Conversation regarding caviare and vodka occupied the attention of all during the first course. The last time Hornblower had tasted the combination was during the defence of Riga in 1812; the experience enabled him to add his quota to the conversation. The next course made its appearance.
“You gentlemen are accustomed to this dish,” said Ramsbottom, “but I need not apologise for it. It is, I believe, one of the delicacies of the Islands.”
It was flying fish.
“Certainly no need to apologise when it is served like this,” commented His Excellency. “Your chef de cuisine must be a man of genius.”
The sauce that came with it had the merest hint of mustard.
“‘Ock or Champagne, My Lord?” murmured a voice in Hornblower’s ear. Hornblower had already heard the Governor answer the same question with ‘I’ll try the hock first’. The champagne was dry and insidiously delicate, an ideal companion for the food. The great eaters of antiquity, Nero or Vitellius or Lucullus, had never known what it was like to partake of champagne and flying fish.
“You’ll be living differently from this soon, Hornblower,” said His Excellency.
“No doubt about that, sir.”
Ramsbottom, between them, looked a polite inquiry.
“Your Lordship’s going to sea?”
“Next week,” replied Hornblower. “I take my squadron to sea for exercises before the coming of the hurricane season.”
“Of course that would be necessary to maintain efficiency,” agreed Ramsbottom. “The exercises will last for long?”
“A couple of weeks or more,” said Hornblower. “I have to keep my men accustomed to hard tack and salt pork and water from the cask.”
“And yourself too,” chuckled the Governor.
“Myself too,” agreed Hornblower ruefully.
“And you take your whole squadron, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.
“All I can. I work ‘em hard and try to make no exceptions.”
“A good rule, I should think,” said Ramsbottom.
The soup that followed the flying fish was a fiery mulligatawny, well adapted to West Indian palates.
“Good!” was the Governor’s brief comment after his first spoonful. The champagne went round again and conversation became livelier and livelier, and Ramsbottom deftly kept it going.
“What news from the mainland, sir?” he asked the Governor. “This fellow Bolivar — is he making any progress?”
“He fights on,” answered the Governor. “But Spain hurries out reinforcements whenever her own troubles permit. The government at Caracas is looking for the arrival of more at this moment, I believe. Then they may be able to conquer the plains and drive him out again. You know he was a refugee here in this very island a few years ago?”
“Indeed, sir?”
All the guests at the table were interested in the desperate civil war that was being fought on the mainland. Massacre and murder, blind heroism and devoted self-sacrifice, loyalty to the King and thirst for independence — all these were to be found in Venezuela; war and pestilence were laying waste the fertile plains and depopulating the crowded cities.
“How will the Spaniards stand now that Maracaibo has revolted, Hornblower?” asked the Governor.
“It’s not a serious loss, sir. As long as they have the use of La Guaira their sea communications remain open — the roads are so bad that Caracas has always made use of La Guaira to preserve contact with the outside world; it’s only an open roadstead but it provides good anchorage.”
“Has Maracaibo revolted, Your Excellency?” asked Ramsbottom mildly.
“The news came this morning. A feather in Bolivar’s cap after his recent defeats. His army must have been growing disheartened.”
“His army, sir?” This was the Chief Justice speaking. “Half his men are British infantry.”
Hornblower knew that to be true. British veterans formed the backbone of Bolivar’s army. The llaneros — the men of the Venezuelan plains — supplied him with a brilliant cavalry, but not with the material for permanent conquest.
“Even British infantry could grow disheartened in a hopeless cause,” said the Governor, solemnly. “The Spaniards control most of the coast — ask the Admiral here.”
“That’s so,” agreed Hornblower. “They’ve made it hard for Bolivar’s privateers.”
“I hope you’re not going to venture into that turmoil, Mr Ramsbottom,” said the Governor.
“They’ll make short work of you if you do,” added the Chief Justice. “The Dons will tolerate no interference. They’ll snatch you up and you’ll languish in a Spanish prison for years before we can extricate you from King Ferdinand’s clutches. Unless jail fever carries you off first. Or they hang you as a pirate.”
“I have certainly no intention of venturing near the mainland,” said Ramsbottom. “At least not while this war continues. It is a pity, because Venezuela was my mother’s country, and it would give me pleasure to visit it.”
“Your mother’s country, Mr Ramsbottom?” asked the Governor.
“Yes, sir. My mother was a Venezuelan lady. There I would be Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona.”
“Most interesting,” remarked the Governor.
And more grotesque than Horatio Hornblower. It was significant of the worldwide interests of British commerce that a Bradford woollen manufacturer should have a Venezuelan mother. At any rate it accounted for Ramsbottom’s dark, almost swarthy, good looks.
“I can very well wait until peace is settled one way or the other,” said Ramsbottom off-handedly. “There will be other voyages to make. Meanwhile, sir, let me call your attention to this dish here.”
The main course had now arrived on the table, roast chickens and a leg of pork as well as the dish that Ramsbottom indicated. What lay in it was concealed by poached eggs covering the surface.
“A made dish?” asked the Governor, doubtfully. His tone indicated that at this stage of the dinner he looked rather for a substantial roast.
“Please try it, sir,” said Ramsbottom coaxingly.
The Governor helped himself and tasted cautiously.
“Pleasant enough,” he decided. “What is it?”
“A ragout of preserved beef,” answered Ramsbottom. “Can I persuade you gentlemen to try it? My Lord?”
At least it was something new; it was like nothing Hornblower had ever tasted before — certainly not in the least like the beef preserved in brine which he had eaten for twenty years.
“Extremely good,” said Hornblower. “How is it preserved?”
Ramsbottom made a gesture to the waiting steward, who laid a square box, apparently of iron, upon the table. It weighed heavy in Hornblower’s hand.
“Glass serves equally well,” explained Ramsbottom, “but it is not as convenient on shipboard.”
The steward was now at work upon the iron box with a stout knife. He cut it open and prized back the top and offered it for inspection.
“A tinned box,” went on Ramsbottom, “sealed at a high temperature. I venture to suggest that this new method will make a noticeable difference to the food supply on shipboard. This beef can be eaten cold on removal from the box, or it can be hashed as you have it here.”
“And the poached egg?” asked the Governor.
“That was the inspiration of my cook, sir.”
Discussion of this new invention — and of the excellent Burgundy served with this course — distracted attention from the troubles of Venezuela, and even from Ramsbottom’s Venezuelan mother. Conversation became general, and somewhat disjointed, as the wine flowed. Hornblower had drunk as much as he desired, and, with his habitual dislike of excess, contrived to avoid drinking more. It was noticeable that Ramsbottom remained sober as well, cool and quiet-voiced, while the other faces grew redder and redder, and the cabin echoed to the roaring toasts and the bursts of inconsequential song. Hornblower guessed that his host was now finding the evening as tedious as he himself found it. He was glad when at last His Excellency rose, supporting himself by the table, to take his leave.