“Then you can take up your duties.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was only a few minutes later that Hornblower, in his cabin, looked up to find a silent figure slipping in through the door; Doughty knew that as a personal servant he did not knock if the sentry told him the captain was alone.
“Have you had your dinner, sir?”
It took a moment to answer that question, at the end of a broken day following an entirely sleepless night. During that moment Doughty looked respectfully over Hornblower’s left shoulder. His eyes were a startling blue.
“No, I haven’t. You’d better see about something for me,” replied Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
The blue eyes looked round the cabin and found nothing.
“No. There are no cabin stores. You’ll have to go to the galley. Mr Simmonds will find something for me.” The ship’s cook, as a warrant officer, rated the ‘Mr’ in front of his name. “No. Wait. There are two lobsters somewhere in this ship. You’ll find ‘em in a barrel of seawater somewhere on the booms. And that reminds me. Your predecessor has been dead for nearly twenty-four hours and that water hasn’t been changed. You must do that. Go to the officer of the watch with my compliments and ask him to put the wash-deck pump to work on it, That’ll keep one lobster alive while I have the other.”
“Yes, sir. Or you could have this one hot tonight and the other one cold tomorrow if I boil them both now, sir.”
“I could,” agreed Hornblower without committing himself.
“Mayonnaise,” said Doughty. “Are there any eggs in this ship, sir? Any salad oil?”
“No there are not!” rasped Hornblower. “There are no cabin stores whatever in this ship except those two damned lobsters.”
“Yes, sir. Then I’ll serve this one with drawn butter and I’ll see what I can do tomorrow, sir.”
“Do whatever you damned well like and don’t trouble me,” said Hornblower.
He was working into a worse and worse temper. He not only had to storm batteries but he also had to remember about keeping lobsters alive. And Pellew was leaving the Brest fleet; the official orders he had just read gave details about salutes to the new flags tomorrow. And tomorrow this damned Doughty and his damned mayonnaise, whatever that was, would be pawing over his patched shirts.
“Yes, sir,” said Doughty, and disappeared as quietly as he had entered.
Hornblower went out on deck to pace off his bad temper. The first breath of the delightful evening air helped to soothe him; so, too, did the hurried movement of everyone on the quarterdeck over to the lee side so as to leave the weather side to him. For him there was as much space as heart could desire — five long strides forward and aft — but all the other officers had now to take the air under crowded conditions. Let ‘em. He had to write out his report to Pellew three times, the original draught, the fair copy, and the copy in his confidential letter book. Some captains gave that work to their clerks, but Hornblower would not do so. Captain’s clerks made a practice of exploiting their confidential position; there were officers in the ship who would be glad to hear what their captain said about them, and what the future plans might be. Martin would never have the chance. He could confine himself to muster-rolls and returns of stores and the other nuisances that plagued a captain’s life.
Now Pellew was leaving them, and that was a disaster. Earlier today Hornblower had actually allowed his mind to dally with the notion that some day he might know the inexpressible joy of being ‘made Post’, of being promoted to Captain. That called for the strongest influence, in the Fleet and in the Admiralty. With Pellew’s transfer he had lost a friend in the Fleet. With Parry’s retirement he had lost a friend in the Admiralty — he did not know a single soul there. His promotion to Commander had been a fantastic stroke of luck. When Hotspur should be paid off there were three hundred ambitious young Commanders all with uncles and cousins and all anxious to take his place. He could find himself rotting on the beach on half-pay. With Maria. With Maria and the child. The reverse side of the penny was no more attractive than the front.
This was not the way to work off the gloom that threatened to engulf him. He had written Maria a letter to be proud of, reassuring, cheerful, and as loving as he had found it possible to make it. Over there was Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating, refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained nervous condition allowed him to believe. It took a full hour of pacing to convince him fully of this. At the end of that time the comfortably monotonous exercise had slowed down his overactive mind. He was healthily tired now, and the moment he thought about it he knew he was ravenously hungry. He had seen Doughty flitting about the deck more than once, for however lost in distraction Hornblower might be he nevertheless took instant note, consciously or subconsciously, of everything that went on in the ship. He was growing desperately impatient, and night had entirely closed in, when his pacing was intercepted.
“Your dinner’s ready, sir.”
Doughty stood respectfully in front of him.
“Very well. I’ll come.”
Hornblower sat himself down at the chart-room table. Doughty standing at his chair in the cramped space.
“One moment, sir, while I bring your dinner from the galley. May I pour you some cider, sir?”
“Pour me some … ?”
But Doughty was already pouring from jug to cup, and then he vanished. Hornblower tasted gingerly. There was no doubt about it, it was excellent cider, rough and yet refined, fruity and yet in no way sweet. After water months in cask it was heavenly. He only took two preliminary sips before his head went back and the whole cupful shot delightfully down his throat. He had not begun to debate this curious phenomenon when Doughty slipped into the chart-room again.
“The plate is hot, sir,” he said.
“What the devil’s this?” asked Hornblower.
“Lobster cutlets, sir,” said Doughty, pouring more cider, and then, with a gesture not quite imperceptible, he indicated the wooden saucer he had laid on the table at the same time. “Butter sauce, sir.”
Extraordinary. There were neat brown cutlets on his plate that bore no outward resemblance to lobster, but when Hornblower cautiously added sauce and tasted, the result was excellent. Minced lobster. And when Doughty took the cover off the cracked vegetable dish there was a dream of delight revealed. New potatoes, golden and lovely. He helped himself hurriedly and very nearly burned his mouth on them. Nothing could be quite as nice as the first new potatoes of the year.
“These came with the ship’s vegetables, sir,” explained Doughty. “I was in time to save them.”
Hornblower did not need to ask from what those new potatoes had been saved. He knew a good deal about Huffnell the purser, and he could guess at the appetite of the wardroom mess. Lobster cutlets and new potatoes and this pleasant butter sauce; he was enjoying his dinner, resolutely putting aside the knowledge that the ship’s biscuit in the bread barge was weevily. He was used to weevils, which always showed up after the first month at sea, or earlier if the biscuit had been long in store. He told himself as he took another mouthful of lobster cutlet that he would not allow a weevil in his biscuit to be a fly in his ointment.
He took another pull at the cider before he remembered to ask where it came from.
“I pledged your credit for it, sir,” said Doughty. “I took the liberty of doing so, to the extent of a quarter of a pound of tobacco.”
“Who had it?”
“Sir,” said Doughty, “I promised not to say.”
“Oh, very well,” said Hornblower.
There was only one source for cider — the Camilla, the lobster-boat he had seized last night. Of course the Breton fishermen who manned it would have a keg on board, and somebody had looted it; Martin, his clerk, most likely.