“You’ll get your commission confirmed, sir,” said Bush, with a glance at Hornblower’s epaulette.
“I hope so,” said Hornblower.
Confirmation of a commission bestowed by a commander-in‑chief on a foreign station was a mere formality.
“That is,” said Hornblower, “if they don’t make peace.”
“No chance of that, sir,” said Bush; and it was clear from Hornblower’s grin that he, too, thought there was no possibility of peace either, despite the hints in the two‑months‑old newspapers that came out from England to the effect that negotiations were possible. With Bonaparte in supreme power in France, restless, ambitious, and unscrupulous, and with none of the points settled that were in dispute between the two countries, no fighting man could believe that the negotiations could result even in an armistice, and certainly not in a permanent peace.
“Good luck in any case, sir,” said Bush, and there was no mere formality about those words.
They shook hands and parted; it says much for Bush’s feelings towards Hornblower that in the grey dawn next morning he rolled out of his cot and went up on deck to watch the Retribution, ghost‑like under her topsails, and with the lead going in the chains, steal out round the point, wafted along by the land breeze. Bush watched her go; life in the service meant many partings. Meanwhile there was war to be waged against bedbugs.
Eleven weeks later the squadron was in the Mona Passage, beating against the trade winds. Lambert had brought them out here with the usual double objective of every admiral, to exercise his ships and to see an important convoy through the most dangerous part of its voyage. The hills of Santo Domingo were out of sight at the moment over the westerly horizon, but Mona was in sight ahead, table‑topped and, from this point of view, an unrelieved oblong in outline; over the port bow lay Mona’s little sister Monita, exhibiting a strong family resemblance.
The lookout frigate ahead sent up a signal.
“You’re too slow, Mr Truscott,” bellowed Bush at the signal midshipman, as was right and proper.
“Sail in sight, bearing northeast,” read the signal midshipman, glass to eye.
That might be anything, from the advanced guard of a French squadron broken out from Brest to awandering trader.
The signal came down and was almost instantly replaced.
“Friendly sail in sight bearing northeast,” read Truscott.
A squall came down and blotted out the horizon. The Renown had to pay off momentarily before its impact. The rain rattled on the deck as the ship lay over, and then the wind abruptly moderated, the sun came out again, and the squall was past. Bush busied himself with the task of regaining station, of laying the Renown her exact two cables’ length astern of her next ahead. She was last in the line of three, and the flagship was the first. Now the strange sail was well over the horizon. She was a sloop of war as the telescope showed at once; Bush thought for a moment that she might be the Retribution, returned after a very quick double passage, but it only took a second glance to make sure she was not. Truscott read her number and referred to the list.
“Clara, sloop of war: Captain Ford,” he announced.
The Clara had sailed for England with despatches three weeks before the Retribution, Bush knew.
“Clara to Flag,” went on Truscott. “Have despatches.”
She was nearing fast. Up the flagship’s halliards soared a string of black balls which broke into flags at the top.
“All ships,” read Truscott, with excitement evident in his voice, for this meant that the Renown would have orders to obey. “Heave‑to.”
“Main tops’l braces!” yelled Bush. “Mr Abbott! My respects to the captain and the squadron’s heaving‑to.”
The squadron came to the wind and lay heaving easily over the rollers. Bush watched the Clara’s boat dancing over the waves towards the flagship.
“Keep the hands at the braces, Mr Bush,” said Captain Cogshill. “I expect we’ll fill again as soon as the despatches are delivered.”
But Cogshill was wrong. Bush watched through his glass the officer from the Clara go up the flagship’s side, but the minutes passed and the flagship still lay hove‑to, the squadron still pitched on the waves. Now a new string of black balls went up the flagship’s halliards.