Lord Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“You all understand what I want done tomorrow — if tomorrow is the day?” Hornblower went on.

They nodded, turning their eyes to the chart spread out in front of them.

“No questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I know this is only the sketchiest plan. There will be contingencies, emergencies. No one can possibly foresee what will happen. But of one thing I am certain, and that is that the ships of this squadron will be commanded in a way that will bring credit to the service. Captain Bush and Mr. Freeman have acted with bravery and decision under my own eyes too often, and I know Captain Howard too well by reputation for me to have any doubt about that. When we attack Havre, gentlemen, we shall be turning a page, we shall be writing the end of a chapter in the history of tyranny.”

They were pleased with what he said, and they could have no doubt regarding his sincerity, because he spoke from his heart. They smiled as he met their eyes. Maria, when she was alive, had sometimes made use of a strange expression about polite phrases uttered in order to get the recipient into a good humour. She referred to them as ‘a little bit of sugar for the bird’. That was what this final speech of his had been, a little bit of sugar for the bird — and yet he had meant every word of it. No, not quite — he was still almost ignorant of Howard’s achievements. To that extent the speech was formal. But it had served its purpose.

“Then we have finished with business, gentlemen. What can I offer you by way of entertainment? Captain Bush can remember games of whist played on the nights before going into action. But he is by no means an enthusiastic whist player.”

That was understating the case — Bush was the most reluctant whist player in the world, and he grinned sheepishly in acknowledgment of Hornblower’s gentle gibe; but it was pathetic to see him pleased at Hornblower’s remembering this about him.

“You should have a night’s rest, sir,” he said, speaking, as the senior, for the other two, who looked to him for guidance.

“I should get back to my ship, sir,” echoed Howard.

“So should I, sir,” said Freeman.

“I don’t want to see you go,” protested Hornblower.

Freeman caught sight of the playing-cards on the shelf against the bulkhead.

“I’ll tell your fortunes before we leave,” he volunteered. “Perhaps I can remember what my gipsy grandmother taught me, sir.”

So there really was gipsy blood in Freeman’s veins; Hornblower had often wondered about it, noticing his swarthy skin and dark eyes. Hornblower was a little surprised at the carelessness with which Freeman admitted it.

“Tell Sir Horatio’s,” said Bush.

Freeman was shuffling the pack with expert fingers; he laid it on the table, and took Hornblower’s hand and placed it on the pack.

“Cut three times, sir.”

Hornblower went through the mumbo-jumbo tolerantly, cutting and cutting again as Freeman shuffled. Finally Freeman caught up the pack and began to deal it face upward on the table.

“On this side is the past,” he announced, scanning the complicated pattern, “on that side is the future. Here in the past there is much to read. I see money, gold. I see danger. Danger, danger, danger. I see prison — prison twice, sir. I see a dark woman. And a fair woman. You have journeyed over sea.”

He poured out his patter professionally enough, reeling it off without stopping to take breath. He made a neat résumé of Hornblower’s career, and Hornblower listened with some amusement and a good deal of admiration for Freeman’s glibness. What Freeman was saying could be said by anyone with an ordinary knowledge of Hornblower’s past. Hornblower’s eyebrows came together in momentary irritation at the brief allusion to the dead Maria, but he smiled again when Freeman passed rapidly on, telling of Hornblower’s experiences in the Baltic, translating the phrases of ordinary speech into the gipsy clichés with a deftness that could not but amuse.

“And there’s an illness, sir,” he concluded, “a very serious illness, ending only a short time back.”