“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll add my written permission for you to sleep out of your ship for tonight and tomorrow night.”
Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; for once in his life his readiness of wit had deserted him. His mind was so busy reassessing the situation that it had nothing to spare for his organ of speech.
“I thought you might have forgotten,” said Cornwallis, grinning. “Hotspur‘s part of the Channel fleet now. Her captain is forbidden by law to sleep anywhere except on board without the permission of the Commander-in-Chief. Well, you have it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, at last able to articulate.
“Maybe you won’t sleep ashore again for a couple of years. Maybe more than that, if Boney fights it out.”
“I certainly think he’ll fight, sir.”
“In that case you and I will meet again off Ushant in three weeks’ time. So now good-bye, once more.”
For some time after Cornwallis had left Hornblower stood by the half-closed door of the coffee-room in deep thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the nearest he could get to pacing up and down. War was coming; he had always been certain of that, because Bonaparte would never retreat from the position he had taken up. But until this moment Hornblower had thought recklessly that he would not be ordered to sea until war was declared, in two or three weeks’ time, after the final negotiations had broken down. He had been utterly wrong in this surmise, and he was angry with himself on that account. The facts that he had a good crew — the first harvest of the press — that his ship could be quickly made ready for sea, that she was small and of no account in the balance of power, even that she was of light draught and therefore well adapted to the mission Cornwallis had allotted her, should have warned him that he would be packed off to sea at the earliest possible moment. He should have foreseen all this and he had not.
That was the first point, the first pill to swallow. Next he had to find out why his judgement had been so faulty. He knew the answer instantly, but — and he despised himself for this even more — he flinched from expressing it. But here it was. He had allowed his judgement to be clouded on account of Maria. He had shrunk from hurting her, and in consequence he had refused to allow his mind to make calculations about the future. He had gone recklessly forward in the wild hope that some stroke of good fortune would save him from having to deal her this blow.
He pulled himself up abruptly at this point. Good fortune? Nonsense. He was in command of his own ship, and was being set in the forefront of the battle. This was his golden chance to distinguish himself. That was his good fortune — it would have been maddening bad luck to have been left in harbour. Hornblower could feel the well-remembered thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing action again, of risking reputation — and life — in doing his duty, in gaining glory, and in (what was really the point) justifying himself in his own eyes. Now he was sane again; he could see things in their proper proportion. He was a naval officer first, and a married man only second, and a bad second at that. But — but — that did not make things any easier. He would still have to tear himself free from Maria’s arms.
Nor could he stay here outside the coffee-room any longer. He must go back, despite his mental turmoil. He turned and re-entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“It will look well in the Naval Chronicle,” said Mrs Mason, “that the Commander-in-Chief proposed the health of the happy pair. Now, Horatio, some of your guests have empty plates.”
Hornblower was still trying to be a good host when he saw across the room the worried face of the innkeeper again; it called for a second glance to see what had caused him to come in. He was ushering in Hornblower’s new coxwain, Hewitt, a very short man who escaped observation across the room. Hewitt made up in breadth a good deal of what he lacked in height, and he sported a magnificent pair of glossy black side-whiskers in the style which was newly fashionable on the lower-deck. He came rolling across the room, his straw hat in his hand, and, knuckling his forehead, gave Horatio a note. The address was in Bush’s handwriting and in the correct phrasing, although now a lithe old-fashioned — Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander. Silence fell on the assembled company — a little rudely, Hornblower thought — as he read the few lines.
H.M. Sloop Hotspur
2 April, 1803
Sir,
I hear from the dockyard that the first of the lighters is ready to come alongside. Extra pay is not yet authorized for dockyard hands, so that work will cease at nightfall. I respectfully submit that I can supervise the embarkation of the stores if you should find it inconvenient to return on board.
Your obdt servant,
Wm Bush.
“Is the boat at the Hard?” demanded Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Oh, Horry,” said Maria, with a hint of reproach in her voice. No, it was disappointment, not reproach.
“My dear —” said Hornblower. It occurred to him that he might now quote ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much’ but he instantly discarded the idea; it would not be at all suitable at this moment, with this wife.
“You’re going to the ship again,” said Maria.
“Yes.”
He could not stay away from the ship while there was work to be done. Today, by driving the hands, they could get half the stores on board at least. Tomorrow they could finish, and if Ordnance responded to the prodding of the Admiral, they could get the powder and shot on board as well. Then they could sail at dawn the day after tomorrow.
“I’ll be back again this evening,” he said. He forced himself to smile, to look concerned, to forget that he was on the threshold of adventure, that before him lay a career of possible distinction.
“Nothing shall keep me from you, dear,” he said.
He clapped his hands on her shoulders and gave her a smacking kiss that drew applause from the others; that was the way to reintroduce a note of comedy into the proceedings, and, under cover of the laughter, he made his exit. As he hastened down to the Hard two subjects for thought intertwined in his mind, like the serpents of the medical caduceus — the tender love that Maria wished to lavish upon him, and the fact that the day after tomorrow he would be at sea, in command.
Chapter 2
Someone must have been knocking at the bedroom door for some time; Hornblower had been conscious of it but was too stupid with sleep to think more about it. But now the door opened with a clank of the latch, and Maria, awakening with a start, clutched at him in sudden fright, and he was now fully awake. There was the faintest gleam of light through the thick bed curtains, a shuffling step on the oak floor of the bedroom, and a high-pitched female voice.
“Eight bells, sir. Eight bells.”
The curtains opened an inch to let in a ray of brighter light still, and Maria’s grip tightened, but they came together again as Hornblower found his voice.
“Very well. I’m awake.”
“I’ll light your candles for you,” piped the voice, and the shuffling step went round the room and the light through the curtains grew brighter.
“Where’s the wind? What way’s the wind?” asked Hornblower, now so far awake as to feel the quickening of his heart beat and the tensing of his muscles as he realized what this morning meant to him.
“Now that I can’t tell you, sir,” piped the voice. “I’m not one who can box the compass, and there’s no one else awake as yet.”
Hornblower snorted with annoyance at being kept in ignorance of this vital information, and without a thought reached to fling off the bedclothes so as to get up and find out for himself. But there was Maria clasping him, and he knew that he could not leap out of bed in such a cavalier fashion. He had to go through the proper ritual and put up with the delay. He turned and kissed her, and she returned his kisses, eagerly and yet differently from on other occasions. He felt something wet on his cheek; it was a tear, but there was only that one single tear as Maria forced herself to exert self control. His rather perfunctory embrace changed in character.