“Tell Mr Bolton you have my permission to leave the ship to-morrow, and you may use one of the ship’s boats.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck, Hornblower.”
During the next twenty-four hours Hornblower had not merely to try to read all through Norie’s Epitome of Navigation again, and Clarke’s Complete Handbook of Seamanship, but he had to see that his number one uniform was spick and span. It cost his spirit ration to prevail on the warrant cook to allow the gunroom attendant to heat a flatiron in the galley and iron out his neck handkerchief Bracegirdle lent him a clean shirt, but there was a feverish moment when it was discovered that the gunroom’s supply of shoe blacking had dried to a chip. Two midshipmen had to work it soft with lard, and the resultant compound, when applied to Hornblower’s buckled shoes, was stubbornly resistant to taking a polish; only much labour with the gunroom’s moulting shoebrush and then with a soft cloth brought those shoes up to a condition of brightness worthy of an examination for lieutenant. And as for the cocked hat — the life of a cocked hat in the midshipman’s berth is hard, and some of the dents could not be entirely eliminated.
“Take it off as soon as you can and keep it under your arm,” advised Bracegirdle. “Maybe they won’t see you come up the ship’s side.”
Everybody turned out to see Hornblower leave the ship, with his sword and his white breeches and his buckled shoes, his bundle of journals under his arm and his certificates of sobriety and good conduct in his pocket. The winter afternoon was already far advanced as he was rowed over to the Santa Barbara and went up the ship’s side to report himself to the officer of the watch.
The Santa Barbara was a prison hulk, one of the prizes captured in Rodney’s action off Cadiz in 1780 and kept rotting at her moorings, mastless, ever since, a storeship in time of peace and a prison in time of war. Redcoated soldiers, muskets loaded and bayonets fixed, guarded the gangways; on forecastle and quarterdeck were carronades, trained inboard and depressed to sweep the waist, wherein a few prisoners took the air, ragged and unhappy. As Hornblower came up the side he caught a whiff of the stench within, where two thousand prisoners were confined. Hornblower reported himself to the officer of the watch as come on board, and for what purpose.
“Whoever would have guessed it?” said the officer of the watch — an elderly lieutenant with white hair hanging down to his shoulders — running his eye over Hornblower’s immaculate uniform and the portfolio under his arm. “Fifteen of your kind have already come on board, and — Holy Gemini, see there!”
Quite a flotilla of small craft was closing in on the Santa Barbara. Each boat held at least one cocked-hatted and white-breached midshipman, and some held four or five.
“Every courtesy young gentleman in the Mediterranean Fleet is ambitious for an epaulet,” said the lieutenant. “Just wait until the examining board sees how many there are of you! I wouldn’t be in your shoes, young shaver, for something. Go aft, there, and wait in the portside cabin.”
It was already uncomfortably full; when Hornblower entered, fifteen pairs of eyes measured him up. There were officers of all ages from eighteen to forty, all in their number one’s, all nervous — one or two of them had Norie’s Epitome open on their laps and were anxiously reading passages about which they were doubtful. One little group was passing a bottle from hand to hand, presumably in an effort to keep up their courage. But no sooner had Hornblower entered than a stream of newcomers followed him. The cabin began to fill, and-soon it was tightly packed. Half the forty men present found seats on the deck, and the others were forced to stand.
“Forty years back,” said a loud voice somewhere, “my grandad marched with Clive to revenge the Black Hole of Calcutta. If he could but have witnessed the fate of his posterity!”
“Have a drink,” said another voice, “and to hell with care.”