The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  “A shilling for the bed,” she said. “Can’t wash the sheets for less than that with soap as it is.”

  “Very good,” said Bush.

  He saw Mrs. Mason’s hand held out, and he put the shilling into it; no one could be in any doubt about Mrs. Mason’s determination to be paid in advance by any friend of Hornblower’s. Hornblower had dived for his pocket when he caught sight of the gesture, but Bush was too quick for him.

  “And you’ll be talking till all hours,” said Mrs. Mason. “Mind you don’t disturb my other gentlemen. And douse the light while you talk, too, or you’ll be burning a shilling’s worth of tallow.”

  “Of course,” said Hornblower.

  “Maria! Maria!” called Mrs. Mason.

  A young woman—no, a woman not quite young—came up the stairs from the depths of the house at the call.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  Maria listened to Mrs. Mason’s instructions for making up a truckle bed in Mr. Hornblower’s room.

  “Yes, Mother,” she said.

  “Not teaching today, Maria?” asked Hornblower pleasantly.

  “No, sir.” The smile that lit her plain face showed her keen pleasure at being addressed.

  “Oak-Apple Day? No, not yet. It’s not the King’s Birthday. Then why this holiday?”

  “Mumps, sir,” said Maria. “They all have mumps, except Johnnie Bristow.”

  “That agrees with everything I’ve heard about Johnnie Bristow,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes, sir,” said Maria. She smiled again, clearly pleased not only that Hornblower should jest with her but also because he remembered what she had told him about the school.

  Back in the attic again Hornblower and Bush resumed their conversation, this time on a more serious plane. The state of Europe occupied their attention.

  “This man Bonaparte,” said Bush. “He’s a restless cove.”

  “That’s the right word for him,” agreed Hornblower.

  “Isn’t he satisfied? Back in ’96 when I was in the old Superb in the Mediterranean—that was when I was commissioned lieutenant—he was just a general. I can remember hearing his name for the first time, when we were blockading Toulon. Then he went to Egypt. Now he’s First Consul—isn’t that what he calls himself?”

  “Yes. But he’s Napoleon now, not Bonaparte any more. First Consul for life.”

  “Funny sort of name. Not what I’d choose for myself.”

  “Lieutenant Napoleon Bush,” said Hornblower. “It wouldn’t sound well.”

  They laughed together at the ridiculous combination.

  “The Morning Chronicle says he’s going a step farther,” went on Hornblower. “There’s talk that he’s going to call himself Emperor.”

  “Emperor!”

  Even Bush could catch the connotations of that title, with its claims to univeral pre-eminence.

  “I suppose he’s mad?” asked Bush.

  “If he is, he’s the most dangerous madman in Europe.”

  “I don’t trust him over this Malta business. I don’t trust him an inch,” said Bush, emphatically. “You mark my words, we’ll have to fight him again in the end. Teach him a lesson he won’t forget. It’ll come sooner or later—we can’t go on like this.”

  “I think you’re quite right,” said Hornblower. “And sooner rather than later.”

  “Then—” said Bush.

  He could not talk and think at the same time, not when his thoughts were as tumultuous as the ones this conclusion called up; war with France meant the re-expansion of the navy; the threat of invasion and the needs of convoy would mean the commissioning of every small craft that could float and carry a gun. It would mean the end of half pay for him; it would mean walking a deck again and handling a ship under sail. And it would mean hardship again, danger, anxiety, monotony—all the concomitants of war. These thoughts rushed into his brain with so much velocity, and in such a continuous stream, that they made a sort of whirlpool of his mind, in which the good and the bad circled after each other, each in turn chasing the other out of his attention.

  “War’s a foul business,” said Hornblower, solemnly. “Remember the things you’ve seen.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Bush; there was no need to particularize. But it was an unexpected remark, all the same. Hornblower grinned and relieved the tension.

  “Well,” he said, “Boney can call himself Emperor if he likes. I have to earn my half guinea at the Long Rooms.”

  Bush was about to take this opportunity to ask Hornblower how he was profiting there, but he was interrupted by a rumble outside the door and a knock.

  “Here comes your bed,” said Hornblower, walking over to open the door.

  Maria came trundling the thing in. She smiled at them.

  “Over here or over there?” she asked.

  Hornblower looked at Bush.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Bush.

  “I’ll put it against the wall, then.”

  “Let me help,” said Hornblower.

  “Oh no, sir. Please sir, I can do it.”

  The attention fluttered her—and Bush could see that with her sturdy figure she was in no need of help. To cover her confusion she began to thump at the bedding, putting the pillows into the pillowslips.

  “I trust you have already had the mumps, Maria?” said Hornblower.

  “Oh yes, sir. I had them as a child, on both sides.”

  The exercise and her agitation between them had brought the colour into her cheeks. With blunt but capable hands she spread the sheet. Then she paused as another implication of Hornblower’s inquiry occurred to her.

  “You’ve no need to worry, sir. I shan’t give them to you if you haven’t had them.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that,” said Hornblower.

  “Oh, sir,” said Maria, twitching the sheet into mathematical smoothness. She spread the blankets before she looked up again. “Are you going out directly, sir?”

  “Yes. I ought to have left already.”

  “Let me take that coat of yours for a minute, sir. I can sponge it and freshen it up.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have you go to that trouble, Maria.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble, sir. Of course not. Please let me, sir. It looks—”

  “It looks the worse for wear,” said Hornblower, glancing down at it. “There’s no cure for old age that’s yet been discovered.”

  “Please let me take it, sir. There’s some spirits of hartshorn downstairs. It will make quite a difference. Really it will.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, please, sir.”

  Hornblower reluctantly put up his hand and undid a button.

  “I’ll only be a minute with it,” said Maria, hastening to him. Her hands were extended to the other buttons, but a sweep of Hornblower’s quick nervous fingers had anticipated her. He pulled off his coat and she took it out of his hands.

  “You’ve mended that shirt yourself,” she said, accusingly.

  “Yes, I have.”

  Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn garment. Maria studied the patch.

  “I would have done that for you if you’d asked me, sir.”

  “And a good deal better, no doubt.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t saying that, sir. But it isn’t fit that you should patch your own shirts.”

  “Whose should I patch, then?”

  Maria giggled.

  “You’re too quick with your tongue for me,” she said. “Now, just wait here and talk to the lieutenant while I sponge this.”

  She darted out of the room and they heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs, while Hornblower looked half-ruefully at Bush.

  “There’s a strange pleasure,” he said, “in knowing that there’s a human being who cares whether I’m alive or dead. Why that should give pleasure is a question to be debated by the philosophic mind.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bush.

  He had sisters who devot
ed all their attention to him whenever it was possible, and he was used to it. At home he took their ministrations for granted. He heard the church clock strike the half-hour, and it recalled his thoughts to the further business of the day.

  “You’re going to the Long Rooms now?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you, I suppose, want to go to the dockyard? The monthly visit to the Clerk of the Cheque?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can walk together as far as the Rooms, if you care to. As soon as our friend Maria returns my coat to me.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Bush.

  It was not long before Maria came knocking at the door again.

  “It’s done,” she said, holding out the coat. “It’s nice and fresh now.

  But something seemed to have gone out of her. She seemed a little frightened, a little apprehensive.

  “What’s the matter, Maria?” asked Hornblower, quick to feel the change of attitude.

  “Nothing. Of course there’s nothing the matter with me,” said Maria, defensively, and then she changed the subject. “Put your coat on now, or you’ll be late.”

  Walking along Highbury Street Bush asked the question he had had in mind for some time, regarding whether Hornblower had experienced good fortune lately at the Rooms. Hornblower looked at him oddly.

  “Not as good as it might be,” he said.

  “Bad?”

  “Bad enough. My opponents’ aces lie behind my kings, ready for instant regicide. And my opponents’ kings lie behind my aces, so that when they venture out from the security of the hand they survive all perils and take the trick. In the long run the chances right themselves mathematically. But the periods when they are unbalanced in the wrong direction can be distressing.”

  “I see,” said Bush, although he was not too sure that he did; but one thing he did know, and that was that Hornblower had been losing. And he knew Hornblower well enough by now to know that when he talked in an airy fashion as he was doing now he was more anxious than he cared to admit.

  They had reached the Long Rooms, and paused at the door.

  “You’ll call in for me on your way back?” asked Hornblower. “There’s an eating house in Broad Street with a fourpenny ordinary. Sixpence with pudding. Would you care to try it?”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you. Good luck,” said Bush, and he paused before continuing. “Be careful.”

  “I shall be careful,” said Hornblower, and went in through the door.

  The weather was in marked contrast with what had prevailed during Bush’s last visit. Then there had been a black frost and an east wind; today there was a hint of spring in the air. As Bush walked along the Hard the harbour entrance revealed itself to him on his left, its muddy water sparkling in the clear light. A flush-decked sloop was coming out with the ebb, the gentle puffs of wind from the northwest just giving her steerage way. Despatches for Halifax, perhaps. Money to pay the Gibraltar garrison. Or maybe a reinforcement for the revenue cutters that were finding so much difficulty in dealing with the peacetime wave of smuggling. Whatever it was, there were fortunate officers on board, with an appointment, with three years’ employment ahead of them, with a deck under their feet and a wardroom in which to dine. Lucky devils. Bush acknowledged the salute of the porter at the gate and went into the yard.

  He emerged into the late afternoon and made his way back to the Long Rooms. Hornblower was at a table near the corner and looked up to smile at him, the candlelight illuminating his face. Bush found himself the latest Naval Chronicle and settled himself to read it. Beside him a group of army and navy officers argued in low tones regarding the difficulties of living in the same world as Bonaparte. Malta and Genoa, Santo Domingo and Miquelet, came up in the conversation.

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Mark my words,” said one of them, thumping his hand with his fist, “we’ll be at war with him again soon enough.”

  “It’ll be war to the knife,” supplemented another. “If once he drives us to extremity, we shall never rest until Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte is hanging to the nearest tree.”

  The others agreed to that with a fierce roar, like wild beasts.

  “Gentlemen,” said one of the players at Hornblower’s table, looking round over his shoulder. “Could you find it convenient to continue your discussion at the far end of the room? This end is dedicated to the most scientific and difficult of all games.”

  The words were uttered in a pleasant high tenor, but it was obvious that the speaker had every expectation of being instantly obeyed.

  “Very good, my lord,” said one of the naval officers.

  That made Bush look more closely, and he recognized the speaker, although it was six years since he had seen him last. It was Admiral Lord Parry, who had been made a lord after Camperdown; now he was one of the commissioners of the navy, one of the people who could make or break a naval officer. The mop of snow-white curls that ringed the bald spot on the top of his head, his smooth old-man’s face, his mild speech, accorded ill with the nickname of “Old Bloody bones” which had been given him by the lower-deck far back in the American War. Hornblower was moving in very high society. Bush watched Lord Parry extend a skinny white hand and cut the cards to Hornblower. It was obvious from his colouring that Parry, like Hornblower, had not been to sea for a long time. Hornblower dealt and the game proceeded in its paralysing stillness; the cards made hardly a sound as they fell on the green cloth, and each trick was picked up and laid down almost silently, with only the slightest click. The line of tricks in front of Parry grew like a snake, silent as a snake gliding over a rock, like a snake it closed on itself and then lengthened again, and then the hand was finished and the cards swept together.

  “Small slam,” said Parry as the players attended to their markers, and that was all that was said. The two tiny words sounded as clearly and as briefly in the silence as two bells in the middle watch. Hornblower cut the cards and the next deal began in the same mystic silence. Bush could not see the fascination of it. He would prefer a game in which he could roar at his losses and exult over his winnings; and preferably one in which the turn of a single card, and not of the whole fifty-two, would decide who had won and who had lost. No, he was wrong. There was undoubtedly a fascination about it, a poisonous fascination. Opium? No. This silent game was like the quiet interplay of duelling swords as compared with the crash of cutlass blades, and it was as deadly. A small-sword through the lungs killed as effectively as—more effectively than—the sweep of a cutlass.

  “A short rubber,” commented Parry; the silence was over, and the cards lay in disorder on the table.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Hornblower.

  Bush, taking note of everything with the keen observation of anxiety, saw Hornblower put his hand to his breast pocket—the pocket that he had indicated as holding his reserve—and take out a little fold of one-pound notes. When he had made his payment Bush could see that what he returned to his pocket was only a single note.

  “You encountered the worst of good fortune,” said Parry, pocketing his winnings. “On the two occasions when you dealt, the trump that you turned up proved to be the only one that you held. I cannot remember another occasion when the dealer has held a singleton trump twice running.”

  “In a long enough period of play, my lord,” said Hornblower, “every possible combination of cards can be expected.”

  He spoke with a polite indifference that for a moment almost gave Bush heart to believe his losses were not serious, until he remembered the single note that had been put back into Hornblower’s breast pocket.

  “But it is rare to see such a run of ill luck,” said Parry. “And yet you play an excellent game, Mr.—Mr.—please forgive me, but your name escaped me at the moment of introduction.”

  “Hornblower,” said Hornblower.

  “Ah, yes of course. For some reason the name is familiar to me.

  Bush glanced quickly at Hornblower. There never was such a perfe
ct moment for reminding a Lord Commissioner about the fact that his promotion to commander had not been confirmed.

  “When I was a midshipman, my lord,” said Hornblower, “I was seasick while at anchor in Spithead on board the Justinian. I believe the story is told.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be the connection I remember,” answered Parry. “But we have been diverted from what I was going to say. I was about to express regret that I cannot give you your immediate revenge, although I should be most glad to have the opportunity of studying your play of the cards again.”

  “You are very kind, my lord,” said Hornblower, and Bush writhed—he had been writhing ever since Hornblower had given the go-by to that golden opportunity. This last speech had a flavour of amused bitterness that Bush feared would be evident to the admiral. But fortunately Parry did not know Hornblower as well as Bush did.

  “Most unfortunately,” said Parry, “I am due to dine with Admiral Lambert.”

  This time the coincidence startled Hornblower into being human.

  “Admiral Lambert, my lord?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “I had the honour of serving under him on the Jamaica station. This is Mr. Bush, who commanded the storming party from the Renown that compelled the capitulation of Santo Domingo.”

  “Glad to see you, Mr. Bush,” said Parry, and it was only just evident that if he was glad he was not overjoyed. A commissioner might well find embarrassment at an encounter with an unemployed lieutenant with a distinguished record. Parry lost no time in turning back to Hornblower.

  “It was in my mind,” he said, “to try to persuade Admiral Lambert to return here with me after dinner so that I could offer you your revenge. Would we find you here if we did?”

  “I am most honoured, my lord,” said Hornblower with a bow, but Bush noted the uncontrollable flutter of his fingers towards his almost empty breast pocket.

  “Then would you be kind enough to accept a semi-engagement? On account of Admiral Lambert I can make no promise, except that I will do my best to persuade him.”

  “I’m dining with Mr. Bush, my lord. But I would be the last to stand in the way.”

  “Then we may take it as being settled as near as may be?”