“This must take you a full five minutes to clear for action, Sir Edward,” said Cornwallis.
“Four minutes and ten seconds by stop-watch, sir,” answered Pellew, “to strike everything below, including the bulkheads.”
Another steward, also in dazzling white ducks, entered at this moment and spoke a few words in a low tone to Pellew, like a well-trained butler in a ducal house, and Pellew rose to his feet.
“Dinner, gentlemen,” he announced. “Permit me to lead the way.”
A door, thrown open in the midships bulkhead, revealed a dining-room, an oblong table with white damask, glittering silver, sparkling glasses, while more stewards in white ducks were ranged against the bulkhead. There could be little doubt about precedence, when every captain in the Royal Navy had, naturally, studied his place in the captains’ list ever since his promotion; Hornblower and the single-epauletted captain were headed for the foot of the table when Pellew halted the general sorting-out.
“At the Admiral’s suggestion,” he announced, “we are dispensing with precedence today. You will find your names on cards at your places.”
So now every one began a feverish hunt for their names; Hornblower found himself seated between Lord Henry Paulet and Hosier of the Fame, and opposite him was Cornwallis himself.
“I made the suggestion to Sir Edward,” Cornwallis was saying as he leisurely took his seat, “because otherwise we always find ourselves sitting next to our neighbours in the captains’ list. In blockade service especially, variety is much to be sought after.”
He lowered himself into his chair, and when he had done so his juniors followed his example. Hornblower, cautiously on guard about his manners, still could not restrain his mischievous inner self from mentally adding a passage to the rules of naval ceremonial, to the lines of the rule about the officer’s head reaching the level of the main-deck — ‘when the Admiral’s backside shall touch the seat of his chair —’.
“Pellew provides good dinners,” said Lord Henry, eagerly, scanning the dishes with which the stewards were now crowding the table. The largest dish was placed in front of him, and when the immense silver dish cover was whipped away a magnificent pie was revealed. The pastry top was built up into a castle, from the turret of which flew a paper Union Jack.
“Prodigious!” exclaimed Cornwallis. “Sir Edward, what lies below the dungeons here?”
Pellew shook his head sadly. “Only beef and kidneys, sir. Beef stewed to rags. Our ship’s bullock this time, as ever, was too tough for ordinary mortals, and only stewing would reduce his steaks to digestibility. So I called in the aid of his kidneys for a beefsteak and kidney pie.”
“But what about the flour?”
“The Victualling Officer sent me a sack, sir. Unfortunately it had rested in bilge water, as could only be expected, but there was just enough at the top unspoiled for the pie-crust.” Pellew’s gesture, indicating the silver bread barges filled with ship’s biscuit, hinted that in more fortunate circumstances they might have been filled with fresh rolls.
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” said Cornwallis. “Lord Henry, might I trouble you to serve me, if you can find it in your heart to destroy those magnificent battlements?”
Paulet set to work with carving knife and fork on the pie, while Hornblower pondered the phenomenon of the son of a Marquis helping the son of an Earl to a steak and kidney pie made from a ration bullock and spoiled flour.
“That’s a ragout of pork beside you, Captain Hosier,” said Pellew. “Or so my chef would call it. You may find it even saltier than usual, because of the bitter tears he shed into it. Captain Durham has the only live pig left in the Channel Fleet, and no gold of mine would coax it from him, so that my poor fellow had to make do with the contents of the brine tub.”
“He has succeeded perfectly with the pie, at least,” commented Cornwallis. “He must be an artist.”
“I engaged him during the Peace,” said Pellew, “and brought him with me on the outbreak of war. At quarters he points a gun on the starboard side lower-deck.”
“If his aim is as good as his cooking,” said Cornwallis, reaching for his glass which a steward had filled, “then — confusion to the French!”
The toast was drunk with murmured acclaim.
“Fresh vegetables!” said Lord Henry ecstatically. “Cauliflower!”
“Your quota is on the way to your ship at this moment, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis. “We try not to forget you.”
“Hotspur‘s like Uriah the Hittite,” said a saturnine captain at the end of the table whose name appeared to be Collins. “In the forefront of the battle.”
Hornblower was grateful to Collins for that speech, because it brought home to him a truth, like a bright light, that he had not realized before; he would rather be on short commons in the forefront of the battle than back in the main body with plenty of vegetables.
“Young carrots!” went on Lord Henry, peering into each vegetable dish in turn. “And what’s this? I can’t believe it!”
“Spring greens, Lord Henry,” said Pellew. “We still have to wait for peas and beans.”
“Wonderful!”
“How do you get these chickens so fat, Sir Edward?” asked Grindall.
“A matter of feeding, merely. Another secret of my chef.”
“In the public interest you should disclose it,” said Cornwallis. “The life of a sea-sick chicken rarely conduces to putting on flesh.”
“Well, sir, since you ask. This ship has a complement of six hundred and fifty men. Every day thirteen fifty-pound bread bags are emptied. The secret lies in the treatment of those bags.”
“But how?” asked several voices.
“Tap them, shake them, before emptying. Not enough to make wasteful crumbs, but sharply enough. Then take out the biscuits quickly, and behold! At the bottom of each bag is a mass of weevils and maggots, scared out of their natural habitat and with no time allowed to seek shelter again. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing that fattens a chicken so well as a diet of rich biscuit-fed weevils. Hornblower, your plate’s‘ still empty. Help yourself, man.”
Hornblower had thought of helping himself to chicken, but somehow — and he grinned at himself internally — this last speech diverted him from doing so. The beefsteak pie was in great demand and had almost disappeared, and as a junior officer he knew better than to anticipate his seniors’ second helpings. The ragout of pork, rich in onions, was at the far end of the table.
“I’ll make a start on this, sir,” he said, indicating an untouched dish before him.
“Hornblower has a judgement that puts us all to shame,” said Pellew. “That’s a kickshaw in which my chef takes particular pride. To go with it you’ll need these purée potatoes, Hornblower.”
It was a dish of brawn, from which Hornblower cut himself moderately generous slices, and it had dark flakes in it. There was no doubt that it was utterly delicious; Hornblower diving down into his general knowledge, came up with the conclusion that the black flakes must be truffle, of which he had heard but which he had never tasted. The purée potatoes, which he would have called mashed, were like no mashed potatoes he had ever sampled either on shipboard or in a sixpenny ordinary in England. They were seasoned subtly and yet to perfection — if angels ever ate mashed potatoes they would call on Pellew’s chef to prepare them. With spring greens and carrots — for both of which he hungered inexpressibly — they made a plateful, along with the brawn, of sheer delight. He found himself eating like a wolf and pulled himself up short, but the glance that he stole round the table reassured him, for the others were eating like wolves too, to the detriment of conversation, with only a few murmured words to mingle with the clash of cutlery.