“That is, a land‑crab salad before you, Mr Hornblower. Coconut‑fed land crab. Some prefer it to dairy‑fed pork. Perhaps you will serve it to those who would care for some?”
The steward brought in a vast smoking joint which he put on the table.
“A saddle of fresh lamb,” said the captain. “Sheep do badly in these islands and I fear this may not be fit to eat. But perhaps you will at least try it. Mr Buckland, will you carve? You see, gentlemen, I still have some real potatoes left — one grows weary of yams. Mr Hornblower, will you take wine?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And Mr Bush — to your speedy recovery, sir.”
Bush drained his glass thirstily. Sankey had warned him, when he left the hospital, that over indulgence in spirituous liquors might result in inflammation of his wounds, but there was pleasure in pouring the wine down his throat and feeling the grateful warmth it brought to his stomach. The dinner proceeded.
“You gentlemen who have served on this station before must be acquainted with this,” said the captain, contemplating a steaming dish that had been laid before him. “A West Indian pepper pot — not as good as one finds in Trinidad, I fear. Mr Hornblower, will you make your first essay? Come in!”
The last words were in response to a knock on the cabin door. A smartly dressed midshipman entered. His beautiful uniform, his elegant bearing, marked him as one of that class of naval officer in receipt of a comfortable allowance from home, or even of substantial means of his own. Some sprig of the nobility, doubtless, serving his legal time until favouritism and interest should whisk him up the ladder of promotion.
“I’m sent by the admiral, sir,” he announced.
Of course. Bush, his perceptions comfortably sensitised with wine, could see at once that with those clothes and that manner he must be on the admiral’s staff.
“And what’s your message?” asked Cogshill.
“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and he’d like Mr Hornblower’s presence on board the flagship as soon as is convenient.”
“And dinner not half way finished!” commented Cogshill, looking at Hornblower. But an admiral’s request for something as soon as convenient meant immediately, convenient or not. Very likely it was a matter of no importance, either.
“I’d better leave, sir, if I may,” said Hornblower. He glanced at Buckland. “May I have a boat, sir?”
“Pardon me, sir,” interposed the midshipman. “The admiral said that the boat which brought me would serve to convey you to the flagship.”
“That settles it,” said Cogshill. “You’d better go, Mr Hornblower. We’ll save some of this pepper pot for you against your return.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, rising.
As soon as he had left, the captain asked the inevitable question.
“What in the world does the admiral want with Hornblower?”
He looked round the table and received no verbal reply. There was a strained look on Buckland’s face, however, as Bush saw. It seemed as if in his misery Buckland was clairvoyant.
“Well, we’ll know in time,” said Cogshill. “The wine’s beside you, Mr Buckland. Don’t let it stagnate.”
Dinner went on. The pepper pot rasped on Bush’s palate and inflamed his stomach, making the wine doubly grateful when he drank it. When the cheese was removed, and the cloth with it, the steward brought in fruit and nuts in silver dishes.
“Port,” said Captain Cogshill. “’79. A good year. About this brandy I know little, as one might expect in these times.”
Brandy could only come from France, smuggled, presumably, and as a result of trading with the enemy.
“But here,” went on the captain, “is some excellent Dutch geneva — I bought it at the prize sale after we took St Eustatius. And here is another Dutch liquor — it comes from Curaçao, and if the orange flavour is not too sickly for your palates you might find it pleasant. Swedish schnapps, fiery but excellent, I fancy — that was after we captured Saba. The wise man does not mix grain and grape, so they say, but I understand schnapps is made from potatoes, and so does not come under the ban. Mr Buckland?”