Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Did you expect anything else?”

The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his earrings in exchange.

“I had trouble with some of ’em, sir, especially after the beer issue.”

Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.

“You dealt with ’em?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Bush.”

A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it open with a hand‑spike.

“The only place to put it, sir,” explained Doughty, apologetically.

That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores, even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient, there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he had removed from the case.

“What’s that?” demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he repeated the question more sharply still.

“It’s just a parcel from the Admiral’s steward, sir.”

“Show me.”

Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled goods.

“It’s only cabin stores, sir.”

“Show me.”

“Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.” Doughty examined the contents while exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what he would find. “This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here’s coffee — only half a pound, by the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And . . .”

“How the devil did you get these?”

“I wrote a note, sir, to the Admiral’s steward, and sent it by your coxs’n. It isn’t right that you shouldn’t have these things sir. Now I can cook for you properly.”

“Does the Admiral know?”

“I’d be surprised if he did, sir.”

There was an assured superior expression on Doughty’s face as he said this, which suddenly revealed to Hornblower a world of which he had been ignorant until then. There might be Flag Officers and Captains, but under that glittering surface was an unseen circle of stewards, with its own secret rites and passwords, managing the private lives of their officers without reference to them.

“Sir!” This was Bush, entering the cabin with hurried step. “Wind’s nor’west by west, sir. Looks as if it’ll back further still.”

It took a moment for Hornblower to re‑orient his thoughts, to switch from stewards and dried herbs to ships; and sailing orders. Then he was himself again, rapping his commands.

“Call all hands. Sway the topmasts up. Get the yards crossed. I want to be under way in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The quiet of the ship was broken by the pipes and the curses of the petty officers, as they drove the hands to work. Heads bemused by beer and brandy cleared themselves with violent exercise and the fresh air of the chilly night breeze. Clumsy fingers clutched hoists and halliards. Men tripped and stumbled in the darkness and were kicked to their feet by petty officers goaded on by the master’s mates goaded on in turn by Bush and Prowse. The vast cumbersome sausages that were the sails were dragged out from where they had been laid away on the booms.

“Ready to set sail, sir,” reported Bush.

“Very well. Send the hands to the capstan. Mr Foreman, what’s the night signal for ‘Am getting under way’?”

“One moment, sir.” Foreman had not learned the night signal book as thoroughly as he should have done in seven months. “One blue light and one Bengal fire shown together, sir.”

“Very well. Make that ready. Mr Prowse, a course from the Start to Ushant, if you please.”

That would let the hands know what fate awaited them, if they did not guess already. Maria would know nothing at all until she looked out at Tor Bay tomorrow to find Hotspur’s place empty. And all she had to comfort her was the curt note he had sent before dinner; cold comfort, that. He must not think of Maria, or of the child.

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