Lieutenant Hornblower

“You’ve mended that shirt yourself,” she said, accusingly.

“Yes, I have.”

Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn garment. Maria studied the patch.

“I would have done that for you if you’d asked me, sir.”

“And a good deal better, no doubt.”

“Oh, I wasn’t saying that, sir. But it isn’t fit that you should patch your own shirts.”

“Whose should I patch, then?”

Maria giggled.

“You’re too quick with your tongue for me,” she said. “Now, just wait here and talk to the lieutenant while I sponge this.”

She darted out of the room and they heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs, while Hornblower looked half ruefully at Bush.

“There’s a strange pleasure,” he said, “in knowing that there’s a human being who cares whether I’m alive or dead. Why that should give pleasure is a question to be debated by the philosophic mind.”

“I suppose so,” said Bush.

He had sisters who devoted all their attention to him whenever it was possible, and he was used to it. At home he took their ministrations for granted. He heard the church clock strike the half hour, and it called his thoughts to the further business of the day.

“You’re going to the Long Rooms now?” he asked.

“Yes. And you, I suppose, want to go to the dockyard? The monthly visit to the Clerk of the Cheque?”

“Yes.”

“We can walk together as far as the Rooms, if you care to. As soon as our friend Maria returns my coat to me.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Bush.

It was not long before Maria came knocking at the door again.

“It’s done,” she said, holding out the coat. “It’s nice and fresh now.”

But something seemed to have gone out of her. She seemed a little frightened, a little apprehensive.

“What’s the matter, Maria?” asked Hornblower, quick to feel the change of attitude.

“Nothing. Of course there’s nothing the matter with me,” said Maria, defensively, and then she changed the subject. “Put your coat on now, or you’ll be late.”

Walking along Highbury Street Bush asked the question he had had in mind for some time, regarding whether Hornblower had experienced good fortune lately at the Rooms. Hornblower looked at him oddly.

“Not as good as it might be,” he said.

“Bad?”

“Bad enough. My opponents’ aces lie behind my kings, ready for instant regicide. And my opponents’ kings lie behind my aces, so that when they venture out from the security of the hand they survive all perils and take the trick. In the long run the chances right themselves mathematically. But the periods when they are unbalanced in the wrong direction can be distressing.”

“I see,” said Bush, although he was not too sure that he did; but one thing he did know, and that was that Hornblower had been losing. And he knew Hornblower well enough by now to know that when he talked in an airy fashion as he was doing now he was more anxious than he cared to admit.

They had reached the Long Rooms, and paused at the door.

“You’ll call in for me on your way back?” asked Hornblower. “There’s an eating house in Broad Street with a fourpe

“Yes, indeed. Thank you. Good luck,” said Bush, and he paused before continuing. “Be careful.”

“I shall be careful,” said Hornblower, and went in through the door.

The weather was in marked contrast with what had prevailed during Bush’s last visit. Then there had been a black frost and an east wind; today there was a hint of spring in the air. As Bush walked along the Hard the harbour entrance revealed itself to him on his left, its muddy water sparkling in the clear light. A flushdecked sloop was coming out with the ebb, the gentle puffs of wind from the northwest just giving her steerage way. Despatches for Halifax, perhaps. Money to pay the Gibraltar garrison. Or maybe a reinforcement for the revenue cutters that were finding so much difficulty in dealing with the peacetime wave of smuggling. Whatever it was, there were fortunate officers on board, with an appointment, with three years’ employment ahead of them, with a deck under their feet and a wardroom in which to dine. Lucky devils. Bush acknowledged the salute of the porter at the gate and went into the yard.

He emerged into the late afternoon and made his way back to the Long Rooms. Hornblower was at a table near the corner and looked up to smile at him, the candlelight illuminating his face. Bush found himself the latest Naval Chronicle and settled himself to read it. Beside him a group of army and navy officers argued in low tones regarding the difficulties of living in the same world as Bonaparte. Malta and Genoa, Santo Domingo and Miquelet, came up in the conversation.

“Mark my words,” said one of them, thumping his hand with his fist, “we’ll be at war with him again soon enough.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“It’ll be war to the knife,” supplemented another. “If once he drives us to extremity, we shall never rest until Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte is hanging to the nearest tree.”

The others agreed to that with a fierce roar, like wild beasts.

“Gentlemen,” said one of the players at Hornblower’s table, looking round over his shoulder. “Could you find it convenient to continue your discussion at the far end of the room? This end is dedicated to the most scientific and difficult of all games.”

The words were uttered in a pleasant high tenor, but it was obvious that the speaker had every expectation of being instantly obeyed.

“Very good, my lord,” said one of the naval officers.

That made Bush look more closely, and he recognised the speaker, although it was six years since he had seen him last. It was Admiral Lord Parry, who had been made a lord after Camperdown; now he was one of the commissioners of the navy, one of the people who could make or break a naval officer. The mop of snowwhite curls that ringed the bald spot on the top of his head, his smooth old-man’s face, his mild speech, accorded ill with the nickname of ‘Old Bloodybones’ which had been given him by the lower deck far back in the American War. Hornblower was moving in very high society. Bush watched Lord Parry extend a ski

“Small slam,” said Parry as the players attended to their markers, and that was all that was said. The two tiny words sounded as clearly and as briefly in the silence as two bells in the middle watch. Hornblower cut the cards and the next deal began in the same mystic silence. Bush could not see the fascination of it. He would prefer a game in which he could roar at his losses and exult over his wi

“A short rubber,” commented Parry; the silence was over, and the cards lay in disorder on the table.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hornblower.

Bush, taking note of everything with the keen observation of anxiety, saw Hornblower put his hand to his breast pocket—the pocket that he had indicated as holding his reserve—and take out a little fold of onepound notes. When he had made his payment Bush could see that what he returned to his pocket was only a single note.