“The plate is hot, sir,” he said.
“What the devil’s this?” asked Hornblower.
“Lobster cutlets, sir,” said Doughty, pouring more cider, and then, with a gesture not quite imperceptible, he indicated the wooden saucer he had laid on the table at the same time. “Butter sauce, sir.”
Extraordinary. There were neat brown cutlets on his plate that bore no outward resemblance to lobster, but when Hornblower cautiously added sauce and tasted, the result was excellent. Minced lobster. And when Doughty took the cover off the cracked vegetable dish there was a dream of delight revealed. New potatoes, golden and lovely. He helped himself hurriedly and very nearly burned his mouth on them. Nothing could be quite as nice as the first new potatoes of the year.
“These came with the ship’s vegetables, sir,” explained Doughty. “I was in time to save them.”
Hornblower did not need to ask from what those new potatoes had been saved. He knew a good deal about Huffnell the purser, and he could guess at the appetite of the wardroom mess. Lobster cutlets and new potatoes and this pleasant butter sauce; he was enjoying his dinner, resolutely putting aside the knowledge that the ship’s biscuit in the bread barge was weevily. He was used to weevils, which always showed up after the first month at sea, or earlier if the biscuit had been long in store. He told himself as he took another mouthful of lobster cutlet that he would not allow a weevil in his biscuit to be a fly in his ointment.
He took another pull at the cider before he remembered to ask where it came from.
“I pledged your credit for it, sir,” said Doughty. “I took the liberty of doing so, to the extent of a quarter of a pound of tobacco.”
“Who had it?”
“Sir,” said Doughty, “I promised not to say.”
“Oh, very well,” said Hornblower.
There was only one source for cider — the Camilla, the lobster-boat he had seized last night. Of course the Breton fishermen who manned it would have a keg on board, and somebody had looted it; Martin, his clerk, most likely.
“I hope you bought the whole keg,” said Hornblower.
“Only some of it, I am afraid, sir. All that remained.”
Out of a two‑gallon keg of cider — Hornblower hoped it might be more — Martin could hardly have downed more than a gallon in twenty‑four hours. And Doughty must have noted the presence of a keg in the berth he shared with Martin; Hornblower was quite sure that more pressure than the offer of a mere quarter of a pound of tobacco had been applied to make Martin part with the keg, but he did not care.
“Cheese, sir,” said Doughty; Hornblower had eaten everything else in sight.
And the cheese — the ration cheese supplied for the ship’s company — was reasonably good, and the butter was fresh; a new firkin must have come in the boat and Doughty must somehow have got at it although the rancid previous assignment had not been used up. The cider jug was empty and Hornblower felt more comfortable than he had felt for days.
“I’ll go to bed now,” he announced.
“Yes, sir.”
Doughty opened the chart‑room door and Hornblower passed into his cabin. The lamp swayed from the deck beam. The patched nightshirt was laid out on the cot. Perhaps it was because he was full of cider that Hornblower did not resent Doughty’s presence as he brushed his teeth and made ready for bed. Doughty was at hand to take his coat as he pulled it off; Doughty retrieved his trousers when he let them fall; Doughty hovered by as he dropped into bed and pulled the blankets over him.
“I’ll brush this coat, sir. Here’s your bed gown if you’re called in the night, sir. Shall I put out the lamp, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Good night, sir.”
It was not until next morning that Hornblower remembered again that Grimes had hanged himself in this cabin. It was not until next morning that he remembered those minutes down in the magazine with the gunpowder. Doughty had already proved his worth.
Chapter 12