“It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”
With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trouser would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.
“A likely looking lot of prime seamen,” said Bush, running a professional eye over them.
“Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.
“Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise.
Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night being replaced by day.
Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.
“It may be war,” he said, slowly.
“War!” said Bush.
“We’ll know when the mail comes in,” said Hornblower. “Party could have told us last night, I fancy.”
“But — war!” said Bush.
The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard, its noise dwindling with the increasing distance, and Hornblower turned towards the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they entered the house they saw Maria standing at the foot of the staircase, a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat over her nightclothes; she had put on her mobcap hastily, for a couple of curling papers showed under its edge.
“You’re safe!” she said.
“Of course we’re safe, Maria,” said Hornblower. “What do you think could happen to us?”
“There was all that noise in the street,” said Maria. “I looked out. Was it the press gang?”
“That’s just what it was,” said Bush.
“Is it — is it war?”
“That’s what it may be.”
“Oh!” Maria’s face revealed her distress. “Oh!”
Her eyes searched their faces.
“No need to worry, Miss Maria,” said Bush. “It’ll be many a long year before Boney brings his flat-bottoms up Spithead.”
“It’s not that,” said Maria. Now she was looking only at Hornblower. In a flash she had forgotten Bush’s existence.
“You’ll be going away!” she said.
“I shall have my duty to do if I am called upon, Maria,” said Hornblower.
Now a grim figure appeared climbing the stairs from the basement — Mrs Mason; she had no mobcap on so that her curl papers were all visible.
“You’ll disturb my other gentlemen with all this noise,” she said.
“Mother, they think it’s going to be war,” said Maria
“And not a bad thing perhaps if it means some people will pay what they owe.”
“I’ll do that this minute,” said Hornblower hotly. “What’s my reckoning, Mrs Mason?”
“Oh, please, please —” said Maria, interposing.
“You just shut your mouth, miss,” snapped Mrs Mason. “It’s only because of you that I’ve let this young spark run on.”
“Mother!”
” ‘I’ll pay my reckoning’ he says, like a lord. And not a shirt in his chest. His chest’d be at the pawnbroker’s too if I hadn’t nobbled it.”
“I said I’d pay my reckoning and I mean it, Mrs Mason,” said Hornblower with enormous dignity.
“Let’s see the colour of your money, then,” stipulated Mrs Mason, not in the least convinced. “Twenty-seven and six.”
Hornblower brought a fistful of silver out of his trouser pocket. But there was not enough there, and he had to extract a note from his breast pocket, revealing as he did so that there were many more.
“So!” said Mrs Mason. She looked down at the money in her hand as if it were fairy gold, and opposing emotions waged war in her expression.
“I think I might give you a week’s warning, too,” said Hornblower, harshly.
“Oh no!” said Maria.
“That’s a nice room you have upstairs,” said Mrs Mason. “You wouldn’t be leaving me just on account of a few words.”
“Don’t leave us, Mr Hornblower,” said Maria.
If ever there was a man completely at a loss it was Hornblower. After a glance at him Bush found it hard not to grin. The man who could keep a cool head when playing for high stakes with admirals — the man who fired the broadside that shook the Renown off the mud when under the fire of red-hot shot — was helpless when confronted by a couple of women. It would be a picturesque gesture to pay his reckoning — if necessary to pay an extra week’s rent in lieu of warning — and to shake the dust of the place from his feet. But on the other hand he had been allowed credit here, and it would be a poor return for that consideration to leave the moment he could pay. But to stay on in a house that knew his secrets was an irksome prospect too. The dignified Hornblower who was ashamed of ever appearing human would hardly feel at home among people who knew that he had been human enough to be in debt. Bush was aware of all these problems as they confronted Hornblower, of the kindly feelings and the embittered ones. And Bush could be fond of him even while he laughed at him, and could respect him even while he knew of his weaknesses.
“When did you gennelmen have supper?” asked Mrs Mason.
“I don’t think we did,” answered Hornblower, with a side glance at Bush.
“You must be hungry, then, if you was up all night. Let me cook you a nice breakfast. A couple of thick chops for each of you. Now how about that?”
“By George!” said Hornblower.
“You go on up,” said Mrs Mason. “I’ll send the girl up with hot water an’ you can shave. Then when you come down there’ll be a nice breakfast ready for you. Maria, run and make the fire up.”
Up in the attic Hornblower looked whimsically at Bush.
“That bed you paid a shilling for is still virgin,” he said. “You haven’t had a wink of sleep all night and it’s my fault. Please forgive me.”
“It’s not the first night I haven’t slept,” said Bush. He had not slept on the night they stormed Samaná; many were the occasions in foul weather when he had kept the deck for twenty-four hours continuously. And after a month of living with his sisters in the Chichester cottage, of nothing to do except to weed the garden, of trying to sleep for twelve hours a night for that very reason, the variety of excitement he had gone through had been actually pleasant. He sat down on the bed while Hornblower paced the floor.
“You’ll have plenty more if it’s war,” Hornblower said; and Bush shrugged his shoulders.
A thump on the door announced the arrival of the maid of all work of the house, a can of hot water in each hand. Her ragged dress was too large for her — handed down presumably from Mrs Mason or from Maria — and her hair was tousled, but she, too, turned wide eyes on Hornblower as she brought in the hot water. Those wide eves were too big for her skinny face, and they followed Hornblower as he moved about the room, and never had a glance for Bush. It was plain that Hornblower was as much the hero of this fourteen-year-old foundling as he was of Maria.
“Thank you, Susie,” said Hornblower; and Susie dropped an angular curtsey before she scuttled from the room with one last glance round the door as she left.
Hornblower waved a hand at the wash-hand stand and the hot water.
“You first,” said Bush.
Hornblower peeled off his coat and his shirt and addressed himself to the business of shaving. The razor blade rasped on his bristly cheeks; he turned his face this way and that so as to apply the edge. Neither of them felt any need for conversation, and it was practically in silence that Hornblower washed himself, poured the wash water into the slop pail, and stood aside for Bush to shave himself.