“That is all understood?” he asked finally; he stood stooping under the deck beams in his screened off cabin while his lieutenants fiddled awkwardly with their hats.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower, dismissing them.
But within five minutes impatience and anxiety drove him up on deck again.
“Masthead, there? What can you see of the enemy?”
“She’s just come up over the island, sir. She’s more than hull down. I can only see her torps’ls, sir, below her t’garns.”
“What’s her course?”
“She’s holding her wind, sir. She ought to make the bay on this tack.”
“Ha‑h’m,” said Hornblower, and went below again.
It would be four hours at least before the Natividad reached the entrance, and before he could take any further action. He found himself pacing, stoopshouldered, up and down the tiny limits of his cabin, and checked himself furiously. The iron‑nerved captain of his dreams would not allow himself to work himself into this sort of fever, even though his professional reputation was to be at stake in four hours’ time. He must show the ship that he, too, could face uncertainty with indifference.
“Pass the word for Polwheal!” he snapped, coming out through the screen and addressing a group by a maindeck gun; and when Polwheal appeared he went on: “My compliments to Mr Bush, and tell him that if he can spare Mr Galbraith and Mr Clay and Mr Savage from their duties I would be glad if they would sup with me and have a hand of a whist.”
Galbraith was nervous, too. Not merely was he anticipating a battle, but hanging over his head there was still the promised reprimand for his part in the skirmish of the afternoon. His rawboned Scotch figure moved restlessly, and his face was flushed over his high cheek bones. Even the two midshipmen were subdued as well as fidgety.
Hornblower compelled himself to play the part of the courtly host, while every word he uttered was designed to increase his reputation for imperturbability. He apologised for his shortcomings of the supper — the ship being cleared for action involved the extinction of all fires and the consequent necessity for serving cold food. But the sight of the cold roast chickens, the cold roast pork, the golden cakes of maize, the dishes of fruit, roused Mr Midshipman Savage’s sixteen year old appetite and caused him to forget his embarrassment.
“This is better than rats, sir,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“Rats?” asked Hornblower, vaguely. For all his appearance and attention his thoughts were up on deck, and not in the cabin.
“Yes, sir. Until we made this harbour rats had become a favourite dish in the midshipmen’s berth.”
“That they had,” echoed Clay. He carved himself substantial slices of cold pork, and plenty of crackling, and added them to the half chicken on his plate. “I was paying that thief Bailey threepence apiece for prime rats.”
Desperately Hornblower jerked his mind away from the approaching Natividad and delved into the past when he had been a half-starved midshipman, homesick and seasick. His seniors then had eaten rats with gusto, and maintained that a biscuit‑fed rat was far more delicate a dish than beef two years in cask. He had never been able to stomach them himself, but he would not admit it to these boys.
“Threepence apiece for rats seems a trifle dear,” he said. “I can’t remember paying as much as that when I was a midshipman.”
“Why, sir, did you ever eat them yourself?” asked Savage, amazed.
In reply to this direct question Hornblower could only lie.
“Of course,” he said. “Midshipmen’s berths were much the same twenty years ago as now. I always maintained that a rat who had had the run of the bread‑locker all his life made a dish fit for a king, let alone a midshipman.”
“God bless my soul!” gasped Clay, laying down his knife and fork. He had never thought for a moment that this stern and inflexible captain of his had once been a rat‑eating midshipman.
The two boys blinked at their captain with admiration. This little human touch had won their hearts completely, as Hornblower had known it would. At the end of the table Galbraith sighed audibly. He had been eating rats himself only three days ago, but he knew full well that to admit it would not increase the boys’ respect for him, but would rather diminish it, for he was that sort of officer. Hornblower had to make Galbraith feel at home, too.