“Thank you, Mr Gerard. I would be obliged if you would.”
The horror still had to be gone through and endured. He had to make himself spick and span; he could not appear on deck unshaven and dirty and untidy. He had to shave and endure Giles’s conversation.
“Fresh water, My Lord,” said Giles, bringing in a steaming can. “Cap’n’s given permission, seeing that we’ll be watering today.”
There might once have been sheer sensuous pleasure in shaving in fresh water, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure in standing on deck watching Crab make the passage of the Dragon’s Mouth, in looking about him at new lands, in entering a new port, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure once in fresh linen, even in a crisp new neckcloth, even in his ribbon and star and gold-hilted sword. There might have been pleasure in hearing the thirteen guns of his salute fired and answered, but there was none now — there was only the agony of knowing that never again would a salute be fired for him, never again would the whole ship stand at attention for him as he went over the side. He had to hold himself stiff and straight so as not to droop like a weakling in his misery. He even had to blink hard to keep the tears from overflowing down his cheeks as if he were a sentimental Frenchman. The blazing blue sky overhead might have been black for all he knew.
The Governor was a ponderous Major-General, with a red ribbon and a star, too. He went rigidly through the formalities of the reception, and then unbent as soon as they were alone together.
“Delighted to have this visit from you, My Lord,” he said. “Please sit down. I think you will find that chair comfortable. I have some sherry which I think you will find tolerable. May I pour Your Lordship a glass?”
He did not wait for an answer, but busied himself with the decanter and glasses.
“By the way, My Lord, have you heard the news? Boney’s dead.”
Hornblower had not sat down. He had intended to refuse the sherry; the Governor would not care to drink with a man who had lost his honour. Now he sat down with a jerk, and automatically took the glass offered him. The sound he made in reply to the Governor’s news was only a croak.
“Yes,” went on the Governor. “He died three weeks back in St Helena. They’ve buried him there, and that’s the last of him. Well — are you quite well, My Lord?”
“Quite well, thank you,” said Hornblower.
The cool twilit room was swimming round him. As he came back to sanity he thought of St Elizabeth of Hungary. She, disobeying her husband’s commands, had been carrying food to the poor — an apron full of bread — when her husband saw her.
“What have you in your apron?” he demanded.
“Roses,” lied St Elizabeth.
“Show me,” said her husband.
St Elizabeth showed him — and her apron was full of roses.
Life could begin anew, thought Hornblower.
THE STAR OF THE SOUTH
Here where the trade winds blew at their freshest, just within the tropics, in the wide unbroken Atlantic, was, as Hornblower decided at that moment, the finest stretch of water for a yachting excursion to be found anywhere on the globe. This was nothing more than a yachting excursion, to his mind. Only recently he had emerged from a profound spiritual experience during which the peace of the whole world had depended on his judgement; by comparison it seemed now as if the responsibilities of being Commander-in-Chief on the West Indian Station were mere nothings. He stood on the quarterdeck of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Clorinda, balancing easily as she reached to windward under moderate sail, and allowed the morning sunshine to stream down on him and the trade wind to blow round his ears. With the pitch and the roll as Clorinda shouldered against the sea the shadows of the weather rigging swooped back and forth over the deck; when she took a roll to windward, towards the nearly level morning sun, the shadows of the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds flicked across his eyes in rapid succession, hypnotically adding to his feeling of well-being. To be a Commander-in-Chief, with nothing more to worry about than the suppression of the slave trade, the hunting down of piracy, and the policing of the Caribbean, was an experience more pleasant than any Emperor, or even any poet, could ever know. The bare-legged seamen washing down the decks were laughing and joking; the level sun was calling up dazzling rainbows in the spray flung up by the weather bow; and he could have breakfast at any moment that he wanted it — standing here on the quarterdeck he was finding additional pleasure in anticipation and wantonly postponing that moment.
The appearance of Captain Sir Thomas Fell on the quarterdeck took something away from the feeling of well-being. Sir Thomas was a gloomy, lantern-jawed individual who would feel it his bounden duty to come and be polite to his Admiral, and who would never have the sensitivity to be aware when his presence was undesired.
“Good morning, My Lord,” said the captain, touching his hat.
“Good morning, Sir Thomas,” replied Hornblower, returning the salute.
“A fine fresh morning, My Lord.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Sir Thomas was looking over his ship with a captain’s eye, along the decks, up aloft, and then turning aft to observe where, right astern, a smudgy line on the horizon marked the position of the hills of Puerto Rico. Hornblower suddenly realised that he wanted his breakfast more than anything on earth; and simultaneously he realised that he now could not gratify that desire as instantaneously as a Commander-in-Chief should be able to. There were limitations of politeness that constrained even a Commander-in-Chief — or that constrained him at least. He could not turn away and go below without exchanging a few more sentences with Fell.
“Maybe we’ll catch something today, My Lord,” said Fell; instinctively with the words the eyes of both men turned aloft to where a look-out sat perched up at the dizzy height of the main topgallant masthead.
“Let’s hope we do,” said Hornblower, and, because he had never succeeded in liking Fell, and because the last thing he wanted to do was to enter into a technical discussion before breakfast, he blundered on so as to conceal these feelings. “It’s likely enough.”
“The Spaniards will want to run every cargo they can before the convention’s signed,” said Fell.
“So we decided,” agreed Hornblower. Re-hashing old decisions before breakfast was not to his taste, but it was typical of Fell to do that.
“And this is the landfall they’d make,” went on Fell, remorselessly, glancing astern again at Puerto Rico on the horizon.
“Yes,” said Hornblower. Another minute or two of this pointless conversation and he would be free to escape below.
Fell took the speaking-trumpet and directed it upwards.
“Masthead, there! Keep a good lookout or I’ll know the reason why!”
“Aye aye, sir!” came the reply.
“Head money, My Lord,” said Fell, in apologetic explanation.
“We all find it useful,” answered Hornblower, politely.
Head money was paid by the British Government for slaves freed on the high seas, to the Royal Naval ships concerned in the capture of the slaves, and divided among the ship’s company like any other prize money. It was a small fund compared with the gigantic sums acquired during the great wars, but at five pounds a head a big capture could bring in a substantial sum to the ship making the capture. And of that substantial sum one-quarter went to the captain. On the other hand, one-eighth went to the Admiral commanding, wherever he happened to be. Hornblower, with twenty ships at sea under his command, was entitled to one-eighth of all their head money. It was a system of division which explained how during the great wars the Admirals commanding the Channel Fleet or in the Mediterranean became millionaires, like Lord Keith.