And there was Bush looking at him with bewildered eyes and still stubborn.
“‘T’isn’t fair, sir,” he repeated.
“Didn’t you hear my order, Mr Bush? I want to hear no more about this. Please leave this cabin at once.”
It was horrible to see Bush shamble out of the cabin, hurt and depressed. The trouble with Bush was that he had no imagination; he could not envisage the other side. Hornblower could — he could see before his eyes at that moment the words he would have written if Bush had had his way. ‘The shell fell on the deck and with my own hands I extinguished the fuse when it was about to explode.’ He could never have written such a sentence. He could never have sought for public esteem by writing it. Moreover, and more important, he would scorn the esteem of a public who could tolerate a man who would write such words. If by some chance his deeds did not speak for themselves he would never speak for them. The very possibility revolted him, and he told himself that this was not a matter of personal taste, but a well‑weighed decision based on the good of the service; and in that respect he was displaying no more imagination than Bush.
Then he caught himself up short. This was all lies, all self-deception, refusal to face the truth. He had just flattered himself that he had more imagination than Bush; more imagination, perhaps, but far less courage. Bush knew nothing of the sick horror, the terrible moment of fear which Hornblower had experienced when that shell dropped. Bush did not know how his admired captain had had a moment’s vivid mental picture of being blown into bloody rags by the explosion, how his heart had almost ceased to beat — the heart of a coward. Bush did not know the meaning of fear, and he could not credit his captain with that knowledge either. And so Bush would never know why Hornblower had made so light of the incident of the shell, and why he had been so irascible when it was discussed. But Hornblower knew, and would know, whenever he could bring himself to face facts.
There were orders being bellowed on the quarter‑deck, a rush of bare feet over the planking, a clatter of ropes against woodwork, and Hotspur was beginning to lean over on a new course. Hornblower was at the cabin door bent on finding out what was the meaning of this activity which he had not ordered, when he found himself face to face with Young.
“Signal from the Flag, sir. ‘Hotspur report to Commander-in-chief’.”
“Thank you.”
On the quarter‑deck Bush touched his hat.
“I put the ship about as soon as we read the signal, sir,” he explained.
“Very good, Mr Bush.”
When a commander‑in-chief demanded the presence of a ship no time was to be wasted even to inform the captain.
“I acknowledged the signal, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Bush.”
Hotspur was turning her stern to Brest; with the wind comfortably over her quarter she was running out to sea, away from France. For the commander‑in-chief to demand the attendance of his farthest outpost must be of significance. He had summoned the ship, not merely the captain. There must be something more in the wind than this gentle breeze.
Bush called the crew to attention to render passing honours to Parker’s flagship, the flagship of the Inshore Squadron.
“Hope he has as good a ship as us to replace us, sir,” said Bush, who evidently had the same feeling as Hornblower, to the effect that the departure was only the beginning of a long absence from the Iroise.
“No doubt,” said Hornblower. He was glad that Bush was bearing no malice for his recent dressing‑down. Of course this sudden break in routine was a stimulant in itself, but Hornblower in a moment of insight realized that Bush, after a lifetime of being subject to the vagaries of wind and weather, could manage to be fatalistic about the unpredictable vagaries of his captain.
This was the open sea; this was the wide Atlantic, and there on the horizon was a long line of topsails in rigid order — the Channel Fleet, whose men and whose guns prevented Bonaparte from hoisting the Tricolor over Windsor Castle.