My dear Hornblower,
It is with infinite pain to myself that I have to confirm the news, conveyed to you in the official despatches, that your latest report will also be the last that I shall have the pleasure of reading. My flag has come, and I shall hoist it as Rear‑Admiral commanding the squadron assembling for the blockade of Rochefort. Rear Admiral Wm. Parker will take over the command of the Inshore Squadron and I have recommended you to him in the strongest terms although your actions speak even more strongly for you. But Commanding officers are likely to have their favourites, men with whom they are personally acquainted. We can hardly quarrel on this score, seeing that I have indulged myself in a favourite whose initials are H.H.! Now let us leave this subject for another even more personal.
I noted in your report that you have had the misfortune to lose your steward, and I take the liberty to send you James Doughty as a substitute. He was steward of the late Captain Stevens of the Magnificent, and he has been persuaded to volunteer for the Hotspur. I understand that he has had much practical experience in attending to gentlemen’s needs, and I hope you will find him suitable and that he will look after you for many years. If during that time you are reminded of me by his presence I shall be well satisfied.
Your sincere friend,
Ed. Pellew
Even with all his quickness of mind it took Hornblower a little while to digest the manifold contents of this letter after reading it. It was all bad news; bad news about the change of command, and just as bad, although in a different way, that he was being saddled with a gentleman’s gentleman who would sneer at his domestic arrangements. Yet if there was anything that a naval career taught anybody, it was to be philosophic about drastic changes.
“Doughty?” said Hornblower.
“Sir.”
Doughty looked respectful, but there might be something quizzical in his glance.
“You’re going to be my servant. Do your duty and you have nothing to fear.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
“You’ve brought your dunnage?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“The First Lieutenant will detail someone to show you where to sling your hammock. You’ll share a berth with my clerk.”
The captain’s steward was the only ordinary seaman in the ship who did not have to sleep in the tiers.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Then you can take up your duties.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was only a few minutes later that Hornblower, in his cabin, looked up to find a silent figure slipping in through the door; Doughty knew that as a personal servant he did not knock if the sentry told him the captain was alone.
“Have you had your dinner, sir?”
It took a moment to answer that question, at the end of a broken day following an entirely sleepless night. During that moment Doughty looked respectfully over Hornblower’s left shoulder. His eyes were a startling blue.
“No, I haven’t. You’d better see about something for me,” replied Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
The blue eyes looked round the cabin and found nothing.
“No. There are no cabin stores. You’ll have to go to the galley. Mr Simmonds will find something for me.” The ship’s cook, as a warrant officer, rated the ‘Mr’ in front of his name. “No. Wait. There are two lobsters somewhere in this ship. You’ll find ’em in a barrel of seawater somewhere on the booms. And that reminds me. Your predecessor has been dead for nearly twenty‑four hours and that water hasn’t been changed. You must do that. Go to the officer of the watch with my compliments and ask him to put the wash‑deck pump to work on it, That’ll keep one lobster alive while I have the other.”
“Yes, sir. Or you could have this one hot tonight and the other one cold tomorrow if I boil them both now, sir.”
“I could,” agreed Hornblower without committing himself.
“Mayonnaise,” said Doughty. “Are there any eggs in this ship, sir? Any salad oil?”
“No there are not!” rasped Hornblower. “There are no cabin stores whatever in this ship except those two damned lobsters.”