Then another thought struck him, occasioned by the discovery that the fuse had burned a hole in his right hand glove. Those were the gloves Maria had given him on that dark morning when he had walked with her from the George to take Hotspur to sea.
CHAPTER 19
In the Iroise, comfortably sheltered with the wind to the east of south, Hotspur was completing her stores again. This was the second time since her refitting in Plymouth that she had gone through this laborious process, refilling her casks from the water-hoys, replacing the empty beef and pork barrels from the victuallers, and coaxing all the small stores she could from the itinerant slop-ship that Cornwallis had put into commission. She had been six months continuously at sea, and was now ready for three more.
Hornblower watched with something of relief the slop-ship bearing away; that six months at sea had barely been sufficient to get his ship clear of all the plagues that had come on board at Plymouth; disease, bed bugs, fleas and lice. The bed bugs had been the worst; they had been hunted from one hiding place in the woodwork to another, scorched with smouldering oakum, walled in with the paint, time after time, and each time that he had thought he had extirpated the pests some unfortunate seaman would approach his division officer and with a knuckling of his forehead would report, “Please, sir, I think I’ve got ’em this time.”
He had seven letters from Maria to read – he had opened the last one already to make sure that she and little Horatio were well – and he had already completed this task when Bush came knocking at his door. Sitting at the chart-table Hornblower listened to what Bush had to report; trifles, only, and Hornblower wondered at Bush disturbing his captain about them. Then Bush produced something from his side pocket, and Hornblower, with a sigh, knew what had been the real object of this visit. It was the latest number of the Naval Chronicle, come on board with the mail; the wardroom mess subscribed to it jointly. Bush thumbed through the pages, and then laid the open magazine before him, a gnarled finger indicating the passage he had found. It only took Hornblower a couple of minutes to read it; Chambers’ report to Cornwallis on the affray off Aber Wrack, which apparently had been published in the Gazette to inform the public regarding the circumstances in which Grasshopper had been lost. Bush’s finger pointed again to the last four lines. ‘Captain Hornblower informs me that Hotspur suffered no casualties although she was struck by a five-inch shell which did considerable damage aloft but which fortunately failed to explode.’
“Well, Mr Bush?” Hornblower put a stern lack of sympathy in his voice to warn Bush as much as he could.
“It isn’t right, sir.”
This routine of serving so close to home had serious disadvantages. It meant that in only two or three months the fleet would be reading what had appeared in the Gazette and the newspapers, and it was extraordinary how touchy men were about what was written about them. It could well be subversive of discipline, and Hornblower meant to deal with that possibility from the start.
“Would you kindly explain, Mr Bush?”
Bush was not to be deterred. He blunderingly repeated himself. “It isn’t right, sir.”
“Not right? Do you mean that it wasn’t a five-inch shell?”
“No, sir. It . . .”
“Do you imply that it didn’t do considerable damage aloft?”
“Of course it did, sir, but . . .”
“Perhaps you’re implying that the shell really did explode?”
“Oh no, sir. I . . .”
“Then I fail to see what you are taking exception to, Mr Bush.”
It was highly unpleasant to be cutting and sarcastic with Mr Bush, but it had to be done. Yet Bush was being unusually obstinate.
“‘T’isn’t right, sir. ‘T’isn’t fair. ‘T’isn’t fair to you, sir, or the ship.”
“Nonsense, Mr Bush. What d’you think we are? Actresses? Politicians? We’re King’s officers, Mr Bush, with a duty to do, and no thought to spare for anything else. Never speak to me again like this, if you please, Mr Bush.”