“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.