Lieutenant Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“But later on —” said Buckland.

“Later on’s another day, sir. We can be sure of one thing, though — admirals don’t like to be kept waiting, sir.”

“I suppose I’d better go,” said Buckland.

Hornblower returned to Bush’s cabin after having supervised the departure of the gig. This time his smile was clearly not forced; it played whimsically about the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Bush.

He tried to ease his position under the sheet that covered him. Now that the ship was stationary and the nearby land interfered with the free course of the wind the ship was much warmer already; the sun was shining down mercilessly, almost vertically over the deck that lay hardly more than a yard above Bush’s upturned face.

“You’re quite right, sir,” said Hornblower, stooping over him and adjusting the sheet. “There’s nothing to laugh at.”

“Then take that damned grin off your face,” said Bush, petulantly. Excitement and the heat were working on his weakness to make his head swim again.

“Aye aye, sir. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No,” said Bush.

“Very good, sir. I’ll attend to my other duties, then.”

Alone in his cabin Bush rather regretted Hornblower’s absence. As far as his weakness would permit, he would have liked to discuss the immediate future; he lay and thought about it, muzzy‑mindedly, while the sweat soaked the bandages that swathed him. But there could be no logical order in his thoughts. He swore feebly to himself. Listening, he tried to guess what was going on in the ship with hardly more success than when he had tried to guess the future. He closed his eyes to sleep, and he opened them again when he started wondering about how Buckland was progressing in his interview with Admiral Lambert.

A lob‑lolly boy — sick‑berth attendant — came in with a tray that bore a jug and a glass. He poured out a glassful of liquid and with an arm supporting Bush’s neck he held it to Bush’s lips. At the touch of the cool liquid, and as its refreshing scent reached his nose, Bush suddenly realised he was horribly thirsty, and he drank eagerly, draining the glass.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Lemonade, sir, with Mr Hornblower’s respects.”

“Mr Hornblower?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a bumboat alongside an’ Mr Hornblower bought some lemons an’ told me to squeeze ’em for you.”

“My thanks to Mr Hornblower.”

“Aye aye, sir. Another glass, sir?”

“Yes.”

That was better. Later on there were a whole succession of noises which he found hard to explain to himself: the tramp of booted feet on the deck, shouted orders, oars and more oars rowing alongside. Then there were steps outside his cabin door and Clive, the surgeon, entered, ushering in a stranger, a skinny, white‑haired man with twinkling blue eyes.

“I’m Sankey, surgeon of the naval hospital ashore,” he announced. “I’ve come to take you where you’ll be more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to leave the ship,” said Bush.

“In the service,” said Sankey, with professional cheerfulness, “you should have learned that it is the rule always to have to do what you don’t want to do.”

He turned back the sheet and contemplated Bush’s bandaged form.

“Pardon this liberty,” he said, still hatefully cheerful, “but I have to sign a receipt for you — I trust you’ve never signed a receipt for ship’s stores without examining into their condition, lieutenant.”

“Damn you to hell!” said Bush.

“A nasty temper,” said Sankey with a glance at Clive. “I fear you have not prescribed a sufficiency of opening medicine.”

He laid hands on Bush, and with Clive’s assistance dexterously twitched him over so that he lay face downward.

“The Dagoes seem to have done a crude job of carving; you, sir,” went on Sankey, addressing Bush’s defenceless back. “Nine wounds, I understand.”

“And fifty‑three stitches,” added Clive.

“That will look well in the Gazette,” said Sankey with giggle; and proceeded to extemporise a quotation: “Lieutenant — ah — Bush received no fewer than nine wounds in the course of his heroic defence, but I am happy to state that he is rapidly recovering from them.”

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