still flared within him, but he could appear outwardly calm.
    "No, you're not on watch," he said coldly. "You're gambling."
    Muggridge took up the defence at that.
    "Gambling, Mr Hornblower?" he said. "That's a very serious charge. Just a gentlemanly competition. You'll find it hard to sub — substantiate any charges of gambling."
    Muggridge had been drinking, quite obviously, following perhaps the example of the head of his department. There was always brandy to be got in the medical stores. A surge of wrath made Hornblower tremble; the effort necessary to keep himself standing stock still was almost too much for him. But the rise in internal pressure brought him inspiration.
    "Mr Muggridge," he said icily, "I advise you not to say too much. There are other charges possible, Mr Muggridge. A member of His Majesty's forces can be charged with rendering himself unfit for service, Mr Muggridge. And similarly there might be charges of aiding and abetting