“Then —” said Bush.
He could not talk and think at the same time, not when his thoughts were as tumultuous as the ones this conclusion called up; war with France meant the re‑expansion of the navy; the threat of invasion and the needs of convoy would mean the commissioning of every small craft that could float and carry a gun. It would mean the end of half pay for him; it would mean walking a deck again and handling a ship under sail. And it would mean hardship again, danger, anxiety, monotony — all the concomitants of war. These thoughts rushed into his brain with so much velocity, and in such a continuous stream, that they made a sort of whirlpool of his mind, in which the good and the bad circled after each other, each in turn chasing the other out of his attention.
“War’s a foul business,” said Hornblower, solemnly. “Remember the things you’ve seen.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Bush; there was no need to particularize. But it was an unexpected remark, all the same. Hornblower grinned and relieved the tension.
“Well,” he said, “Boney can call himself Emperor if he likes. I have to earn my half guinea at the Long Rooms.”
Bush was about to take this opportunity to ask Hornblower how he was profiting there, but he was interrupted by a rumble outside the door and a knock.
“Here comes your bed,” said Hornblower, walking over to open the door.
Maria came trundling the thing in. She smiled at them.
“Over here or over there?” she asked.
Hornblower looked at Bush.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bush.
“I’ll put it against the wall, then.”
“Let me help,” said Hornblower.
“Oh no, sir. Please, sir, I can do it.”
The attention fluttered her — and Bush could see that with her sturdy figure she was in no need of help. To cover he confusion she began to thump at the bedding, putting the pillows into the pillowslips.
“I trust you have already had the mumps, Maria?” said Hornblower.
“Oh yes, sir. I had them as a child, on both sides.”
The exercise and her agitation between them had brought the colour into her cheeks. With blunt but capable hands she spread the sheet. Then she paused as another implication of Hornblower’s inquiry occurred to her.
“You’ve no need to worry, sir. I shan’t give them to you if you haven’t had them.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” salt Hornblower.
“Oh, sir,” said Maria, twitching the sheet into mathematical smoothness. She spread the blankets before she looked up again. “Are you going out directly, sir?”
“Yes. I ought to have left already.”
“Let me take that coat of yours for a minute, sir. I can sponge it and freshen it up.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have you go to that trouble, Maria.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble, sir. Of course not. Please let me, sir. It looks —”
“It looks the worse for wear,” said Hornblower, glancing down at it. “There’s no cure for old age that’s yet been discovered.”
“Please let me take it, sir. There’s some spirits of hartshorn downstairs. It will make quite a difference. Really it will.”
“But —”
“Oh, please, sir.”
Hornblower reluctantly put up his hand and undid a button.
“I’ll only be a minute with it,” said Maria, hastening to him. Her hands were extended to the other buttons, but a sweep of Hornblower’s quick nervous fingers had anticipated her. He pulled off his coat and she took it out of his hands.
“You’ve mended that shirt yourself,” she said, accusingly
“Yes, I have.”
Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn garment. Maria studied the patch.
“I would have done that for you if you’d asked me, sir.”
“And a good deal better, no doubt.”
“Oh, I wasn’t saying that, sir. But it isn’t fit that you should patch your own shirts.”
“Whose should I patch, then?”
Maria giggled.
“You’re too quick with your tongue for me,” she said. “Now, just wait here and talk to the lieutenant while I sponge this.”
She darted out of the room and they heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs, while Hornblower looked half ruefully at Bush.