Lieutenant Hornblower

“You encountered the worst of good fortune,” said Parry, pocketing his wi

“In a long enough period of play, my lord,” said Hornblower, “every possible combination of cards can be expected.”

He spoke with a polite indifference that for a moment almost gave Bush heart to believe his losses were not serious, until he remembered the single note that had been put back into Hornblower’s breast pocket.

“But it is rare to see such a run of ill luck,” said Parry. “And yet you play an excellent game, Mr—Mr—please forgive me, but your name escaped me at the moment of introduction.”

“Hornblower,” said Hornblower.

“Ah, yes, of course. For some reason the name is familiar to me.”

Bush glanced quickly at Hornblower. There never was such a perfect moment for reminding a Lord Commissioner about the fact that his promotion to commander had not been confirmed.

“When I was a midshipman, my lord,” said Hornblower, “I was seasick while at anchor in Spithead on board the Justinian. I believe the story is told.”

“That doesn’t seem to be the co

“You are very kind, my lord,” said Hornblower, and Bush writhed—he had been writhing ever since Hornblower had given the goby to that golden opportunity. This last speech had a flavour of amused bitterness that Bush feared would be evident to the admiral. But fortunately Parry did not know Hornblower as well as Bush did.

“Most unfortunately,” said Parry, “I am due to dine with Admiral Lambert.”

This time the coincidence startled Hornblower into being human.

“Admiral Lambert, my lord?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“I had the honour of serving under him on the Jamaica station. This is Mr. Bush, who commanded the storming party from the Renown that compelled the capitulation of Santo Domingo.”

“Glad to see you, Mr. Bush,” said Parry, and it was only just evident that if he was glad he was not overjoyed. A commissioner might well find embarrassment at an encounter with an unemployed lieutenant with a distinguished record. Parry lost no time in turning back to Hornblower.

“It was in my mind,” he said, “to try to persuade Admiral Lambert to return here with me after di

“I am most honoured, my lord,” said Hornblower with a bow, but Bush noted the uncontrollable flutter of his fingers towards his almost empty breast pocket.

“Then would you be kind enough to accept a semiengagement? On account of Admiral Lambert I can make no promise, except that I will do my best to persuade him.”

“I’m dining with Mr. Bush, my lord. But I would be the last to stand in the way.”

“Then we may take it as being settled as near as may be?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Parry withdrew then, ushered out by his flag lieutenant who had been one of the whist four, with all the dignity and pomp that might be expected of a peer, an admiral, and a commissioner, and he left Hornblower gri

“D’you think it’s time for us to dine too?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Bush.

The eating house in Broad Street was run, as might almost have been expected, by a woodenlegged sailor. He had a pert son to assist him, who stood by when they sat at a scrubbed oaken table on oak benches, their feet in the sawdust, and ordered their di

“Ale?” asked the boy.

“No. No ale,” said Hornblower.

The pert boy’s ma

“It keeps away hunger,” said Hornblower.

It might indeed do that, but apparently Hornblower had not kept hunger away lately. He began to eat his food with elaborate unconcern, but with each mouthful his appetite increased and his restraint decreased. In an extraordinarily short time his plate was empty; he mopped it clean with his bread and ate the bread. Bush was not a slow eater, but he was taken a little aback when he looked up and saw that Hornblower had finished every mouthful while his own plate was still half full. Hornblower laughed nervously.

“Eating alone gives one bad habits,” he said—and the best proof of his embarrassment was the lameness of his explanation.

He was aware of that, as soon as he had spoken, and he tried to carry it off by leaning back on his bench in a superior fashion; and to show how much at ease he was he thrust his hands into the side pockets of his coat. As he did so his whole expression changed. He lost some of the little colour there was in his cheeks. There was utter consternation in his expression—there was even fear. Bush took instant alarm; he thought Hornblower must have had a seizure, and it was only after that first thought that he co

“What’s the matter?” asked Bush. “What in God’s name—?”

Hornblower slowly drew his right hand out of his pocket. He kept it closed for a moment round what it held, and then he opened it, slowly, reluctantly, like a man fearful of his destiny. Harmless enough; it was a silver coin—a half crown.

“That’s nothing to take on about,” said Bush, quite puzzled. “I wouldn’t even mind finding a half crown in my pocket.”

“But—but—” stammered Hornblower, and Bush began to realise some of the implications.

“It wasn’t there this morning,” said Hornblower, and then he smiled the old bitter smile. “I know too well what money I have in my pockets.”

“I suppose you do,” agreed Bush; but even now, with his mind going back through the events of the morning, and making the obvious deductions, he could not understand quite why Hornblower should be so worried. “That wench put it there?”

“Yes. Maria,” said Hornblower. “It must have been her. That’s why she took my coat to sponge it.”

“She’s a good soul,” said Bush.

“Oh God!” said Hornblower. “But I can’t—I can’t—”

“Why not?” asked Bush, and he really thought that question unanswerable.

“No,” said Hornblower. “It’s—it’s—I wish she hadn’t done it. The poor girl—”

“’Poor girl’ be blowed!” said Bush. “She’s only trying to do you a good turn.”

Hornblower looked at him for a long time without speaking, and then he made a little hopeless gesture as though despairing of ever making Bush see the matter from his point of view.

“You can look like that if you like,” said Bush, steadily, determined to stick to his guns, “but there’s no need to act as if the French had landed just because a girl slips half a crown into your pocket.”

“But don’t you see—” began Hornblower, and then he finally abandoned all attempt at explanation. Under Bush’s puzzled gaze he mastered himself. The unhappiness left his face, and he assumed his old inscrutable look—it was as if he had shut down the vizor of a helmet over his face.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll make the most of it, by God!”

Then he rapped on the table:

“Boy!”

“Yessir.”

“We’ll have a pint of wine. Let someone run and fetch it at once. A pint of wine—port wine.”

“Yessir.”

“And what’s the pudding today?”

“Currant duff, sir.”