“A glass of wine with you, Mr Galbraith,” he said, raising his glass. “I must apologise because this is not my best Madeira, but I am keeping the last two bottles for when I entertain the Spanish captain as our prisoner tomorrow. To our victories of the future!’
The glasses were drained, and constraint dwindled. Hornblower had spoken of ‘our prisoner’ when most captains would have said ‘my prisoner.’ And he had said ‘our victories.’ The strict cold captain, the stern disciplinarian, had for a moment revealed human characteristics and had admitted his inferiors to his fellowship. Any one of the three junior officers would at that moment have laid down his life for his captain — and Hornblower, looking round at their flushed faces, was aware of it. It gratified him at the same moment as it irritated him; but with a battle in the immediate future which might well be an affair of the utmost desperation, he knew that he must have behind him a crew not merely loyal but enthusiastic.
Another midshipman, young Knyvett, came into the cabin.
“Mr Bush’s compliments, sir, and the enemy is hull up from the masthead now, sir.”
“Is she holding her course for the bay?”
“Yes, sir. Mr Bush says two hours ought to see her within range.”
“Thank you, Mr Knyvett,” said Hornblower, dismissing him. The reminder that in two hours he would be at grips with a fifty‑gun ship set his heart beating faster again. It took a convulsive effort to maintain an unmoved countenance.
“We still have ample time for our rubber, gentlemen,” said Hornblower.
The weekly evening of whist which Captain Hornblower played with his officers was for these latter — especially the midshipmen — a sore trial. Hornblower himself was a keen good player; his close observation and his acute study of the psychology of his juniors were of great help to him. But to some of his officers, without card sense, and floundering helplessly with no memory for the cards that had been played, Hornblower’s card evenings were periods of torment.
Polwheal cleared the table, spread the green tablecloth and brought the cards. When play began Hornblower found it easier to forget about the approaching battle. Whist was enough of a passion with him to claim most of his attention whatever the distraction. It was only during the intervals of play, during the deals and while making the score, that he found his heart beating faster again and felt the blood surging up in his throat. He marked the fall of the cards with close attention, making allowances for Savage’s schoolboy tendency to dash out his aces, and for the fact that Galbraith invariably forgot, until it was too late, to signal a short suit. One rubber ended quickly; there was almost dismay on the faces of the other three as Hornblower proffered the cards for cutting for a second one. He kept his face expressionless.
“You really must remember, Clay,” he said, “to lead the king from a sequence of king, queen, knave. The whole art of leading is based upon that principle.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Clay, rolling his eyes drolly at Savage, but Hornblower looked up sharply and Clay hurriedly composed his expression. Play continued — and to all of them seemed interminable. It came to an end at last, however.
“Rubber,” announced Hornblower, marking up the score. “I think, gentlemen, that it is almost time that we went on deck.”
There was a general sigh of relief and a scraping of feet on the deck. But at all costs Hornblower felt that he must consolidate his reputation for imperturbability.
“The rubber would not be over,” he said dryly, “if Mr Savage had paid attention to the score. It being nine, Mr Savage and Mr Galbraith had only to win the odd trick to secure the rubber. Hence Mr Savage, at the eighth trick, should have played his ace of hearts instead of risking the finesse. I grant that if the finesse had been successful he would have won two more tricks, but —”
Hornblower droned on, while the other three writhed in their chairs. Yet they glanced at each other with admiration for him in their eyes as he preceded them up the companion ladder.