That was the first point, the first pill to swallow. Next he had to find out why his judgement had been so faulty. He knew the answer instantly, but — and he despised himself for this even more — he flinched from expressing it. But here it was. He had allowed his judgement to be clouded on account of Maria. He had shrunk from hurting her, and in consequence he had refused to allow his mind to make calculations about the future. He had gone recklessly forward in the wild hope that some stroke of good fortune would save him from having to deal her this blow.
He pulled himself up abruptly at this point. Good fortune? Nonsense. He was in command of his own ship, and was being set in the forefront of the battle. This was his golden chance to distinguish himself. That was his good fortune — it would have been maddening bad luck to have been left in harbour. Hornblower could feel the well‑remembered thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing action again, of risking reputation — and life — in doing his duty, in gaining glory, and in (what was really the point) justifying himself in his own eyes. Now he was sane again; he could see things in their proper proportion. He was a naval officer first, and a married man only second, and a bad second at that. But — but — that did not make things any easier. He would still have to tear himself free from Maria’s arms.
Nor could he stay here outside the coffee‑room any longer. He must go back, despite his mental turmoil. He turned and re‑entered the room, closing the door behind him.
“It will look well in the Naval Chronicle,” said Mrs Mason, “that the Commander‑in‑Chief proposed the health of the happy pair. Now, Horatio, some of your guests have empty plates.”
Hornblower was still trying to be a good host when he saw across the room the worried face of the innkeeper again; it called for a second glance to see what had caused him to come in. He was ushering in Hornblower’s new coxwain, Hewitt, a very short man who escaped observation across the room. Hewitt made up in breadth a good deal of what he lacked in height, and he sported a magnificent pair of glossy black side‑whiskers in the style which was newly fashionable on the lower‑deck. He came rolling across the room, his straw hat in his hand, and, knuckling his forehead, gave Horatio a note. The address was in Bush’s handwriting and in the correct phrasing, although now a lithe old‑fashioned — Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander. Silence fell on the assembled company — a little rudely, Hornblower thought — as he read the few lines.
H.M. Sloop Hotspur
2 April, 1803
Sir,
I hear from the dockyard that the first of the lighters is ready to come alongside. Extra pay is not yet authorized for dockyard hands, so that work will cease at nightfall. I respectfully submit that I can supervise the embarkation of the stores if you should find it inconvenient to return on board.
Your obdt servant,
Wm Bush.
“Is the boat at the Hard?” demanded Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Oh, Horry,” said Maria, with a hint of reproach in her voice. No, it was disappointment, not reproach.
“My dear —” said Hornblower. It occurred to him that he might now quote ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much’ but he instantly discarded the idea; it would not be at all suitable at this moment, with this wife.
“You’re going to the ship again,” said Maria.
“Yes.”
He could not stay away from the ship while there was work to be done. Today, by driving the hands, they could get half the stores on board at least. Tomorrow they could finish, and if Ordnance responded to the prodding of the Admiral, they could get the powder and shot on board as well. Then they could sail at dawn the day after tomorrow.
“I’ll be back again this evening,” he said. He forced himself to smile, to look concerned, to forget that he was on the threshold of adventure, that before him lay a career of possible distinction.