‘And we shall be the most unpopular people in Jamaica if we keep Their Excellencies waiting for their dinner,’ said Hornblower.
They were only guests, now, mere hangers-on, their presence only tolerated by people who had their official lives still to live; that was what Hornblower thought at dinner-time when the new Commander-in-Chief sat in the place of honour. He thought of the Byzantine General, blinded and disgraced, begging in the market-place, and he nearly said, ‘Spare a penny for Belisarius’ when the Governor turned to include him in the conversation.
‘Your marine hasn’t been apprehended yet,’ said Hooper.
‘Not my marine any longer, sir,’ laughed Hornblower. ‘Admiral Ransome’s marine now.’
‘I understand there’s no doubt that he will be apprehended,’ said Ransome.
‘We’ve not lost a deserter yet during the time of my appointment here,’ said Hooper.
‘That’s very reassuring,’ was Ransome’s comment.
Hornblower stole a glance at Barbara across the table. She was eating her dinner with apparent composure; he had feared lest this reminder should upset her, for he knew how strongly she felt about Hudnutt’s fate. A woman was liable to think that the inevitable should not be inevitable in matters in which she was interested. Barbara’s mastery of her feelings was something more to admire about her.
Lady Hooper changed the subject, and conversation became general and gay. Hornblower actually began to enjoy himself, with a lightheaded feeling of irresponsibility. There were no cares on his shoulders; soon – the moment the packet was ready to sail – he would be on his way to England, and he would be pleasantly settled in Smallbridge while these people here went on dealing with unrewarding problems in tropical heat. Nothing here mattered to him any more. If Barbara were happy he had not a care in the world, and Barbara was seemingly happy, chattering away to her neighbours on either hand.
It was pleasant, too, that there was not to be any heavy drinking, for after dinner there was to be a reception in honour of the new Commander-in-Chief to which all the island society not eligible for dinner had been invited. He found himself looking at life with fresh eyes and actually approving of it.
After dinner, when the men and the ladies met again in the drawing-room and the first new guests were being announced, he was able to exchange a word or two with Barbara and to see that she was happy and not over-tired. Her smile was bright and her eyes sparkling. He had to turn away from her in the end to shake hands with Mr Hough, just arrived with his wife. Other guests were streaming in; a sudden influx of blue and gold and white marked the arrival of Coleman, Triton’s captain, and a couple of his lieutenants. Ransome himself was presenting Coleman to Barbara, and Hornblower could not help but hear the conversation close behind him.
‘Captain Coleman is an old friend of mine,’ said Barbara. ‘You were Perfecto Coleman in those days, weren’t you, captain?’
‘And you were Lady Leighton, ma’am,’ said Coleman.
A harmless enough remark, but enough to shatter Hornblower’s frail happiness, to darken the brightly lit room, to set the babble of conversation in the room roaring in Hornblower’s ears like a torrent, through the din of which Barbara’s words pierced shrill like a whistle note.
‘Captain Coleman was my first husband’s flag-lieutenant,’ said Barbara.
She had had a first husband; she had been Lady Leighton. Hornblower nearly always contrived to forget this. Rear-Admiral Sir Percy Leighton had died for his country, of wounds received in the battle of Rosas Bay, thirteen full years ago. But Barbara had been Leighton’s wife, Leighton’s widow. She had been Leighton’s wife before she had been Hornblower’s. Hornblower hardly ever thought about it, but when he did he still experienced a jealousy which he knew to be insane. Any reminder not only reawoke that jealousy, but brought back to him with agonising clarity the recollection of the despair, the envy, the black self-derision he had known in those days. He had been a desperately unhappy man then, and this made him the same desperately unhappy man now. He was no longer the successful sailor, terminating a brilliant period of command. He was the thwarted lover, despised even by his own despicable self. He knew again all the misery of limitless and yet unsatisfied desire, to blend with the jealousies of the moment.
Hough was awaiting a reply to some remark he had made. Hornblower forced himself to extemporise some casual sentence which may or may not have been relevant. Hough drifted away, and Hornblower found himself against his will looking over at Barbara. She had her ready smile for him, and he had to smile back, and he knew it to be a dreadful, lopsided, mirthless smile, like a grin on the face of a dead man. He saw a worried look come on her face; he knew how instantly she was conscious of his moods, and that made it worse than ever. She was the heartless woman who had spoken of her first husband – that jealousy of his was a mood she knew nothing of, was not susceptible to. He was a man who had stepped suddenly from firm ground into a morass of uncertainty that would engulf him.
Captain Knyvett had entered the room, bluff and grizzled, dressed in blue broadcloth with unpretentious brass buttons. As he approached Hornblower could only with an effort remember him as the captain of the Jamaica packet.
‘We sail a week from today, My Lord,’ he said. ‘The announcement for the mail will be made tomorrow.’
‘Excellent,’ said Hornblower.
‘And I can see from all this,’ went on Knyvett, with a gesture indicating Admiral Ransome’s presence, ‘that I shall have the pleasure of Your Lordship’s company, and Her Ladyship’s.’
‘Yes, yes, quite so,’ said Hornblower.
‘You will be my only passengers,’ said Knyvett.
‘Excellent,’ repeated Hornblower.
‘I trust Your Lordship will find the Pretty Jane a well-found and comfortable ship.’
‘I trust so,’ said Hornblower.
‘Her Ladyship, of course, is familiar with the deck-house that will be your accommodation. I shall ask her if she can suggest any addition that will add to your comfort, My Lord.’
‘Very well.’
Knyvett drifted away after this cold reception, and it was only after he had gone that Hornblower realised that Knyvett must have received an impression of a top-lofty peer with hardly bare politeness for a mere packet-captain. He regretted it, and made a desperate effort to get himself under control again. A glance at Barbara revealed her chatting animatedly with young Bonner, the fishing-boat owner and general merchant with the shady reputation, against whom Hornblower had already warned her. That could have added to his misery if it were possible.
Again he made the effort to control himself. He knew the expression on his face to be frozen and blank, and he tried to make it more pleasing as he forced himself to stroll through the crowd.
‘Can we tempt you, Lord Hornblower?’ asked an old lady standing by the card-table in an alcove. She was a good whist player, Hornblower remembered.
‘Why certainly, with pleasure,’ he made himself say.
He had something to think about now; for the first few hands it was hard to concentrate, especially as the noise of an orchestra was added to the din of the party, but old habits reasserted themselves with the necessity to remember the distribution of fifty-two cards. By sheer will-power he achieved the transformation of himself into a thinking machine, playing coldly and correctly, and then, when the rubber appeared to be lost, he was carried away despite himself. The next hand afforded an opportunity for brilliance, for that injection into his so-far mechanical play of the human quality, the flexibility, the unpredictable cunning which marked the difference between a second-class player and a first-class one. By the fourth lead he had made a fair estimate of the hands. One particular lead might enable him to clear the board, to win every trick and the rubber; with orthodox play the hand would end with his making only twelve tricks and the rubber still in doubt. It was worth trying – but it was now or never. Without hesitation he led his queen of hearts to the ace that his partn
er was forced to play; he took the next trick and along with it control of the situation, cleared trumps, led out his established winners, saw with satisfaction his opponents discard first the knave and then the king of hearts, and he finally laid down the three of hearts to take the last trick amid the dismay of his opponents.
‘Why, that’s Grand Slam,’ said the old lady who was his partner, quite astonished.’ I don’t understand – I don’t see how – we’ve won the rubber after all!’
It had been a neat piece of work; there was a perceptible glow of accomplishment within him. That was a hand that he would be able to play over in his mind in future while composing himself to sleep. When the card playing was finished and the guests beginning to leave he was able to meet Barbara’s eye with a more natural expression, and Barbara with a relieved sigh was able to tell herself that her husband was coming out of his unpredictable mood.
It was as well that he was, for the next few days were bound to be difficult. There was almost nothing for him to do as the Pretty Jane made ready for sea. As a helpless spectator he had to stand by and watch Ransome taking over the command he had held for three years. The Spanish question was likely to be difficult with the French invasion of Spain to restore Ferdinand VII; there was the Mexican question as well as the Venezuela question; he could not help fretting over the possibility of Ransome mishandling them. On the other hand, there was the small comfort that Hudnutt had so far succeeded in evading capture; Hornblower honestly feared that if he should be apprehended and sentenced while they were still in the island Barbara might take action herself with personal appeals to Ransome or even to the Governor. Barbara actually seemed to have forgotten about the case, which was more than Hornblower had; he was still profoundly disturbed about it, and inclined to fret himself into a fever at his complete lack of power to exert any influence in the matter. It was hard to be philosophic about it, to tell himself that no individual, not even Hornblower, could hold back the working of the inexorable machine of the Articles for the Regulating and Better Government of His Majesty’s Navies. And Hudnutt was a more capable person than he had ever imagined, seeing that he had been able to maintain himself free from capture for a week now – unless perhaps he was dead. That might be best for Hudnutt.
Captain Knyvett came in person with the news that the Pretty Jane was almost ready for sea.
‘The last of the cargo’s going on board now, My Lord,’ he said. ‘The logwood’s all in and the coir is on the quay. If Your Lordship and Her Ladyship will come on board this evening we’ll sail with the land breeze at dawn.’
‘Thank you, captain. I am greatly obliged to you,’ said Hornblower, trying not to be fulsome to make up for his coldness at the Governor’s party.
Pretty Jane was a flush-decked brig, save that amidships she carried a small but substantial deck-house for her passengers. Barbara had inhabited it for five weeks on the outward voyage. Now they entered it together, with all the bustle of the ship’s getting ready for sea going on round them.
‘I used to look at that other bed, dear,’ she said to Hornblower as they stood in the deck-house, ‘and I used to tell myself that soon my husband would be sleeping there. It seemed too good to be possible, dear.’
A noise outside distracted them.
‘This case, ma’am?’ asked the Government House servant who was bringing their baggage on board under Gerard’s supervision.
‘That? Oh, I’ve asked the captain about that already. It’s to go in the steerage.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Delicacies in tin boxes,’ explained Barbara to Hornblower. ‘I brought them all the way out for you to enjoy while going home, dear.’
‘You are too good to me,’ said Hornblower.
A case that size and weight would be a nuisance in the deck-house. In the steerage its contents would be readily accessible.
‘What is coir?’ asked Barbara, looking out to see one of the final bales going down the hatchway.
‘The hairy husks of coconuts,’ explained Hornblower.
‘What in the world are we carrying those to England for?’ asked Barbara.
‘There are machines now which can weave it. They make coco-matting by the mile in England now.’
‘And logwood?’
‘They extract a dye from it. A bright red dye.’
‘You are my unfailing source of information, dear,’ said Barbara, ‘as well as everything else in life for me.’
‘Here’s Their Excellencies coming, My Lord,’ warned Gerard, arriving at the deck-house door.
That meant the final good-byes, in the dying evening. A painful, sad moment; much shaking of hands; kisses on each cheek for Barbara from Lady Hooper; the word ‘good-bye’ repeated over and over again, overwhelming in its finality. Good-bye to friends and to acquaintances, good-bye to Jamaica and to the command-in-chief. Good-bye to one life, with the next still to disclose itself. Good-bye to the last shadowy figure disappearing in the darkness of the quay, and then to turn again to Barbara standing beside him, permanent in these transitions.
In the first light of next morning Hornblower could hardly be blamed for being on deck, feeling oddly awkward with the necessity for keeping out of the way, watching while Knyvett warped the Pretty Jane away from the quay, to catch the land breeze and head out of the harbour. Luckily Knyvett was made of sturdy stuff, and was not in the least discomposed at having to handle his ship under the eye of an Admiral. The land breeze filled the sails; Pretty Jane gathered way. They dipped the flag to Fort Augusta, and then, with the helm hard over, came round to leave Drunken Cay and South Cay on their port side before beginning the long reach to the eastward. And Hornblower could relax and contemplate the new prospect of breakfasting with his wife on shipboard.
He surprised himself at the ease with which he accustomed himself to being a passenger. At first he was so anxious to give no indication of interference that he did not even dare to look into the binnacle to note their course. He was content to sit with Barbara in two hammock chairs in the shade of the deck-house – there were beckets to which the chairs could be hooked to prevent them sliding down the deck to leeward as Pretty Jane heeled over – and think about nothing in particular, watching the flying fish furrowing the surface, and the patches of yellow Sargasso weed drift by, gold against the blue, and an occasional turtle swimming manfully along far from land. He could watch Captain Knyvett and his mate take their noon sight and assure himself that he had no interest at all in the figures they were obtaining – and in truth he was really more interested in the punctuality of meal-times. He could crack an idle joke with Barbara to the effect that Pretty Jane had made this run so often she could be trusted to find her way home without supervision; and his mind was lazy enough to think that funny.
It was actually his first holiday after three years of strenuous work. During much of that time he had frequently been under severe strain, and during all of it he had been busy. He sank into idleness as a man might sink into a warm bath, with the difference that he had not expected to find this relaxation and ease in idleness, and (more important, perhaps) in the cessation of responsibility. Nothing mattered during those golden days. He was the person least concerned in all the ship, as Pretty Jane thrashed her way northward, in the burning question as to whether the wind would hold steady to enable her to weather Point Maysi, without having to go about, and he did not care when they did not succeed. He endured philosophically the long beat to windward back towards Haiti, and he smiled patronisingly at the petty jubilation on board when they succeeded on the next tack and passed through the Windward Channel so that they might almost consider themselves out of the Caribbean. A persistent northward slant in the Trades kept them from attempting the Caicos Passage, and they had to hold away to the eastward for Silver Bank Passage. Caicos or Silver Bank – or for that matter Turks Island or Mouchoir – he did not care. He did not care whether he arrived home in August or September.
Yet his instincts were only dormant.
That evening, when they were truly in the Atlantic, he felt restless and disturbed for the first time since leaving Jamaica. There was something heavy in the breathing of the air, and something unusual about the swell that was rolling the Pretty Jane so heavily. A gale before morning, he decided. A little unusual in these latitudes at this time of year, but nothing really to worry about. He did not trouble Barbara with his notions, but he woke several times in the night to find the ship still rolling heavily. When the watch was called he noted that all hands were kept on deck to shorten sail, and he was tempted to go out to see what was happening. A clatter outside awoke Barbara.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, sleepily.
‘Only the deadlights, dear,’ he answered.
Someone had slammed the deadlights against the deck-house windows and clamped them home – Knyvett must be expecting to ship some heavy seas. Barbara went back to sleep, and Hornblower actually followed her example, but in half an hour he was awake again. The gale was unceasing, and the ship was working considerably in the swell, so that everything was groaning and creaking. He lay in the darkness to feel the ship heaving and lying over under him, and he could both hear and actually feel the vibration of the taut standing rigging transmitted to his bunk via the deck. He would like to go out and have a look at the weather, but he did not wish to disturb Barbara.
‘Awake, dear?’ said a small voice the other side of the deck-house.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘It seems to be getting rough.’
‘A little,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Go to sleep again, dear.’
Now he could not go out because Barbara was awake and would know about it. He made himself lie still; it was pitch dark in the deckhouse with the deadlights in, and, perhaps because of the cessation of ventilation, it was now overpoweringly hot despite the gale. Pretty Jane was leaping about extravagantly, and every now and then lying over so far that he feared lest Barbara should be rolled out of her bunk. Then he was conscious of a change in the vessel’s behaviour, of a difference in the thunderous creaking that filled the darkness. Knyvett had hove the Pretty Jane to; she was not lying over, but she was pitching fantastically, indicating a really heavy sea outside. He wanted so much to go out and see for himself. He had no idea even of what the time was – it was far too dark to look at his watch. At the thought that it might be dawn he could restrain himself no longer.
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