“The port admiral?” The lard‑faced clerk who repeated Hornblower’s words was haughty, and Hornblower was battered and dishevelled, his hair long and tousled, his clothes rumpled, all as might be expected after nearly two weeks of crowded life in a waterhoy. But there was an epaulette, albeit a shabby one, on his left shoulder, and when the clerk noticed it he added a faint “Sir”.
“Yes, the port admiral.”
“You’ll find him in his office in the stone building over there.”
“Thank you. Do you know his name?”
“Foster. Rear‑Admiral Harry Foster.”
“Thank you.”
That must be Dreadnought Foster. He had been one of the board of captains who had examined Hornblower for Lieutenant all those years ago in Gibraltar, the night the Spaniards sent the fireships in.
The marine sentry at the outer gate presented arms to the epaulette, but he was not so wooden as to allow to pass unnoticed the blanket‑bundle that Hornblower took from the labourer; his eyes swivelled round to stare at it even while his neck stayed rigid. Hornblower took off his battered hat to return the salute and passed through. The flag‑lieutenant who interviewed him next noticed the bundle as well, but his expression softened when Hornblower explained he was carrying captured documents.
“From the Guèpe, sir?” asked the lieutenant.
“Yes,” answered Hornblower in surprise.
“The Admiral will see you, sir.”
It was only yesterday, when Hornblower had examined the log more carefully in the troy, that he had discovered the French brig’s name. It was only an hour ago that the Princess had made contact with the land, and yet the story was already known in the Admiral’s office; at least it would save a little time — Maria would be waiting at the dockyard gate.
Dreadnought Foster was just as Hornblower remembered him, swarthy, with an expression of sardonic humour. Luckily he appeared to have no recollection of the nervous midshipman whose examination had been fortunately interrupted that evening in Gibraltar. Like his flag‑lieutenant he had heard something of the story of the capture of the brig already — one more example of the speed with which gossip can fly — and he grasped the details, as Hornblower supplied them, with professional ease.
“And those are the documents?” he asked, when Hornblower reached that point in his sketchy narrative.
“Yes, sir.”
Foster reached out a large hand for them.
“Not everyone would have remembered to bring them away, Captain,” he said, as he began to turn them over. “Log. Day book. Station bill. Quarter bill. Victualling returns.”
He had noticed the lead covered dispatch first of all, naturally, but he had laid it aside to examine last.
“Now what do we have here?” He studied the label. “What does ‘S.E.’ mean?”
“Son Excellence — His Excellency, sir.”
“His Excellency the Captain General of — what’s this, Captain?”
“Windward Isles, sir.”
“I might have guessed that seeing it says ‘Martinique’,” admitted Foster. “But I never had a head for French. Now —”
He fingered the penknife on his desk. He studied the tarred twine that bound the leaden sandwich. Then he put the knife down reluctantly and looked up at Hornblower.
“I don’t think I’d better meddle,” he said. “This’ll be best left for Their Lordships.”
Hornblower had had the same thought although he had not ventured to voice it. Foster was looking at him searchingly.
“You intend going to London, of course, Captain?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Naturally. You want a ship, I think.”
“Yes, sir. Admiral Cornwallis named me for promotion last month.”
“Well — This —” Foster tapped the dispatch. “This will save you time and money. Flags!”
“Sir!” The flag‑lieutenant was instantly in attendance.
“Captain Hornblower will need a post‑chaise.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Have it at the gate immediately.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Have a travel warrant made out for London.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Foster turned his attention once more to Hornblower and smiled sardonically at the bewilderment and surprise he saw in his face. For once Hornblower had been caught off his guard and had allowed his emotions to show.
“Seventeen guineas that will cost King George, God bless him,” said Foster. “Aren’t you grateful for his bounty?”
Hornblower had regained control over himself; he was even able to conceal his irritation at his lapse.