“Thank you, Mr Gerard.” The words came slowly and coldly as he forced himself to utter them. “My compliments to Mr Harcourt and that will do very well.”
“Aye aye, My Lord. This will be the first appearance of your flag in Port of Spain, and a salute will be fired.”
“Very well.”
“The Governor, by virtue of his appointment, takes precedence of you, My Lord. Your Lordship must therefore pay the first call. Shall I make a signal to that effect?”
“Thank you, Mr Gerard. I would be obliged if you would.”
The horror still had to be gone through and endured. He had to make himself spick and span; he could not appear on deck unshaven and dirty and untidy. He had to shave and endure Giles’s conversation.
“Fresh water, My Lord,” said Giles, bringing in a steaming can. “Cap’n’s given permission, seeing that we’ll be watering today.”
There might once have been sheer sensuous pleasure in shaving in fresh water, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure in standing on deck watching Crab make the passage of the Dragon’s Mouth, in looking about him at new lands, in entering a new port, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure once in fresh linen, even in a crisp new neckcloth, even in his ribbon and star and gold-hilted sword. There might have been pleasure in hearing the thirteen guns of his salute fired and answered, but there was none now – there was only the agony of knowing that never again would a salute be fired for him, never again would the whole ship stand at attention for him as he went over the side. He had to hold himself stiff and straight so as not to droop like a weakling in his misery. He even had to blink hard to keep the tears from overflowing down his cheeks as if he were a sentimental Frenchman. The blazing blue sky overhead might have been black for all he knew.
The Governor was a ponderous Major-General, with a red ribbon and a star, too. He went rigidly through the formalities of the reception, and then unbent as soon as they were alone together.
“Delighted to have this visit from you, My Lord,” he said. “Please sit down. I think you will find that chair comfortable. I have some sherry which I think you will find tolerable. May I pour Your Lordship a glass?”
He did not wait for an answer, but busied himself with the decanter and glasses.
“By the way, My Lord, have you heard the news? Boney’s dead.”
Hornblower had not sat down. He had intended to refuse the sherry; the Governor would not care to drink with a man who had lost his honour. Now he sat down with a jerk, and automatically took the glass offered him. The sound he made in reply to the Governor’s news was only a croak.
“Yes,” went on the Governor. “He died three weeks back in St Helena. They’ve buried him there, and that’s the last of him. Well – are you quite well, My Lord?”
“Quite well, thank you,” said Hornblower.
The cool twilit room was swimming round him. As he came back to sanity he thought of St Elizabeth of Hungary. She, disobeying her husband’s commands, had been carrying food to the poor – an apron full of bread – when her husband saw her.
“What have you in your apron?” he demanded.
“Roses,” lied St Elizabeth.
“Show me,” said her husband.
St Elizabeth showed him – and her apron was full of roses.
Life could begin anew, thought Hornblower.
THE STAR OF THE SOUTH
Here where the trade winds blew at their freshest, just within the tropics, in the wide unbroken Atlantic, was, as Hornblower decided at that moment, the finest stretch of water for a yachting excursion to be found anywhere on the globe. This was nothing more than a yachting excursion, to his mind. Only recently he had emerged from a profound spiritual experience during which the peace of the whole world had depended on his judgement; by comparison it seemed now as if the responsibilities of being Commander-in-Chief on the West Indian Station were mere nothings. He stood on the quarterdeck of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Clorinda, balancing easily as she reached to windward under moderate sail, and allowed the morning sunshine to stream down on him and the trade wind to blow round his ears. With the pitch and the roll as Clorinda shouldered against the sea the shadows of the weather rigging swooped back and forth over the deck; when she took a roll to windward, towards the nearly level morning sun, the shadows of the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds flicked across his eyes in rapid succession, hypnotically adding to his feeling of well-being. To be a Commander-in-Chief, with nothing more to worry about than the suppression of the slave trade, the hunting down of piracy, and the policing of the Caribbean, was an experience more pleasant than any Emperor, or even any poet, could ever know. The bare-legged seamen washing down the decks were laughing and joking; the level sun was calling up dazzling rainbows in the spray flung up by the weather bow; and he could have breakfast at any moment that he wanted it – standing here on the quarterdeck he was finding additional pleasure in anticipation and wantonly postponing that moment.