“’Alt,” ordered Price. “Orf ‘ats.”

The procession shuffled to a halt, and the men stood sullenly on the quarterdeck. Some of them kept their eyes on the deck, while the others gaped sheepishly round them.

“What the devil’s all this?” demanded Hornblower sharply.

“New ‘ands, sir,” said Price. “I signed a receipt to the sodgers what brought ‘em, sir.”

“Where did they bring them from?” rasped Hornblower.

“Exeter Assizes, sir,” said Price, producing a list. “Poachers, four of ‘em. Waites, that’s ‘im in the moleskin breeches, sir, ‘e was found guilty of sheepstealing. That ‘un in black, ‘is crime’s bigamy, sir—‘e was a brewer’s manager before this ‘appened to ‘im. The others is larceny mostly, sir, ‘cept for them two in front what’s in for rick burning and t’other two in irons. Robbery with violence is what they done.”

“Ha-h’m,” said Homblower, wordless for the moment. The new hands blinked at him, some with hope in their eyes, some with hatred, some with indifference. They had chosen service at sea rather than the gallows, or transportation, or the gaol. Months in prison awaiting trial accounted for their dilapidated appearance. Here was a fine addition to the ship’s company, thought Hornblower, bitterly—budding mutineers, sullen skulkers, half-witted yokels. But hands they were and he must make the most of them. They were frightened, sullen, resentful. It would be worth trying to win their affection. His naturally humanitarian instincts dictated the course he decided to pursue after a moment’s quick thinking.

“Why are they still handcuffed?” he demanded, loud enough for them all to hear. “Release them at once.”

“Begging you pardon, sir,” apologised Price. “I didn’t want to without orders, sir, seeing what they are and ‘ow they come ‘ere.”