The appearance of Captain Sir Thomas Fell on the quarterdeck took something away from the feeling of well-being. Sir Thomas was a gloomy, lantern-jawed individual who would feel it his bounden duty to come and be polite to his Admiral, and who would never have the sensitivity to be aware when his presence was undesired.
“Good morning, My Lord,” said the captain, touching his hat.
“Good morning, Sir Thomas,” replied Hornblower, returning the salute.
“A fine fresh morning, My Lord.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Sir Thomas was looking over his ship with a captain’s eye, along the decks, up aloft, and then turning aft to observe where, right astern, a smudgy line on the horizon marked the position of the hills of Puerto Rico. Hornblower suddenly realised that he wanted his breakfast more than anything on earth; and simultaneously he realised that he now could not gratify that desire as instantaneously as a Commander-in-Chief should be able to. There were limitations of politeness that constrained even a Commander-in-Chief – or that constrained him at least. He could not turn away and go below without exchanging a few more sentences with Fell.
“Maybe we’ll catch something today, My Lord,” said Fell; instinctively with the words the eyes of both men turned aloft to where a look-out sat perched up at the dizzy height of the main topgallant masthead.
“Let’s hope we do,” said Hornblower, and, because he had never succeeded in liking Fell, and because the last thing he wanted to do was to enter into a technical discussion before breakfast, he blundered on so as to conceal these feelings. “It’s likely enough.”
“The Spaniards will want to run every cargo they can before the convention’s signed,” said Fell.
“So we decided,” agreed Hornblower. Re-hashing old decisions before breakfast was not to his taste, but it was typical of Fell to do that.
“And this is the landfall they’d make,” went on Fell, remorselessly, glancing astern again at Puerto Rico on the horizon.
“Yes,” said Hornblower. Another minute or two of this pointless conversation and he would be free to escape below.
Fell took the speaking-trumpet and directed it upwards.
“Masthead, there! Keep a good lookout or I’ll know the reason why!”
“Aye aye, sir!” came the reply.
“Head money, My Lord,” said Fell, in apologetic explanation.
“We all find it useful,” answered Hornblower, politely.
Head money was paid by the British Government for slaves freed on the high seas, to the Royal Naval ships concerned in the capture of the slaves, and divided among the ship’s company like any other prize money. It was a small fund compared with the gigantic sums acquired during the great wars, but at five pounds a head a big capture could bring in a substantial sum to the ship making the capture. And of that substantial sum one-quarter went to the captain. On the other hand, one-eighth went to the Admiral commanding, wherever he happened to be. Hornblower, with twenty ships at sea under his command, was entitled to one-eighth of all their head money. It was a system of division which explained how during the great wars the Admirals commanding the Channel Fleet or in the Mediterranean became millionaires, like Lord Keith.
“No one could find it more useful than I, My Lord,” said Fell.
“Maybe,” said Hornblower.
Hornblower knew vaguely that Fell was in difficulties about money. He had had many years of half pay since Waterloo, and even now as captain of a fifth-rate his pay and allowances were less than twenty pounds a month – lucky though he was, in peacetime, to have command even of a fifth-rate. He had had experience himself of being a poor captain, of wearing cotton stockings instead of silk, and brass epaulettes instead of gold. But he had no desire whatever to discuss the Tables of Personal Pay before breakfast.
“Lady Fell, My Lord,” went on Fell, persistently, “has a position to maintain in the world.”
She was an extravagant woman, so Hornblower had heard.
“Let’s hope we have some luck today, then,” said Hornblower, still thinking about breakfast.
It was a melodramatic coincidence that at that very moment a hail came down from the masthead.
“Sail ho! Sail right to wind’ard!”