Lieutenant Hornblower

“I was actually forgetting that I owe you a further thirty-five shillings,” said Parry, with a start of recollection. “Forgive me. There, I think that settles my monied indebtedness; I am still in your debt for a valuable experience.”

It was a thick wad of money that Hornblower put back in his pocket.

“I trust you will keep a sharp lookout for footpads on your way back, Mr. Hornblower,” said Parry with a glance.

“Mr. Bush will be walking home with me, my lord. It could be a valiant footpad that would face him.”

“No need to worry about footpads tonight,” interposed the colonel. “Not tonight.”

The colonel wore a significant grin; the others displayed a momentary disapproval of what apparently was an indiscretion, but the disapproval faded out again when the colonel waved a hand at the clock.

“Our orders go into force at four, my lord,” said Lambert.

“And now it is half past. Excellent.”

The flag lieutenant came in at that moment; he had slipped out when the last card was played.

“The carriage is at the door, my lord,” he said.

“Thank you. I wish you gentlemen a good evening, then.”

They all walked to the door together; there was the carriage in the street, and the two admirals, the colonel and the flag lieutenant mounted into it. Hornblower and Bush watched it drive away.

“Now what the devil are those orders that come into force at four?” asked Bush. The earliest dawn was showing over the rooftops.

“God knows,” said Hornblower.

They headed for the corner of Highbury Street.

“How much did you win?”

“It was over forty pounds—it must be about fortyfive pounds,” said Hornblower.

“A good night’s work.”

“Yes. The chances usually right themselves in time.” There was something flat and listless in Hornblower’s tone as he spoke. He took several more strides before he burst out into speech again with a vigour that was in odd contrast. “I wish to God it had happened last week. Yesterday, even.”

“But why?”

“That girl. That poor girl.”

“God bless my soul!” said Bush. He had forgotten all about the fact that Maria had slipped half a crown into Hornblower’s pocket and he was surprised that Hornblower had not forgotten as well. “Why trouble your head about her?”

“I don’t know,” said Hornblower, and then he took two more strides. “But I do.”

Bush had no time to meditate over this curious avowal for he heard a sound that made him grasp Hornblower’s elbow with sudden excitement.

“Listen!”

Ahead of them, along the silent street, a heavy military tread could be heard. It was approaching. The faint light shone on white crossbelts and brass buttons. It was a military patrol, muskets at the slope, a sergeant marching beside it, his chevrons and his half pike revealing his rank.

“Now, what the deuce?” said Bush.

“Halt!” said the sergeant to his men; and then to the other two, “May I ask you two gentlemen who you are?”

“We are naval officers,” said Bush.

The lantern the sergeant carried was not really necessary to reveal them. The sergeant came to attention.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“What are you doing with this patrol, sergeant?” asked Bush.

“I have my orders, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir. By the left, quick—march!”

The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his half pike in salute as he passed on.

“What in the name of all that’s holy?” wondered Bush. “Boney can’t have made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so. You’d think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can’t be.”

“Look there!” said Hornblower.

Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red coats, not with the military stiffness of the soldiers. Checked shirts and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on his collar and his dirk at his side.

“The press gang for certain!” exclaimed Bush. “Look at the bludgeons!”

Every seaman carried a club in his hand.

“Midshipman!” said Hornblower, sharply. “What’s all this?”

The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the uniforms.

“Orders, sir,” he began, and then, realising that with the growing daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he went on: “Press gang, sir. We’ve orders to press every seaman we find. The patrols are out on every road.”

“So I believe. But what’s the press for?”

“Du

That was sufficient answer, maybe.

“Very good. Carry on.”

“The press, by jingo!” said Bush. “Something’s happening.”

“I expect you’re right,” said Hornblower.

They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way along to Mrs Mason’s house.

“There’s the first results,” said Hornblower.

They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least, escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were talking volubly—the noise they were making was rousing the street. Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.

“It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”

With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trouser would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.

“A likely looking lot of prime seamen,” said Bush, ru

“Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.

“Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise.

Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night being replaced by day.

Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.

“It may be war,” he said, slowly.

“War!” said Bush.

“We’ll know when the mail comes in,” said Hornblower. “Party could have told us last night, I fancy.”

“But—war!” said Bush.

The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard, its noise dwindling with the increasing distance, and Hornblower turned towards the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they entered the house they saw Maria standing at the foot of the staircase, a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat over her nightclothes; she had put on her mobcap hastily, for a couple of curling papers showed under its edge.

“You’re safe!” she said.

“Of course we’re safe, Maria,” said Hornblower. “What do you think could happen to us?”

“There was all that noise in the street,” said Maria. “I looked out. Was it the press gang?”

“That’s just what it was,” said Bush.

“Is it—is it war?”

“That’s what it may be.”

“Oh!” Maria’s face revealed her distress. “Oh!”

Her eyes searched their faces.

“No need to worry, Miss Maria,” said Bush. “It’ll be many a long year before Boney brings his flatbottoms up Spithead.”

“It’s not that,” said Maria. Now she was looking only at Hornblower. In a flash she had forgotten Bush’s existence.

“You’ll be going away!” she said.

“I shall have my duty to do if I am called upon, Maria,” said Hornblower.