“Me, sir? Of course not, sir.”
“Now here’s half a crown.”
“Half a crown, sir!”
That was more than a day’s wages for a labourer.
“I want a promise from you, Susie.”
“Sir—sir—!”
Susie’s hands were behind her.
“Take this, and promise me that the first chance that comes your way, the moment Mrs. Mason lets you out, you’ll buy yourself something to eat. Fill that wretched little belly of yours. Faggots and pease pudding, pig’s trotters, all the things you like. Promise me.”
“But sir—”
Half a crown, the prospect of unlimited food, were things that could not be real.
“Oh, take it,” said Hornblower testily.
“Yes, sir.”
Susie clasped the coin in her skinny hand.
“Don’t forget I have your promise.”
“Yes, sir, please sir, thank you, sir.”
“Now put it away and clear out quick.”
“Yes, sir.”
She fled out of the room and Hornblower began once more to serve the chops.
“I’ll be able to enjoy my breakfast now,” said Hornblower self-consciously.
“No doubt,” said Bush; he buttered himself a piece of toast, dabbed mustard on his plate—to eat mustard with mutton marked him as a sailor, but he did it without a thought. With good food in front of him there was no need for thought, and he ate in silence. It was only when Hornblower spoke again that Bush realized that Hornblower had been construing the silence as accusatory of something.
“Half a crown,” said Hornblower, defensively, “may mean many things to many people. Yesterday—”
“You’re quite right,” said Bush, filling in the gap as politeness dictated, and then he looked up and realized that it was not because he had no more to say that Hornblower had left the sentence uncompleted.
Maria was standing framed in the dining-room door; her bonnet, gloves, and shawl indicated that she was about to go out, presumably to early marketing since the school where she taught was temporarily closed.
“I—I looked in to see that you had everything you wanted,” she said. The hesitation in her speech seemed to indicate that she had heard Hornblower’s last words, but it was not certain.
“Thank you. Delightful,” mumbled Hornblower.
“Please don’t get up,” said Maria, hastily and with a hint of hostility, as Hornblower and Bush began to rise. Her eyes were wet.
A knocking on the street door relieved the tension, and Maria fled to answer it. From the dining-room they heard a masculine voice, and Maria reappeared, a corporal of marines towering behind her dumpy form.
“Lieutenant Hornblower?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“From the admiral, sir.”
The corporal held out a letter and a folded newspaper. There was a maddening delay while a pencil was found for Hornblower to sign the receipt. Then the corporal took his leave with a clicking of heels and Hornblower stood with the letter in one hand and the newspaper in the other.
“Oh, open it—please open it,” said Maria.
Hornblower tore the wafer and unfolded the sheet. He read the note, and then reread it, nodding his head as if the note confirmed some preconceived theory.
“You see that sometimes it is profitable to play whist,” he said, “in more ways than one.”
He handed the note over to Bush; his smile was a little lopsided.
SIR [read Bush]
It is with pleasure that I take this opportunity of informing you in advance of any official notification that your promotion to Commander is now confirmed and that you will be shortly appointed to the Command of a Sloop of War.
“By God, sir!” said Bush. “Congratulations. For the second time, sir. It’s only what you deserve, as I said before.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. “Finish it”
The arrival at this moment of the Mail Coach with the London newspapers [said the second paragraph] enables me to send you the information regarding the changed situation without being unnecessarily prolix in this letter. You will gather from what you read in the accompanying copy of the Sun the reasons why conditions of military secrecy should prevail during our very pleasant evening so that I need not apologize for not having enlightened you, while I remain,
Your obedient servant,
PARRY
By the time Bush had finished the letter Hornblower had opened the newspaper at the relevant passage, which he pointed out to Bush.
Message from HIS MAJESTY
House of Commons, March 8, 1803
The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER brought down the following message from HIS MAJESTY:
“His Majesty thinks it necessary to acquaint the House of Commons, that, as very considerable military preparations are carrying on in the ports of France and Holland, he has judged it expedient to adopt additional measures of precaution for the security of his dominions.
GEORGE R.”
That was all Bush needed to read, Boney’s fleet of flat-bottomed boats, and his army of invasion mustered along the Channel coast, were being met by the appropriate and necessary countermove. Last night’s press-gang measures, planned and carried out with a secrecy for which Bush could feel nothing except wholehearted approval (he had led too many press gangs not to know how completely seamen made themselves scarce at the first hint of a press) would provide the crews for the ships necessary to secure England’s safety. There were ships in plenty, laid up in every harbour in England; and officers—Bush knew very well how many officers were available. With the fleet manned and at sea England could laugh at the treacherous attack Boney had planned.
“They’ve done the right thing for once, by God!” said Bush, slapping the newspaper.
“But what is it?” asked Maria.
She had been standing silent, watching the two men, her glance shifting from one to the other in an endeavour to read their expressions. Bush remembered that she had winced at his outburst of congratulation.
“It’ll be war next week,” said Hornblower. “Boney won’t endure a bold answer.”
“Oh,” said Maria. “But you—what about you?”
“I’m made commander,” said Hornblower. “I’m going to be appointed to a sloop of war.”
“Oh,” said Maria again.
There was a second or two of agonized effort at self-control, and then she broke down. Her head drooped farther and farther, until she put her gloved hands to her face, turning away from the two men so that they only saw her shoulders with the shawl across them, shaking with sobs.
“Maria,” said Hornblower gently. “Please, Maria, please don’t.”
Maria turned and presented a slobbered face to him, unevenly framed in the bonnet which had been pushed askew.
“I’ll n-n-never see you again,” sobbed Maria. “I’ve been so happy with the m-m-mumps at school, I thought I’d m-m-make your bed and do your room. And n-now this happens!”
“But, Maria,” said Hornblower—his hands flapped helplessly—“I’ve my duty to do.”
“I wish I was d-dead! Indeed I wish I was dead!” said Maria, and the tears poured down her cheeks to drip upon her shawl; they streamed from eyes which had a fixed look of despair, while the wide mouth was shapeless.
This was something Bush could not endure. He liked pretty, saucy women. What he was looking at now jarred on him unbearably—perhaps it rasped his aesthetic sensibility, unlikely though it might seem that Bush should have such a thing. Perhaps he was merely irritated by the spectacle of uncontrolled hysteria, but if that was the case he was irritated beyond all bearing. He felt that if he had to put up with Maria’s water-works for another minute he would break a blood vessel.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Hornblower.
In reply he received a look of surprise. It had not occurred to Hornblower that he might run away from a situation for which his temperament nec
essarily made him feel responsible. Bush knew perfectly well that, given time, Maria would recover. He knew that women who wished themselves dead one day could be as lively as crickets the next day after another man had chucked them under the chin. In any case he did not see why he and Hornblower should concern themselves about something which was entirely Maria’s fault.
“Oh!” said Maria; she stumbled forward and supported herself with her hands upon the table with its cooling coffee-pot and its congealing half-consumed chops. She lifted her head and wailed again.
“Oh, for God’s sake—” said Bush in disgust. He turned to Hornblower. “Come along.”
By the time Bush was on the staircase he realized that Hornblower had not followed him, would not follow him. And Bush did not go back to fetch him. Even though Bush was not the man to desert a comrade in peril; even though he would gladly take his place in a boat launching out through the most dreadful surf to rescue men in danger; even though he would stand shoulder to shoulder with Hornblower and be hewn to pieces with him by an overwhelming enemy; for all this he would not go back to save Hornblower. If Hornblower was going to be foolish Bush felt he could not stop him. And he salved his conscience by telling himself that perhaps Hornblower would not be foolish.
Up in the attic Bush set about rolling up his nightshirt with his toilet things. The methodical checking over of his razor and comb and brushes, seeing that nothing was left behind, soothed his irritated nerves. The prospect of immediate employment and immediate action revealed itself to him in all its delightful certainty, breaking through the evaporating clouds of his irritation. He began to hum to himself tunelessly. It would be sensible to call in again at the dockyard—he might even look in at the Keppel’s Head to discuss the morning’s amazing news; both courses would be advisable if he wanted to secure for himself quickly a new appointment. Hat in hand he tucked his neat package under his arm and cast a final glance round the room to make sure that he had left nothing, and he was still humming as he closed the attic door behind him. On the staircase, about to step down into the hall, he stood for a moment with one foot suspended, not in doubt as to whether he should go into the dining-room, but arranging in his mind what he should say when he went in.
Maria had dried her tears. She was standing there smiling, although her bonnet was still askew. Hornblower was smiling too; it might be with relief that Maria had left off weeping. He looked round at Bush’s entrance, and his face revealed surprise at the sight of Bush’s hat and bundle.
“I’m getting under way,” said Bush. “I have to thank you for your hospitality, sir.”
“But—” said Hornblower, “you don’t have to go just yet.”
There was that “sir” again in Bush’s speech. They had been through so much together, and they knew so much about each other. Now war was coming again, and Hornblower was Bush’s superior officer. Bush explained what he wanted to do before taking the carrier’s cart back to Chichester, and Hornblower nodded.
“Pack your chest,” he said. “It won’t be long before you need it.”
Bush cleared his throat in preparation for the formal words he was going to use.
“I didn’t express my congratulations properly,” he said portentously. “I wanted to say that I don’t believe the Admiralty could have made a better choice out of the whole list of lieutenants when they selected you for promotion, sir.”
“You’re too kind,” said Hornblower.
“I’m sure Mr. Bush is quite right,” said Maria.
She gazed up at Hornblower with adoration shining in her face, and he looked down at her with infinite kindness. And already there was something a little proprietorial about the adoration, and perhaps there was something wistful about the kindness.
Hornblower and the ‘Hotspur’
I
‘Repeat after me,’ said the parson. ‘ “I, Horatio, take thee, Maria Ellen—” ’
The thought came up in Hornblower’s mind that these were the last few seconds in which he could withdraw from doing something which he knew to be ill-considered. Maria was not the right woman to be his wife, even admitting that he was suitable material for marriage in any case. If he had a grain of sense, he would break off this ceremony even at this last moment, he would announce that he had changed his mind, and he would turn away from the altar and from the parson and from Maria, and he would leave the church a free man.
‘To have and to hold—’ he was still, like an automaton, repeating the parson’s words. And there was Maria beside him, in the white that so little became her. She was melting with happiness. She was consumed with love for him, however misplaced it might be. He could not, he simply could not, deal her a blow so cruel. He was conscious of the trembling of her body beside him. That was not fear, for she had utter and complete trust in him. He could no more bring himself to shatter that trust than he could have refused to command the Hotspur.
‘And thereto I plight thee my troth,’ repeated Hornblower. That settled it, he thought. Those must be the final deciding words that made the ceremony legally binding. He had made a promise and now there was no going back on it. There was a comfort in the odd thought that he had really been committed from a week back, when Maria had come into his arms sobbing out her love for him, and he had been too soft-hearted to laugh at her and too – too weak? too honest? – to take advantage of her with the intention of betraying her. From the moment that he had listened to her, from the moment that he had returned her kisses, gently, all these later results, the bridal dress, this ceremony in the church of St Thomas à Becket – and the vague future of cloying affection – had been inevitable.
Bush was ready with the ring, and Hornblower slipped it over Maria’s finger, and the final words were said.
‘I now pronounce that they are man and wife,’ said the parson, and he went on with the blessing, and then a blank five seconds followed, until Maria broke the silence.
‘Oh, Horry,’ she said, and she laid her hand on his arm.
Hornblower forced himself to smile down at her, concealing the newly discovered fact that he disliked being called ‘Horry’ even more than he disliked being called Horatio.
‘The happiest day of my life,’ he said; if a thing had to be done it might as well be done thoroughly, so that in the same spirit he continued. ‘In my life so far.’
It was actually painful to note the unbounded happiness of the smile that answered this gallant speech. Maria put her other hand up to him, and he realised she expected to be kissed, then and there, in front of the altar. It hardly seemed a proper thing to do, in a sacred edifice – in his ignorance he feared lest he should affront the devout – but once more there was no drawing back, and he stooped and kissed the soft lips that she proffered.
‘Your signatures are required in the register,’ prompted the parson, and led the way to the vestry.
They wrote their names.
‘Now I can kiss my son-in-law,’ announced Mrs Mason loudly, and Hornblower found himself clasped by two powerful arms and soundly kissed on the cheek. He supposed it was inevitable that a man should feel a distaste for his mother-in-law.
But here was Bush to disengage him, with outstretched hand and unusual smile, offering felicitations and best wishes.
‘Many thanks,’ said Hornblower, and added, ‘Many thanks for many services.’
Bush was positively embarrassed, and tried to brush away Hornblower’s gratitude with the same gestures as he would have used to brush away flies. He had been a tower of strength in this wedding, just as he had been in the preparation of the Hotspur for sea.
‘I’ll see you again at the breakfast, sir,’ he said, and with that he withdrew from the vestry, leaving behind him an awkward gap.
‘I was counting on Mr Bush’s arm for support down the aisle,’ said Mrs Mason, sharply.
It certainly was not like Bush to leave everyone in the lurch like this; it was in marked contrast with his behaviour during the last few whirlwind days.
&n
bsp; ‘We can bear each other company, Mrs Mason,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘Mr Clive can follow us.’
‘You are very kind, Mrs Clive,’ said Mrs Mason, although there was nothing in her tone to indicate that she meant what she said. ‘Then the happy pair can start now. Maria, take the captain’s arm.’
Mrs Mason marshalled the tiny procession in businesslike fashion. Hornblower felt Maria’s hand slipped under his arm, felt the light pressure she could not help giving to it, and – he could not be cruel enough to ignore it – he pressed her hand in return, between his ribs and his elbow, to be rewarded by another smile. A small shove from behind by Mrs Mason started him back in the church, to be greeted by a roar from the organ. Half a crown for the organist and a shilling for the blower was what that music had cost Mrs Mason; there might be better uses for the money. The thought occupied Hornblower’s mind for several seconds, and was naturally succeeded by the inevitable wonderment as to how anyone could possibly find enjoyment in these distasteful noises. He and Maria were well down the aisle before he came back to reality.
‘The sailors are all gone,’ said Maria with a break in her voice. ‘There’s almost no one in the church.’
Truth to tell, there were only two or three people in the pews, and these obviously the most casual idlers. All the few guests had trooped into the vestry for the signing, and the fifty seamen whom Bush had brought from Hotspur – all those who could be trusted not to desert – had vanished already. Hornblower felt a vague disappointment that Bush had failed again to rise to the situation.
‘Why should we care?’ he asked, groping wildly for words of comfort for Maria. ‘Why should any shadow fall on our wedding day?’
It was strangely painful to see and to feel Maria’s instant response, and her faltering step changed to a brave stride as they marched down the empty church. There was bright sunshine awaiting them at the west door, he could see; and he thought of something else a tender bridegroom might say.
The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 53