“Schnapps for me,” said Buckland a little thickly.
“Mr Bush?”
“I’ll drink along with you, sir.”
That was the easiest way of deciding.
“Then let us make it brandy. Gentlemen, may Boney grow bonier than ever.”
They drank the toast, and the brandy went down to warm Bush’s interior to a really comfortable pitch. He was feeling happy and relaxed, and two toasts later he was feeling better than he had felt since the Renown left Plymouth.
“Come in!” said the captain.
The door opened slowly, and Hornblower stood framed in the opening. There was the old look of strain in his face; Bush could see it even though Hornblower’s figure seemed to waver a little before his eyes — the way objects appeared over the rack of red‑hot cannon‑balls at Samaná — and although Hornblower’s countenance seemed to be a little fuzzy round the edges.
“Come in, come in, man,” said the captain. “The toasts are just beginning. Sit in your old place. Brandy for heroes, as Johnson said in his wisdom. Mr Bush!”
“V‑victorious war. O‑oceans of gore. P‑prizes galore. B‑b‑beauty ashore. Hic,” said Bush, inordinately proud of himself that he had remembered that toast and had it ready when called upon.
“Drink fair, Mr Hornblower,” said the captain, “we have a start of you already. A stern chase is a long chase.”
Hornblower put his glass to his lips again.
“Mr Buckland!”
“Jollity and — jollity and — jollity and — and — and — mirth,” said Buckland, managing to get the last word out at last. His face was as red as a beetroot and seemed to Bush’s heated imagination to fill the entire cabin like the setting sun; most amusing.
“You’ve come back from the admiral, Mr Hornblower,” said the captain with sudden recollection.
“Yes, sir.”
The curt reply seemed out of place in the general atmosphere of good‑will; Bush was distinctly conscious of it, and of the pause which followed.
“Is all well?” asked the captain at length, apologetic about prying into someone else’s business and yet led to do so by the silence.
“Yes, sir.” Hornblower was turning his glass round and round on the table between long nervous fingers, every finger a foot long, it seemed to Bush. “He has made me commander into Retribution.”
The words were spoken quietly, but they had the impact of pistol shots in the silence of the room.
“God bless my soul!” said the captain. “Then that’s our new toast. To the new commander, and a cheer for him too!”
Bush cheered lustily and downed his brandy.
“Good old Hornblower!” he said. “Good old Hornblower!”
To him it was really excellent news; he leaned over and patted Hornblower’s shoulder. He knew his face was one big smile, and he put his head on one side and his shoulder on the table so that Hornblower should get the full benefit of it.
Buckland put his glass down on the table with a sharp tap.
“Damn you!” he said. “Damn you! Damn you to Hell!”
“Easy there!” said the captain hastily. “Let’s fill the glasses. A brimmer there, Mr Buckland. Now, our country! Noble England! Queen of the waves!”
Buckland’s anger was drowned in the fresh flood of liquor, yet later in the session his sorrows overcame him and he sat at the table weeping quietly, with the tears running down his cheeks; but Bush was too happy to allow Buckland’s misery to affect him. He always remembered that afternoon as one of the most successful dinners he had ever attended. He could also remember Hornblower’s smile at the end of dinner.
“We can’t send you back to the hospital today,” said Hornblower. “You’d better sleep in your own cot tonight. Let me take you there.”
That was very agreeable. Bush put both arms round Hornblower’s shoulders and walked with dragging feet. It did not matter that his feet dragged and his legs would not function while he had this support; Hornblower was the best man in the world and Bush could announce it by singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ while lurching along the alleyway. And Hornblower lowered him on to the heaving cot and grinned down at him as he clung to the edges of the cot; Bush was a little astonished that the ship should sway like this while at anchor.