Freeman came climbing out of the hatchway, still fastening his oilskins; the two of them touched their hats to each other.
“The glass has begun to rise, sir,” shouted Freeman, his hands making a trumpet before his mouth. “This’ll blow itself out soon.”
Hornblower nodded, even while at that moment a bigger gust flogged his oilskins against his legs — the gustiness itself was a sign that the gale was nearing its end. The light was fast fading out of the grey sky; with sunset perhaps the wind would begin to moderate.
“Will you come round the ship with me?” yelled Hornblower, and this time it was Freeman’s turn to nod. They walked forward, making their way with difficulty over the plunging, dripping decks, with Hornblower looking keenly about him. Two long guns forward — six pounders; the rest of the armament twelve-pounder carronades. The breachings and preventer tackles were in good shape. Aloft, the rigging, both standing and running, was properly set up and cared for; but the best proof that the vessel was in good order lay in the fact that nothing had carried away during the weather of the last twenty-four hours. Freeman was a good captain; Hornblower knew that already. But it was not the guns, not even the vessel’s weatherly qualities, which were of first importance in the present expedition. It was the human weapons that most mattered; Hornblower darted quick glances from side to side under his brows as he inspected the material of the brig — taking pains to observe the appearance and demeanour of the men. They seemed patient, not sullen, thank God. They were alert, seemingly ready for any duty. Hornblower dived down the fore hatchway into the unspeakable din and stink of the battened-down ‘tween-decks. There were sailors asleep in the fantastic fashion of the British tarpaulin — snoring heavily as they lay on the bare deck, despite the din about them. There were men huddled in gaming groups. He saw sleeves tugged and thumbs pointed as men caught sight of him — their first sight of the almost legendary Hornblower. An exchange of a nod and a wink. Hornblower, shrewdly estimating the feeling about him, guessed with pleasure that there was expectancy rather than resignation or reluctance.
It was an odd fact, but one whose existence could not be doubted, that men were pleased at the prospect of serving under him, Hornblower; the Hornblower, that is (qualified Hornblower), whom they thought existed, not the real actual Hornblower who wore the coat and trousers he was wearing. They hoped for victory, excitement, distinction, success; the poor fools. They did not stop to think that men died where Hornblower took command. The clear-headedness resulting from sea-sickness and an empty stomach (Hornblower could not remember when last he had eaten) allowed free play to a whole conflict of emotions within him; pleasure at being so gladly followed, pity for the thoughtless victims; a thrill of excitement at the thought of future action, and a wave of doubt regarding his ability to pluck success this time from the jaws of chance; pleasure, reluctantly admitted, at finding himself at sea and in command again, and regret, bitter and soul-searching, for the life he had just left, for Barbara’s love and little Richard’s trusting affection. Hornblower, noting his inward turmoil, cursed himself for a sentimental fool at the very moment when his sharp eye picked out a seaman who was knuckling his forehead and bobbing and grinning with embarrassed pleasure.
“I know you,” said Hornblower, searching feverishly through his memory. “Let me see now. It must have been in the old Indefatigable.”
“That’s right, sir. We was shipmates then, sir. And you worn’t more’n a nipper, then, sir, beggin’ your pardon, sir. Midshipman of the foretop, you was, sir.”
The seaman wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers before gingerly accepting the hand which Hornblower held out to him.
“Harding’s your name,” said Hornblower, his memory coming to his rescue, with a tremendous effort. “You taught me long splicing while we were off Ushant.”
“That’s right, sir. ‘Deed you’re right, sir. That were ’92, or wore it ’93?”
“Ninety-three. I’m glad to know you’re on board, Harding.”