Chapter XIII
Hornblower stood with his purse in his hand, having taken it from his sea chest where it had lain in the inner compartment. He knew exactly how many guineas there were in it, and he was trying not to wish there were more. If he were a wealthy captain he would be generous towards his ship’s company, and to the wardroom and gunroom. But as it was — He shook his head. He did not want to appear miserly or mean, but he certainly did not want to be foolish. He walked along to the wardroom door and paused there; Still caught his eye.
“Please come in, sir.”
The other officers rose from their chairs; there was nowhere for them to sit unless they sat round the table in the tiny wardroom.
“I was hoping,” said Hornblower to Carslake the purser, “that you would be kind enough to make some purchases for me.”
“Of course, sir. Honoured, I’m sure,” said Carslake. He could say nothing else, in any case.
“A few chickens — half a dozen, say, and some eggs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it the intention of the wardroom to buy fresh meat for itself?”
“Well, sir —”
That had been the subject under discussion at his entrance.
“At this time of year there might be lambs to sell. I could have one — two young ones, if they’re cheap. But an ox — what am I to do with a whole ox?”
Everyone in the wardroom had been up against this problem at some time or other.
“If the wardroom decides to buy an ox I would be glad to pay a quarter of the price,” said Hornblower, and the wardroom cheered up perceptibly.
A captain who bought a share in an animal would always get the best cuts — that was in the course of nature. And they had all known captains who would pay no more than their share. But with five wardroom officers Hornblower’s offer was generous.
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Carslake. “I think I can sell a couple of joints to the gunroom.”
“On advantageous terms, I trust?” said Hornblower, with a grin.
He could remember well enough as a midshipman occasions when wardroom and gunroom had gone shares in an animal.
“I expect so, sir,” said Carslake and then, changing the subject, “Mr. Turner says that it’ll be goat here, mainly. Do you care for goat, sir?”
“Young kid, stewed with turnips and carrots!” said Jones. “You can do worse than that, sir.”
Jones’s lantern‑jawed face was alight with appetite. These grown men, continuously fed on preserved food, were like children at a gingerbread stall at a fair with the thought of fresh meat.
“Do what you can,” said Hornblower. “I’ll eat kid or lamb, or I’ll share in an ox, as you find the market provides. You know what you’re buying for the crew?”
“Yes, sir,” said Carslake.
The penny‑pinching clerks of a penurious government at home would scrutinize those expenditures in time. Nothing very generous could be bought for the hands.
“I don’t know what vegetables we’ll find, sir, at this time of year,” went on Carslake, “winter cabbage, I suppose.”
“Nothing wrong with winter cabbage,” interposed Jones.
“Carrots and turnips out of winter store,” said Carslake. “They’ll be pretty stringy, sir.”
“Better than nothing,” said Hornblower. “There won’t be enough in the market for all we need, nor will there be until the word goes round the countryside. So much the better. Then we’ll have an excuse to linger. You’re going to interpret, Mr. Turner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep your eyes open. And your ears.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr. Jones, you will attend to the water casks, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
That was the transition between the social visit and the official issuing of orders.
“Carry on.”
Hornblower went to the bedside where McCullum lay. Sailcloth pillows supported him in a position half on his side. It was a comfort to see how comparatively well he looked. The fever and its accompanying distortion of thought had left him.
“Glad to see you looking so well, Mr. McCullum,” said Hornblower.
“Well enough,” answered McCullum.
He croaked a little, but his speech was almost normal.