“Mark my words,” said one of them, thumping his hand with his fist, “we’ll be at war with him again soon enough.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“It’ll be war to the knife,” supplemented another. “If once he drives us to extremity, we shall never rest until Mr Napoleon Bonaparte is hanging to the nearest tree.”
The others agreed to that with a fierce roar, like wild beasts.
“Gentlemen,” said one of the players at Hornblower’s table, looking round over his shoulder. “Could you find it convenient to continue your discussion at the far end of the room? This end is dedicated to the most scientific and difficult of all games.”
The words were uttered in a pleasant high tenor, but it was obvious that the speaker had every expectation of being instantly obeyed.
“Very good, my lord,” said one of the naval officers.
That made Bush look more closely, and he recognised the speaker, although it was six years since he had seen him last. It was Admiral Lord Parry, who had been made a lord after Camperdown; now he was one of the commissioners of the navy, one of the people who could make or break a naval officer. The mop of snow‑white curls that ringed the bald spot on the top of his head, his smooth old-man’s face, his mild speech, accorded ill with the nickname of ‘Old Bloodybones’ which had been given him by the lower deck far back in the American War. Hornblower was moving in very high society. Bush watched Lord Parry extend a skinny white hand and cut the cards to Hornblower. It was obvious from his colouring that Parry, like Hornblower, had not been to sea for a long time. Hornblower dealt and the game proceeded in its paralysing stillness; the cards made hardly a sound as they fell on the green cloth, and each trick was picked up and laid down almost silently, with only the slightest click. The line of tricks in front of Parry grew like a snake, silent as a snake gliding over a rock, like a snake it closed on itself and then lengthened again, and then the hand was finished and the cards swept together.
“Small slam,” said Parry as the players attended to their markers, and that was all that was said. The two tiny words sounded as clearly and as briefly in the silence as two bells in the middle watch. Hornblower cut the cards and the next deal began in the same mystic silence. Bush could not see the fascination of it. He would prefer a game in which he could roar at his losses and exult over his winnings; and preferably one in which the turn of a single card, and not of the whole fifty‑two, would decide who had won and who had lost. No, he was wrong. There was undoubtedly a fascination about it, a poisonous fascination. Opium? No. This silent game was like the quiet interplay of duelling swords as compared with the crash of cutlass blades, and it was as deadly. A smallsword through the lungs killed as effectively as — more effectively than — the sweep of a cutlass.
“A short rubber,” commented Parry; the silence was over, and the cards lay in disorder on the table.
“Yes, my lord,” said Hornblower.
Bush, taking note of everything with the keen observation of anxiety, saw Hornblower put his hand to his breast pocket — the pocket that he had indicated as holding his reserve — and take out a little fold of one‑pound notes. When he had made his payment Bush could see that what he returned to his pocket was only a single note.
“You encountered the worst of good fortune,” said Parry, pocketing his winnings. “On the two occasions when you dealt, the trump that you turned up proved to be the only one that you held. I cannot remember another occasion when the dealer has held a singleton trump twice running.”
“In a long enough period of play, my lord,” said Hornblower, “every possible combination of cards can be expected.”
He spoke with a polite indifference that for a moment almost gave Bush heart to believe his losses were not serious, until he remembered the single note that had been put back into Hornblower’s breast pocket.