“A glass of wine, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“With pleasure.”
Cornwallis took the glass in his hand and looked round: It was significant that it was Mrs Mason whom he addressed.
“Has the health of the happy couple been drunk yet?”
“No, sir,” answered Mrs Mason, in a perfect ecstasy.
“Then may I do so? Ladies, gentlemen. I ask you all to stand and join me on this happy occasion. May they never know sorrow. May they always enjoy health and prosperity. May the wife always find comfort in the knowledge that the husband is doing his duty for King and Country, and may the husband be supported in his duty by the loyalty of the wife. And let us hope that in time to come there will be a whole string of young gentlemen who will wear the King’s uniform after their father’s example, and a whole string of young ladies to be mothers of further young gentlemen. I give you the health of the bride and groom.”
The health was drunk amid acclamation, with all eyes turned on the blushing Maria, and then from her all eyes turned on Hornblower. He rose; he had realized, before Cornwallis had reached the midpoint of his speech, that the Admiral was using words he had used scores of times before, at scores of weddings of his officers. Hornblower, keyed up on the occasion, met Cornwallis’s eyes and grinned. He would give as good as he got; he would reply with a speech exactly similar to the scores that Cornwallis had listened to.
“Sir William, ladies and gentlemen, I can only thank you in the name of” – Hornblower reached down and took Maria’s hand – “my wife and myself.”
As the laughter died away – Hornblower had well known that the company would laugh at his mention of Maria as his wife, although he himself did not think it a subject for laughter – Cornwallis looked at his watch, and Hornblower hastened to thank him for his presence and to escort him to the door. Beyond the threshold Cornwallis turned and thumped him on the chest with his large hand.
“I’ll add another line to my orders for you,” he said; Hornblower was acutely aware that Cornwallis’s friendly smile was accompanied by a searching glance.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll add my written permission for you to sleep out of your ship for tonight and tomorrow night.”
Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; for once in his life his readiness of wit had deserted him. His mind was so busy reassessing the situation that it had nothing to spare for his organ of speech.
“I thought you might have forgotten,” said Cornwallis, grinning. “Hotspur’s part of the Channel fleet now. Her captain is forbidden by law to sleep anywhere except on board without the permission of the Commander-in-Chief. Well, you have it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, at last able to articulate.
“Maybe you won’t sleep ashore again for a couple of years. Maybe more than that, if Boney fights it out.”
“I certainly think he’ll fight, sir.”
“In that case you and I will meet again off Ushant in three weeks’ time. So now good-bye, once more.”
For some time after Cornwallis had left Hornblower stood by the half-closed door of the coffee-room in deep thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the nearest he could get to pacing up and down. War was coming; he had always been certain of that, because Bonaparte would never retreat from the position he had taken up. But until this moment Hornblower had thought recklessly that he would not be ordered to sea until war was declared, in two or three weeks’ time, after the final negotiations had broken down. He had been utterly wrong in this surmise, and he was angry with himself on that account. The facts that he had a good crew – the first harvest of the press – that his ship could be quickly made ready for sea, that she was small and of no account in the balance of power, even that she was of light draught and therefore well adapted to the mission Cornwallis had allotted her, should have warned him that he would be packed off to sea at the earliest possible moment. He should have foreseen all this and he had not.