“All ships,” read Truscott with his telescope, as the Renown gathered way and settled in the wake of her next ahead. “Tack in succession.”
“Stand by to go about!” yelled Bush.
He noted the progress of the next ahead, and then spared time to rate the watch for its dilatoriness in going to its stations for tacking ship.
“You slow‑footed slobs! I’ll have some of you dancing at the gratings before long!”
The next ahead had tacked by now, and the Renown was advancing into the white water she had left behind.
“Ready about!” shouted Bush. “Headsail sheets! Helm‑a-lee!”
The Renown came ponderously about and filled on the starboard tack.
“Course sou’west by west,” said Truscott, reading the next signal.
Southwest by west. The admiral must be heading back for Port Royal. He could guess that was the first step towards the reduction of the fleet to its peacetime establishment. The sun was warm and delightful, and the Renown, steadying before the wind, was roaring along over the blue Caribbean. She was keeping her station well; there was no need to shiver the mizzen topsail yet. This was a good life. He could not make himself believe that it was coming to an end. He tried to think of a winter’s day in England, with nothing to do. No ship to handle. Half pay — his sisters had half his pay as it was, which would mean there would be nothing for him, as well as nothing to do. A cold winter’s day. No, he simply could not imagine it, and he left off trying.
Chapter XVIII
It was a cold winter’s day in Portsmouth; a black frost, and there was a penetrating east wind blowing down the street as Bush came out of the dockyard gates. He turned up the collar of his pea‑jacket over his muffler and crammed his hands into his pockets, and he bowed his head into the wind as he strode forward into it, his eyes watering, his nose running, while that east wind seemed to find its way between his ribs, making the scars that covered them ache anew. He would not allow himself to look up at the Keppel’s Head as he went past it. In there, he knew, there would be warmth and good company. The fortunate officers with prize money to spend; the incredibly fortunate officers who had found themselves appointments in the peacetime navy — they would be in there yarning and taking wine with each other. He could not afford wine. He thought longingly for a moment about a tankard of beer, but he rejected the idea immediately, although the temptation was strong. He had a month’s half pay in his pocket — he was on his way back from the Clerk of the Cheque from whom he had drawn it — but that had to last four and a half weeks and he knew he could not afford it.
He had tried of course for a billet in the merchant service, as mate, but that was as hopeless a prospect at present as obtaining an appointment as lieutenant. Having started life as a midshipman and spent all his adult life in the fighting service he did not know enough about bills of lading or cargo stowage. The merchant service looked on the navy with genial contempt, and said the latter always had a hundred men available to do a job the merchantman had to do with six. And with every ship that was paid off a fresh batch of master’s mates, trained for the merchant service and pressed from it, sought jobs in their old profession, heightening the competition every month.
Someone came out from a side street just in front of him and turned into the wind ahead of him — a naval officer. The gangling walk; those shoulders bent into the wind; he could not help but recognise Hornblower.
“Sir! Sir!” he called, and Hornblower turned.
There was a momentary irritation in his expression but it vanished the moment he recognised Bush.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, his hand held out.
“Good to see you, sir,” said Bush.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” said Hornblower.
“No, sir? What — why — ?”