“Ah, Mr Bush,” said Captain Cogshill, “it’s a pleasure to see you on your feet. I hope you will remain on board to dine with me. I hope to secure the presence of the other lieutenants.”
“With much pleasure, sir,” said Bush. Every lieutenant said that in reply to his captain’s invitation.
“In fifteen minutes’ time, then?Excellent.”
The captains who had constituted the court of inquiry were leaving the ship, in strict order of seniority, and the calls of the bosun’s mates echoed along the deck as each one left, a careless hand to a hat brim in acknowledgment of the compliments bestowed. Down from the entry port went each in turn, gold lace, epaulettes, and all, these blessed individuals who had achieved the ultimate beatitude of post rank, and the smart gigs pulled away towards the anchored ships.
“You’re dining on board, sir?” said Hornblower to Bush.
“Yes.”
On the deck of their own ship the ‘sir’ came quite naturally, as naturally as it had been dropped when Hornblower had been visiting his friend in the hospital ashore. Hornblower turned to touch his hat to Buckland.
“May I leave the deck to Hart, sir? I’m invited to dine in the cabin.”
“Very well, Mr Hornblower.” Buckland forced a smile. “We’ll have two new lieutenants soon, and you’ll cease to be the junior.”
“I shan’t be sorry, sir.”
These men who had been through so much together were grasping eagerly at trivialities to keep the conversation going for fear lest more serious matters should lift their ugly heads.
“Time for us to go along,” said Buckland.
Captain Cogshill was a courtly host. There were flowers in the great cabin now; they must have been kept hidden away in his sleeping cabin while the inquiry was being held so as not to detract from the formality of the proceedings. And the cabin windows were wide open, and a wind scoop brought into the cabin what little air was moving.
“That is, a land-crab salad before you, Mr Hornblower. Coconut-fed land crab. Some prefer it to dairy-fed pork. Perhaps you will serve it to those who would care for some?”
The steward brought in a vast smoking joint which he put on the table.
“A saddle of fresh lamb,” said the captain. “Sheep do badly in these islands and I fear this may not be fit to eat. But perhaps you will at least try it. Mr Buckland, will you carve? You see, gentlemen, I still have some real potatoes left — one grows weary of yams. Mr Hornblower, will you take wine?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And Mr Bush — to your speedy recovery, sir.”
Bush drained his glass thirstily. Sankey had warned him, when he left the hospital, that over indulgence in spirituous liquors might result in inflammation of his wounds, but there was pleasure in pouring the wine down his throat and feeling the grateful warmth it brought to his stomach. The dinner proceeded.
“You gentlemen who have served on this station before must be acquainted with this,” said the captain, contemplating a steaming dish that had been laid before him. “A West Indian pepper pot — not as good as one finds in Trinidad, I fear. Mr Hornblower, will you make your first essay? Come in!”
The last words were in response to a knock on the cabin door. A smartly dressed midshipman entered. His beautiful uniform, his elegant bearing, marked him as one of that class of naval officer in receipt of a comfortable allowance from home, or even of substantial means of his own. Some sprig of the nobility, doubtless, serving his legal time until favouritism and interest should whisk him up the ladder of promotion.
“I’m sent by the admiral, sir,” he announced.
Of course. Bush, his perceptions comfortably sensitised with wine, could see at once that with those clothes and that manner he must be on the admiral’s staff.
“And what’s your message?” asked Cogshill.
“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and he’d like Mr Hornblower’s presence on board the flagship as soon as is convenient.”
“And dinner not half way finished!” commented Cogshill, looking at Hornblower. But an admiral’s request for something as soon as convenient meant immediately, convenient or not. Very likely it was a matter of no importance, either.
“I’d better leave, sir, if I may,” said Hornblower. He glanced at Buckland. “May I have a boat, sir?”
“Pardon me, sir,” interposed the midshipman. “The admiral said that the boat which brought me would serve to convey you to the flagship.”
“That settles it,” said Cogshill. “You’d better go, Mr Hornblower. We’ll save some of this pepper pot for you against your return.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, rising.
As soon as he had left, the captain asked the inevitable question.
“What in the world does the admiral want with Hornblower?”
He looked round the table and received no verbal reply. There was a strained look on Buckland’s face, however, as Bush saw. It seemed as if in his misery Buckland was clairvoyant.
“Well, we’ll know in time,” said Cogshill. “The wine’s beside you, Mr Buckland. Don’t let it stagnate.”
Dinner went on. The pepper pot rasped on Bush’s palate and inflamed his stomach, making the wine doubly grateful when he drank it. When the cheese was removed, and the cloth with it, the steward brought in fruit and nuts in silver dishes.
“Port,” said Captain Cogshill. “‘79. A good year. About this brandy I know little, as one might expect in these times.”
Brandy could only come from France, smuggled, presumably, and as a result of trading with the enemy.
“But here,” went on the captain, “is some excellent Dutch geneva — I bought it at the prize sale after we took St Eustatius. And here is another Dutch liquor — it comes from Curaçao, and if the orange flavour is not too sickly for your palates you might find it pleasant. Swedish schnapps, fiery but excellent, I fancy — that was after we captured Saba. The wise man does not mix grain and grape, so they say, but I understand schnapps is made from potatoes, and so does not come under the ban. Mr Buckland?”
“Schnapps for me,” said Buckland a little thickly.
“Mr Bush?”
“I’ll drink along with you, sir.”
That was the easiest way of deciding.
“Then let us make it brandy. Gentlemen, may Boney grow bonier than ever.”
They drank the toast, and the brandy went down to warm Bush’s interior to a really comfortable pitch. He was feeling happy and relaxed, and two toasts later he was feeling better than he had felt since the Renown left Plymouth.
“Come in!” said the captain.
The door opened slowly, and Hornblower stood framed in the opening. There was the old look of strain in his face; Bush could see it even though Hornblower’s figure seemed to waver a little before his eyes — the way objects appeared over the rack of red-hot cannon-balls at Samaná — and although Hornblower’s countenance seemed to be a little fuzzy round the edges.
“Come in, come in, man,” said the captain. “The toasts are just beginning. Sit in your old place. Brandy for heroes, as Johnson said in his wisdom. Mr Bush!”
“V-victorious war.O-oceans of gore. P-prizes galore. B-b-beauty ashore. Hic,” said Bush, inordinately proud of himself that he had remembered that toast and had it ready when called upon.