By the time Ramsbottom took his leave he had made a very good impression on the reluctant Hornblower. He had talked sensibly about ships and the sea, he was easy and natural in his manner, and not in the least like Lord Byron, who was probably more responsible than anyone else for the growing fad for yachting among the wealthy. Hornblower was even prepared to forgive him for having ‘won some small portion’ of Barbara’s heart. And in the course of his several days’ stay in Jamaica Hornblower really came to like the young man, especially after having lost two pounds to him in a desperate tussle at whist and then winning ten pounds back in another tussle where admittedly Ramsbottom encountered a run of bad luck. Jamaican society gave Ramsbottom a warm welcome; even the Governor looked on him with approval, and the Governor’s wife, Lady Hooper, was loud in her praises of his excellent manners and considerate ways.
“I wouldn’t have expected it of a Bradford manufacturer’s son,” said Hooper, grudgingly.
“Are you dining on board the Bride of Abydos, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“I am going there to dinner,” answered Hooper, who enjoyed food, “but seeing that it is only a yacht I have little hope of dining.”
Hornblower arrived on board early, at Ramsbottom’s suggestion, so as to have time to inspect the vessel. He was received in Navy fashion with sideboys attending the side and a long flourish on boatswain’s pipes as he stepped on board. He looked keenly about him even while he shook Ramsbottom’s hand. He could not have said he was not in a King’s ship, as his eye took in the gleaming white deck, the ropes coiled in perfect symmetry, the gleaming trophy of pikes and cutlasses against the bulkhead, the brass winking in the sunshine, the disciplined orderly crew in blue jumpers and white trousers.
“May I present my officers, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.
They were two half-pay lieutenants, hardbitten men; as Hornblower shook their hands he told himself that if it had not been for a dozen strokes of luck he himself might still be a lieutenant, perhaps eking out his half-pay by serving in a rich man’s yacht. As Ramsbottom led him forward he recognised one of the hands standing at attention by a gun.
“You were with me in the Renown, out here in 1800,” he said.
“Yes, sir. My Lord, so I was, sir.” The man grinned with uneasy pleasure as he shyly took Hornblower’s outstretched hand. “And Charlie Kemp, sir, My Lord, over there, sir, ‘e was with you in the Baltic. And Bill Cummings, up on the fo’c’sle, ‘e was foretopman in the Lydia round the Horn with you sir, My Lord.”
“Glad to see you again,” said Hornblower. That was true, but he was equally glad that he had not been under the necessity of remembering names. He moved on.
“You seem to have a Navy crew, Mr Ramsbottom,” he remarked.
“Yes, My Lord. They are nearly all man-o’-wars men.”
In these years of peace and depression it would be easy enough to recruit a crew, thought Hornblower. Ramsbottom might be considered to be doing a public service in providing easy employment for these men who had deserved well of their country. Listening to the sharp orders given as the crew was put through their paces Hornblower could not suppress a smile. It was a harmless enough fad, he supposed, for Ramsbottom to indulge himself in playing at commanding a ship of war.
“You have a most efficient ship and a well-trained crew, Mr Ramsbottom,” he said.
“It is a pleasure to hear Your Lordship say so.”
“You have seen no service yourself?”
“None, My Lord.”
There was a certain degree of surprise still to be found in the fact that in this year of 1821 there were to be found grown men, even heads of families, who nevertheless had been too young to see service in the wars that had devastated the world for a whole generation. It made Hornblower feel like a centenarian.
“Here come further guests, My Lord, if you will pardon me.”
Two planters — Hough and Doggart — and then the Chief Justice of the island. So the arrival of the Governor would make a dinner party of six, three officials and three men in private life. They gathered under the awning, which, stretched across the main boom, shaded the quarterdeck, and watched the reception of His Excellency.
“Do you think the dinner will come up to the ceremonial?” asked Doggart.
“Ramsbottom’s purser bought two tons of ice yesterday,” said Hough.
“At sixpence a pound that bids fair,” commented Doggart.
Jamaica was the centre of a small trade in ice, brought down from New England in fast schooners. Cut and stored away in deep places during the winter, it was hurried to the Caribbean insulated in a packing of sawdust. At the height of summer it commanded fantastic prices. Hornblower was interested; he was more interested still in the sight of a seaman down in the waist steadily turning a crank. It did not seem a very hard labour, although unremitting. He could not for the life of him think of what function that crank could play in the life of the ship. The guests made their bows to His Excellency, and at his suggestion seated themselves in the comfortable chairs. A steward appeared at once passing round glasses of sherry.
“Excellent, by George!” exclaimed the Governor after his first cautious sip. “None of your Olorosos, none of your sweet sticky dark sherries.”
The Governor by virtue of his reputed royal blood as well as in consequence of his position could make remarks that well might appear rude in another man. But the sherry was indeed delightful; pale, dry, infinitely delicate in flavour and bouquet, cool but not chilled. A new sound struck on Hornblower’s ear, and he turned and looked forward. At the foot of the mainmast a small orchestra had struck up, of various stringed instruments whose names he had never bothered to learn except for the fiddle. If it were not for the intrusion of this horrible music there could be nothing more delightful than to sit under an awning on the deck of a well-found ship with the sea breeze just beginning to come in, drinking this excellent sherry. The Governor made a small gesture which brought a fresh glass promptly to him.
“Ah!” said the Governor. “You keep a good orchestra, Mr Ramsbottom.”
It was well known that the royal family inherited a taste for music.
“I must thank Your Excellency,” said Ramsbottom, and the glasses went round again before he turned an ear to the murmured words of the steward. “Your Excellency, My Lord, gentlemen, dinner is served.”
They filed down the companion; apparently every bulkhead had been taken down in the after part of the ship to make a cabin spacious though, low. The carronades on either side struck a subdued warlike note in a scene of luxury, for there were flowers everywhere; the dining table stood in the centre concealed under a glittering linen cloth. Wind scoops at the scuttles helped to deflect the trade wind into the cabin, which, under the double shade of the awning and the deck, was pleasantly cool, but Hornblower’s eye at once caught sight of a couple of strange objects, like small wheels, set in two scuttles and ceaselessly whirling round. Then he knew why the seaman was turning that crank in the waist; he was driving these two wheels, which by some ingenious mechanism propelled currents of air from outside into the cabin, acting like windmill vanes but in the opposite sense.
Seated at the table in accordance with the courteous indications of their host, the guests awaited the serving of the dinner. The first course made its appearance — two ample dishes set in dishes even more ample filled with cracked ice. The inner dishes held a grey granular substance.
“Caviare!” exclaimed His Excellency, helping himself liberally after his first astonished stare.
“I hope it is to your taste, sir,” said Ramsbottom. “And I hope you will accompany it with some of the vodka here. It is the same as is served at the Russian Imperial table.”