“I’ll detail Côtard from his ship on special service,” said Collins hastily. “I’ll send him over to you and you can look him over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cornwallis was now thanking his host and saying good‑bye to the other captains; Collins unobtrusively yet with remarkable rapidity contrived to do the same, and disappeared over the side. Cornwallis followed, with all the time honoured ceremonial of guard of honour and band and sideboys, while his flag was hauled down from the foretopmast head. After his departure barge after barge came alongside, each gaudy with new paint, with every crew tricked out in neat clothing paid for out of their captains’ pockets, and captain after captain went down into them, in order of seniority, and shoved off to their respective ships.
Lastly came Hotspur’s drab little quarter‑boat, its crew dressed in the clothes issued to them in the slop‑ship the day they were sent on board.
“Good‑bye, sir,” said Hornblower, holding out his hand to Pellew.
Pellew had shaken so many hands, and had said so many good‑byes, that Hornblower was anxious to cut this farewell as short as possible.
“Good‑bye, Hornblower,” said Pellew, and Hornblower quickly stepped back, touching his hat. The pipes squealed until his head was below the level of the main‑deck, and then he dropped perilously into the boat, hat, gloves, sword and all, all of them shabby.
Chapter 10
“I’ll take this opportunity, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, “of repeating what I said before. I’m sorry you’re not being given your chance.”
“It can’t be helped, sir. It’s the way of the service,” replied the shadowy figure confronting Hornblower on the dark quarter‑deck. The words were philosophical, but the tone was bitter. It was all part of the general logical madness of war, that Bush should feel bitter at not being allowed to risk his life, and that Hornblower, about to be doing so, should commiserate with Bush, speaking in flat formal tones as if he were not in the least excited — as if he were feeling no apprehension at all.
Hornblower knew himself well enough to be sure that if some miracle were to happen, if orders were to arrive forbidding him to take personal part in the coming raid, he would feel a wave of relief; delight as well as relief. But it was quite impossible, for the orders had definitely stated that ‘the landing party will be under the command of Captain Horatio Hornblower of the Hotspur.’ That sentence had been explained in advance in the preceding one . . . ‘because Lieut. Côtard is senior to Lieut. Bush.’ Côtard could not possibly have been transferred from one ship and given command of a landing party largely provided by another; nor could he be expected to serve under an officer junior to him, and the only way round the difficulty had been that Hornblower should command. Pellew, writing out those orders in the quiet of his magnificent cabin, had been like a Valkyrie in the Norse legends now attaining a strange popularity in England — he had been a Chooser of the Slain. Those scratches of his pen could well mean that Bush would live and Hornblower would die.
But there was another side to the picture. Hornblower had grudgingly to admit to himself that he would have been no more happy if Bush had been in command. The operation planned could only be successful if carried through with a certain verve and with an exactness of timing that Bush possibly could not provide. Absurdly, Hornblower was glad he was to command, and that was one demonstration in his mind of the defects of his temperament.
“You are sure about your orders until I return, Mr Bush?” he said. “And in case I don’t return?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hornblower had felt a cold wave up his spine while he spoke so casually about the possibility of his death. An hour from now he might be a disfigured stiffening corpse.
“Then I’ll get myself ready,” he said, turning away with every appearance of nonchalance.
He had hardly reached his cabin when Grimes entered.
“Sir!” said Grimes, and Hornblower swung round and looked at him. Grimes was in his early twenties, skinny, highly strung, and excitable. Now his face was white — his duties as steward meant that he spent little time on deck in the sun — and his lips were working horribly.