This is by no means all the news, dearest. There is something further which would greatly distress me if it were not for the fact that I know my husband the Admiral will be delighted. Taking tea today with Lady Exmouth (I know how your dear eyes will open wide with horror at women being in possession of such secrets) I heard that Their Lordships take a most favourable view of your attitude towards the Spanish and Dutch naval authorities — dearest, I am so delighted, even though I could never doubt it. It has already been decided to extend your command for the extra year, and my pleasure in knowing how pleased you will be at this compliment almost — quite — allays my sorrow at the thought of our further separation. Dearest, there is no woman who could love you — there is no woman on earth who could love any man as much as I love you, the truest, the bravest, the boldest, the cleverest — I must not write like this because there is still further news to add.
This is that the Government has always, apparently, looked with favour at the attempt of the Spanish colonies to attain their independence, and with the greatest disfavour upon the decision of the Spanish government to attempt their reconquest with troops sent out from Europe. There have been hints that the other Powers, uneasy at the movement towards liberty, have been meditating giving military assistance to Spain in Spanish America. The victory at Carabobo, where poor Mr Ramsbottom and his guns played such a part, had made this intervention more unlikely. It is a great State secret, so great that over the teacups it is mentioned only in whispers, that the British Government meditates making a declaration that it will not permit military intervention in Spanish America. And it appears that our Government is in accord with the Americans over this, for it is believed that President Monroe is planning to issue a declaration regarding a similar doctrine, and discussions regarding it are taking place. So that my dearest husband finds himself at the centre of world affairs as he has always been at the centre of his wife’s fondest affections.
THE HURRICANE
Hornblower came walking into his office at Admiralty House at half past five o’clock in the morning exactly. Now that the summer was come there was just enough daylight at that time to transact business and it was a fairly cool moment as well. Gerard and Spendlove, his flag-lieutenant and secretary, were waiting for him there — it would have gone hard with them if they had not been — and they pulled themselves erect, without any clicking of heels (for in three years they had found that their chief discountenanced the practice) and they said “Good morning, My Lord”, “Good morning, My Lord” as if they were the two barrels of a shotgun.
“Morning,” said Hornblower. He had not had his breakfast coffee yet; otherwise he would have put ‘good’ in front of ‘morning’.
He sat down at his desk, and Spendlove came to hover over his shoulder with a sheaf of papers while Gerard made the dawn report.
“Weather conditions normal, My Lord. High water today at eleven-thirty. No arrivals during the night, and nothing in sight this morning from the signal station. No news of the packet, My Lord, and no news of Triton.”
“A negative report if ever there was one,” said Hornblower. The negatives in the last two phrases balanced each other; HMS Triton was bringing out his successor to relieve him of his command at the end of his three years’ appointment, and Hornblower was not happy over the prospect of ceasing to be Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies; but the West India packet was bringing out his wife, whom he had not seen during all this time, and to whose arrival he was eagerly looking forward. She was coming out so as to make the return voyage to England with him.
“The packet’s due any day, My Lord,” said Gerard, soothingly.
“Your business is to tell me things I don’t know, Mr Gerard,” snapped Hornblower. It annoyed him to be soothed like a child, and it annoyed him still more that his personal staff should think him human enough to be anxious to see his wife. He looked over his shoulder at his secretary. “What do you have there, Spendlove?”
Spendlove made a hasty rearrangement of the papers in his hand. Hornblower’s morning coffee was due at any moment, and Spendlove had something he did not want to show his chief until it had come and was half drunk at least.
“Here are the dockyard returns to the thirty-first ultimo, My Lord,” he said.
“Can’t you say ‘to the end of last month’?” demanded Hornblower, taking them from him.
“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Spendlove, passionately hoping the coffee would come soon.
“Anything in these?” asked Hornblower, glancing over them.
“Nothing for your special attention, My Lord.”
“Then why trouble me with them? Next?”
“The warrants for the new gunner in Clorinda, My Lord, and for the dockyard cooper.”
“Your coffee, My Lord,” said Gerard at this moment, the relief in his voice perfectly apparent.
“Better late than never,” snapped Hornblower. “And for God’s sake don’t fuss round me. I’ll pour it for myself.”
Spendlove and Gerard were busily making room on his desk for the tray to be put down, and Spendlove hastily withdrew his hand from the coffee-pot handle.
“Too damned hot,” said Hornblower, taking a sip. “It’s always too damned hot.”
Last week the new system had been begun, whereby coffee was brought in to him after his arrival in his office, instead of awaiting him there, because he had complained then that it was always too cold, but neither Spendlove nor Gerard saw fit to remind him of this.
“I’ll sign those warrants,” said Hornblower. “Not that I think that cooper’s worth his salt. His barrels open up into bird-cages.”
Spendlove scattered sand from the caster over the wet ink of Hornblower’s signatures, and put the warrants aside. Hornblower took another sip of coffee.
“Here’s your refusal of the Crichtons’ invitation, My Lord. In the third person, so your signature isn’t necessary.”
If that had been said to him a little while before, Hornblower would have demanded why in that case he was being bothered with it, forgetful of his own standing order that nothing was to go out in his name without his seeing it. But even two sips of coffee had done their work.
“Very well,” he said, glancing over it, and taking up his cup again.
Spendlove watched the level of the liquid sink in the cup, and judged the moment to be more propitious now. He laid a letter on the desk.
“From Sir Thomas, My Lord.”
Hornblower uttered a small groan as he picked it up; Captain Sir Thomas Fell of HMS Clorinda was a fussy individual, and a communication from him usually meant trouble — unnecessary trouble, and therefore to be grudged. Not in this case, though. Hornblower read the official document and then craned over his shoulder at Spendlove.
“What’s all this about?” he demanded.
“It’s rather a curious case, I hear, My Lord,” answered Spendlove.
It was a ‘circumstantial letter’, a formal request from Captain Fell for a court martial to be held on Bandsman Hudnutt of the Royal Marines, for ‘wilful and persistent disobedience to orders’. Such a charge if substantiated meant death, or else such a flogging that death would be preferable. Spendlove was perfectly well aware that his admiral detested hangings and floggings.
“The charges are preferred by the Drum-Major,” commented Hornblower to himself.