It was when they saw Doris hoisting out her boats, despatching additional manpower, that Bush could turn to Hornblower with a conventional remark. Bush was not aware of his own appearance, his powder-blackened face, his hollow cheeks and his sprouting beard, but even without that knowledge the setting was bizarre enough to appeal to Bush’s crude sense of humour.
“A Happy New Year to you, sir,” said Bush, with a death’s head grin.
It was New Year’s Day. Then to the two men the same thought occurred simultaneously, and Bush’s grin was replaced by something more serious.
“I hope your good lady . . .”
He was taken unawares, and could not find the formal words.
“Thank you, Mr Bush.”
It was on New Year’s Day that the child was expected. Maria might be in labour at this moment while they stood there talking.
CHAPTER 17
“Will you be having dinner on board, sir?” asked Doughty. “No,” replied Hornblower. He hesitated before he launched into the next speech that had occurred to him, but he decided to continue. “Tonight Horatio Hornblower dines with Horatio Hornblower.”
“Yes, sir.”
No joke ever fell as flat as that one. Perhaps – certainly – it was too much to expect Doughty to catch the classical allusion, but he might at least have smiled, because it was obvious that his captain had condescended so far as to be facetious.
“You’ll need your oilskins, sir. It’s raining heavily still,” said Doughty of the almost immovable countenance.
“Thank you.”
It seemed to have rained every single day since Hotspur had crawled into Plymouth Sound. Hornblower walked out from the dockyard with the rain rattling on his oilskins as if it were hail and not rain, and it continued all the time it took him to make his way to Driver’s Alley. The landlady’s little daughter opened the door to his knock, and as he walked up the stairs to his lodgings he heard the voice of the other Horatio Hornblower loudly proclaiming his sorrows. He opened the door and entered the small, hot stuffy room where Maria was standing with the baby over her shoulder, its long clothes hanging below her waist. Her face lit with pleasure when she saw him, and she could hardly wait for him to peel off his dripping oilskins before she came to his arms. Hornblower kissed her hot cheek and tried to look round the corner at little Horatio, but the baby only put his face into his mother’s shoulder and wailed.
“He’s been fractious today, dear,” said Maria, apologetically.
“Poor little fellow! And what about you, my dear!” Hornblower was careful to make Maria the centre of his thoughts whenever he was with her.
“I’m well enough now, dear. I can go up and down the stairs like a bird.”
“Excellent.”
Maria patted the baby’s back.
“I wish he would be good. I want him to smile for his father.”
“Perhaps I could try?”
“Oh, no!”
Maria was quite shocked at the notion that a man should hold a crying baby, even his own, but it was a delightful kind of shock, all the same, and she yielded the baby to his proffered arms. Hornblower held his child – it was always a slight surprise to find how light that bundle of clothes was – and looked down at the rather amorphous features and the wet nose.
“There!” said Hornblower. The act of transfer had quieted little Horatio for a moment at least.
Maria stood bathed in happiness at the sight of her husband holding her son. And Hornblower’s emotions were strangely mixed; one emotion was astonishment at finding pleasure in holding his child, for he found it hard to believe that he was capable of such sentiment. Maria held the back of the fireside armchair so that he could sit down in it, and then, greatly daring, kissed his hair.
“And how is the ship?” she asked, leaning over him.
“She’s nearly ready for sea,” said Hornblower.
Hotspur had been in and out of dock, her bottom cleaned, her seams recaulked, her shot holes patched. Her new foremast had been put in, and the riggers had set up the standing rigging. She only had to renew her stores.