“Yes, sir. Then I’ll serve this one with drawn butter and I’ll see what I can do tomorrow, sir.”
“Do whatever you damned well like and don’t trouble me,” said Hornblower.
He was working into a worse and worse temper. He not only had to storm batteries but he also had to remember about keeping lobsters alive. And Pellew was leaving the Brest fleet; the official orders he had just read gave details about salutes to the new flags tomorrow. And tomorrow this damned Doughty and his damned mayonnaise, whatever that was, would be pawing over his patched shirts.
“Yes, sir,” said Doughty, and disappeared as quietly as he had entered.
Hornblower went out on deck to pace off his bad temper. The first breath of the delightful evening air helped to soothe him; so, too, did the hurried movement of everyone on the quarterdeck over to the lee side so as to leave the weather side to him. For him there was as much space as heart could desire — five long strides forward and aft — but all the other officers had now to take the air under crowded conditions. Let ’em. He had to write out his report to Pellew three times, the original draught, the fair copy, and the copy in his confidential letter book. Some captains gave that work to their clerks, but Hornblower would not do so. Captain’s clerks made a practice of exploiting their confidential position; there were officers in the ship who would be glad to hear what their captain said about them, and what the future plans might be. Martin would never have the chance. He could confine himself to muster‑rolls and returns of stores and the other nuisances that plagued a captain’s life.
Now Pellew was leaving them, and that was a disaster. Earlier today Hornblower had actually allowed his mind to dally with the notion that some day he might know the inexpressible joy of being ‘made Post’, of being promoted to Captain. That called for the strongest influence, in the Fleet and in the Admiralty. With Pellew’s transfer he had lost a friend in the Fleet. With Parry’s retirement he had lost a friend in the Admiralty — he did not know a single soul there. His promotion to Commander had been a fantastic stroke of luck. When Hotspur should be paid off there were three hundred ambitious young Commanders all with uncles and cousins and all anxious to take his place. He could find himself rotting on the beach on half-pay. With Maria. With Maria and the child. The reverse side of the penny was no more attractive than the front.
This was not the way to work off the gloom that threatened to engulf him. He had written Maria a letter to be proud of, reassuring, cheerful, and as loving as he had found it possible to make it. Over there was Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating, refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained nervous condition allowed him to believe. It took a full hour of pacing to convince him fully of this. At the end of that time the comfortably monotonous exercise had slowed down his overactive mind. He was healthily tired now, and the moment he thought about it he knew he was ravenously hungry. He had seen Doughty flitting about the deck more than once, for however lost in distraction Hornblower might be he nevertheless took instant note, consciously or subconsciously, of everything that went on in the ship. He was growing desperately impatient, and night had entirely closed in, when his pacing was intercepted.
“Your dinner’s ready, sir.”
Doughty stood respectfully in front of him.
“Very well. I’ll come.”
Hornblower sat himself down at the chart‑room table. Doughty standing at his chair in the cramped space.
“One moment, sir, while I bring your dinner from the galley. May I pour you some cider, sir?”
“Pour me some . . . ?”
But Doughty was already pouring from jug to cup, and then he vanished. Hornblower tasted gingerly. There was no doubt about it, it was excellent cider, rough and yet refined, fruity and yet in no way sweet. After water months in cask it was heavenly. He only took two preliminary sips before his head went back and the whole cupful shot delightfully down his throat. He had not begun to debate this curious phenomenon when Doughty slipped into the chart‑room again.