“Yes, my lord.”
“Now you will make your report in writing. You can have it ready by dinner time — I trust you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner? I will then be able to enclose it in the packet I am about to despatch to Their Lordships.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Gambier was still thinking deeply.
“Witch of Endor can carry the despatches,” he said. Like every admiral the world over, his most irritating and continuous problem was how to collect and disseminate information without weakening his main body by detachments; it must have been an immense relief to him to have the cutter drop from the clouds as it were, to carry these despatches. He went on thinking.
“I will promote this lieutenant of yours, Bush, into her as Commander,” he announced.
Hornblower gave a little gasp. Promotion to Commander meant almost certain post rank within the year, and it was this power of promotion which constituted the most prized source of patronage an Admiral in command possessed. Bush deserved the step, but it was surprising that Gambier should give it to him — Admirals generally had some favourite lieutenant, or some nephew or some old friend’s son awaiting the first vacancy. Hornblower could imagine Bush’s delight at the news that he was at last on his way to becoming an admiral himself if he lived long enough.
But that was not all, by no means all. Promotion of a captain’s first lieutenant was a high compliment to the captain himself. It set the seal of official approval on the captain’s proceedings. This decision of Gambier’s was a public — not merely a private — announcement that Hornblower had acted correctly.
“Thank you, my lord, thank you,” said Hornblower.
“She is your prise, of course,” went on Gambier. “Government will have to buy her on her arrival.”
Hornblower had not thought of that. It meant at least a thousand pounds in his pocket.
“That coxswain of yours will be in clover,” chuckled Calendar. “He’ll take all the lower deck’s share.”
That was true, too. Brown would have a quarter of the value of the Witch of Endor for himself. He could buy a cottage or land and set up in business on his own account if he wished to.
“Witch of Endor will wait until your report is ready,” announced Gambier. “I will send my secretary in to you. Captain Calendar will provide you with a cabin and the necessities you lack. I hope you will continue to be my guest until I sail for Portsmouth next week. It would be best, I think.”
The last words were a delicate allusion to that aspect of the matter which had occupied most of Hornblower’s thoughts on his arrival, and which had not as yet been touched upon — the fact that he must undergo court martial for the loss of the Sutherland, and was of necessity under arrest until that time. By old established custom he must be under the supervision of an officer of equal rank while under arrest; there could be no question of sending him home in the Witch of Endor.
“Yes, my lord,” said Hornblower.
Despite all Gambier’s courtesy and indulgence towards him, despite Calendar’s open admiration, he still felt a constriction of the throat and a dryness of the mouth at the thought of that court martial; they were symptoms which persisted even when he tried to settle down and compose his report with the aid of the competent young clergyman who made his appearance in the cabin to which Calendar conducted him.
“Arma virumque cano,” quoted the Admiral’s secretary after the first halting sentences — Hornblower’s report naturally began with the battle of Rosas. “You begin in medias res, sir, as every good epic should.”
“This is an official report,” snapped Hornblower. “It continues the last report I made to Admiral Leighton.”
His tiny cabin only allowed him to walk three paces each way, and crouching nearly double at that — some unfortunate lieutenant had been turned out to make room for him. In a flagship, even in a big three-decker like the Victory, the demand for cabins always greatly exceeded the supply, what with the Admiral, and the Captain of the Fleet, and the flag lieutenant, and the secretary, and the chaplain, and the rest of the staff. He sat down on the breech of the twelve-pounder beside the cot.