Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Pellew provides good dinners,” said Lord Henry, eagerly, scanning the dishes with which the stewards were now crowding the table. The largest dish was placed in front of him, and when the immense silver dish cover was whipped away a magnificent pie was revealed. The pastry top was built up into a castle, from the turret of which flew a paper Union Jack.

“Prodigious!” exclaimed Cornwallis. “Sir Edward, what lies below the dungeons here?”

Pellew shook his head sadly. “Only beef and kidneys, sir. Beef stewed to rags. Our ship’s bullock this time, as ever, was too tough for ordinary mortals, and only stewing would reduce his steaks to digestibility. So I called in the aid of his kidneys for a beefsteak and kidney pie.”

“But what about the flour?”

“The Victualling Officer sent me a sack, sir. Unfortunately it had rested in bilge water, as could only be expected, but there was just enough at the top unspoiled for the pie-crust.” Pellew’s gesture, indicating the silver bread barges filled with ship’s biscuit, hinted that in more fortunate circumstances they might have been filled with fresh rolls.

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” said Cornwallis. “Lord Henry, might I trouble you to serve me, if you can find it in your heart to destroy those magnificent battlements?”

Paulet set to work with carving knife and fork on the pie, while Hornblower pondered the phenomenon of the son of a Marquis helping the son of an Earl to a steak and kidney pie made from a ration bullock and spoiled flour.

“That’s a ragout of pork beside you, Captain Hosier,” said Pellew. “Or so my chef would call it. You may find it even saltier than usual, because of the bitter tears he shed into it. Captain Durham has the only live pig left in the Channel Fleet, and no gold of mine would coax it from him, so that my poor fellow had to make do with the contents of the brine tub.”

“He has succeeded perfectly with the pie, at least,” commented Cornwallis. “He must be an artist.”

“I engaged him during the Peace,” said Pellew, “and brought him with me on the outbreak of war. At quarters he points a gun on the starboard side lower-deck.”

“If his aim is as good as his cooking,” said Cornwallis, reaching for his glass which a steward had filled, “then – confusion to the French!”

The toast was drunk with murmured acclaim.

“Fresh vegetables!” said Lord Henry ecstatically. “Cauliflower!”

“Your quota is on the way to your ship at this moment, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis. “We try not to forget you.”

“Hotspur’s like Uriah the Hittite,” said a saturnine captain at the end of the table whose name appeared to be Collins. “In the forefront of the battle.”

Hornblower was grateful to Collins for that speech, because it brought home to him a truth, like a bright light, that he had not realized before; he would rather be on short commons in the forefront of the battle than back in the main body with plenty of vegetables.

“Young carrots!” went on Lord Henry, peering into each vegetable dish in turn. “And what’s this? I can’t believe it!”

“Spring greens, Lord Henry,” said Pellew. “We still have to wait for peas and beans.”

“Wonderful!”

“How do you get these chickens so fat, Sir Edward?” asked Grindall.

“A matter of feeding, merely. Another secret of my chef.”

“In the public interest you should disclose it,” said Cornwallis. “The life of a sea-sick chicken rarely conduces to putting on flesh.”

“Well, sir, since you ask. This ship has a complement of six hundred and fifty men. Every day thirteen fifty-pound bread bags are emptied. The secret lies in the treatment of those bags.”

“But how?” asked several voices.

“Tap them, shake them, before emptying. Not enough to make wasteful crumbs, but sharply enough. Then take out the biscuits quickly, and behold! At the bottom of each bag is a mass of weevils and maggots, scared out of their natural habitat and with no time allowed to seek shelter again. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing that fattens a chicken so well as a diet of rich biscuit-fed weevils. Hornblower, your plate’s’ still empty. Help yourself, man.”

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