“Caligula signalling, sir,” said Vincent. “Captain to Captain. Delighted to see you. Will you dine with me now?”
“Hoist the assent,” replied Hornblower.
The pipes of the boatswain’s mates twittered into one last weird wail as Hornblower went up the side of the Caligula; the sideboys stood at attention; the marines presented arms; and Captain Bolton came forward, his hand held out and his craggy face wreathed in smiles.
“First at the rendezvous!” said Bolton. “Come this way, sir. It does my heart good to see you again. I’ve twelve dozen sherry here I’ll be glad to hear your opinion of. Where are those glasses, steward? Your very good health, sir!”
Captain Bolton’s after cabin was furnished with a luxury which contrasted oddly with Hornblower’s. There were satin cushions on the lockers; the swinging lamps were of silver, and so were the table appointments on the white linen cloth on the table. Bolton had been lucky in the matter of prize money when in command of a frigate — a single cruise had won him five thousand pounds — and Bolton had started life before the mast. The momentary jealousy which Hornblower experienced evaporated as he noted the poor taste of the cabin fittings, and remembered how dowdy Mrs Bolton had looked when he saw her last. More than anything else, Bolton’s obvious pleasure at seeing him, and the genuine respect he evinced in his attitude towards him, combined to give Hornblower a better opinion of himself.
“From the rapidity with which you reached the rendezvous, it appears that your passage was even quicker than ours,” said Bolton, and the conversation lapsed into technicalities, which endured even after dinner was served.
And clearly Bolton had little idea of what kind of dinner to offer in this scorching heat. There was pea soup, excellent, but heavy. Red mullet — a last minute purchase in Port Mahon at the moment of sailing. A saddle of mutton. Boiled cabbage. A Stilton cheese, now a little past its best. A syrupy port which was not to Hornblower’s taste. No salad, no fruit, not one of the more desirable products of the Minorca Bolton had just left.
“Minorquin mutton, I fear,” said Bolton, carvers in hand. “My last English sheep died mysteriously at Gibraltar and provided dinner for the gunroom. But you will take a little more, sir?”
“Thank you, no,” said Hornblower. He had eaten manfully through a vast helping, and, gorged with mutton fat, was sitting sweating now in the sweltering cabin. Bolton pushed the wine back to him, and Hornblower poured a few drops into his half empty glass. A lifetime of practice had made him adept at appearing to drink level with his host while actually drinking one glass to three. Bolton emptied his own glass and refilled it.
“And now,” said Bolton, “we must await in idleness the arrival of Sir Mucho Pomposo, Rear Admiral of the Red.”
Hornblower looked at Bolton quite startled. He himself would never have risked speaking of his superior officer as Mucho Pomposo to anyone. Moreover, it had not occurred to him to think of Sir Percy Leighton in that fashion. Criticism of a superior who had yet to demonstrate to him his capacity one way or the other was not Hornblower’s habit; and possibly he was specially slow to criticise a superior who was Lady Barbara’s husband.
“Mucho Pomposo, I said,” repeated Bolton. He had drunk one glass more of port than was quite wise, and was pouring himself out another one. “We can sit and polish our backsides while he works that old tub of a Pluto round from Lisbon. Wind’s sou’easterly. So it was yesterday, too. If he didn’t pass the Straits two days back it’ll be a week or more before he appears. And if he doesn’t leave all the navigation to Elliott he’ll never arrive at all.”
Hornblower looked up anxiously at the skylight. If any report of his conversation were to reach higher quarters it would do Bolton no good. The latter interpreted the gesture correctly.
“Oh, never fear,” he said. “I can trust my officers. They don’t respect an admiral who’s no seaman any more than I do. Well, what have you to say?”