“Our friend Duddingstone,” said Hornblower, “must have been very moved to allow a pledge for forty guineas to slip out of his fingers.” He spoke cynically to keep the pride out of his voice, but he was genuinely moved. His eyes would have grown moist if he had allowed them.
“I’m not surprised, sir,” said Bush, fumbling among the newspapers beside him. “Look at this, sir, and at this. Here’s the Morning Chronicle, and The Times. I saved them to show you, hoping you’d be interested.”
Hornblower glanced at the columns indicated; somehow the gist of them seemed to leap out at him without his having to read them. The British press had let itself go thoroughly. As even Bush had foreseen, the fancy of the British public had been caught by the news that a captain whom they had imagined to be foully done to death by the Corsican tyrant had succeeded in escaping, and not merely in escaping, but in carrying off a British ship of war which had been for months a prize to the Corsican. There were columns in praise of Hornblower’s daring and ability. A passage in The Times caught Hornblower’s attention and he read it more carefully. ‘Captain Hornblower still has to stand his trial for the loss of the Sutherland, but, as we pointed out in our examination of the news of the battle of Rosas Bay, his conduct was so well advised and his behaviour so exemplary on that occasion, whether he was acting under the orders of the late Admiral Leighton or not, that although the case is still sub judice, we have no hesitation in predicting his speedy reappointment.’
“Here’s what the Anti-Gallican has to say, sir,” said Bush.
What the Anti-Gallican had to say was very like what the other newspapers had said; it was beginning to dawn upon Hornblower that he was famous. He laughed uncomfortably again. All this was a most curious experience and he was not at all sure that he liked it. Cold-bloodedly he could see the reason for it. Lately there had been no naval officer prominent in the affections of the public — Cochrane had wrecked himself by his intemperate wrath after the Basque Roads, while six years had passed since Hardy had kissed the dying Nelson; Collingwood was dead and Leighton too, for that matter — and the public always demanded an idol. Like the Israelites in the desert, they were not satisfied with an invisible object for their devotion. Chance had made him the public’s idol, and presumably Government were not sorry, seeing how much it would strengthen their position to have one of their own men suddenly popular. But somehow he did not like it; he was not used to fame, he distrusted it, and his ever-present personal modesty made him feel it was all a sham.
“I hope you’re pleased, sir,” said Bush, looking wonderingly at the struggle on Hornblower’s face.
“Yes. I suppose I am,” said Hornblower.
“The Navy bought the Witch of Endor yesterday at the Prize Court!” said Bush, searching wildly for news which might delight this odd captain of his. “Four thousand pounds was the price, sir. And the division of the prize money where the prize has been taken by an incomplete crew is governed by an old regulation – I didn’t know about it, sir, until they told me. It was made after that boat’s crew from Squirrel, after she foundered, captured the Spanish plate ship in ’97. Two thirds to you, sir — that’s two thousand six hundred pounds. And a thousand to me and four hundred for Brown.”
“H’m,” said Hornblower.
Two thousand six hundred pounds was a substantial bit of money — a far more concrete reward than the acclamation of a capricious public.
“And there’s all these letters and packets, sir,” went on Bush, anxious to exploit the propitious moment.
The first dozen letters were all from people unknown to him, writing to congratulate him on his success and escape. Two at least were from madmen, apparently — but on the other hand two were from peers; even Hornblower was a little impressed by the signatures and the coroneted notepaper. Bush was more impressed still when they were passed over to him to read.