The Gambler

by khaleesian

Notes:

This is a direct re-write of the last two chapters of Lieutenant Hornblower. With a lot more man-love.

 

It was a cold winter’s day in Portsmouth; a black frost and there was a penetrating east wind blowing down the street as Bush came out of the dockyard gates.  He turned up the collar of his pea jacket over his muffler and crammed his hands into his pockets, and he bowed his head into the wind as he strode forward into it, his eyes watering, his nose running, while that east wind seemed to find its way between his ribs, making the scars that covered them ache anew.  He would not allow himself to look up at the Keppel’s Head as he went past it.  In there, he knew, there would be warmth and good company.  The fortunate officers who had found themselves appointments in the peacetime navy --- they would be in there yarning and taking wine with each other.  He could not afford wine.  He thought longingly for a moment about a tankard of beer, but he rejected the idea immediately, although the temptation was strong.  He had a month’s half pay in his pocket – he was on his way back from the Clerk of the Cheque from whom he had drawn it –but that had to last four and a half weeks and he knew he could not afford it.

He had tried of course for a billet in the merchant service, as mate, but that was as hopeless a prospect at present as obtaining an appointment as lieutenant.  Having started life as a midshipman and spent all his adult life thus far in the fighting service he did not know enough about bills of lading or cargo stowage.  The merchant service looked on the navy with genial contempt and said the latter always had a hundred men available to do a job the merchantman had to do with six.  And with every ship that was paid off a fresh batch of master’s mates trained for the merchant and pressed from it, seeking jobs in their old profession, heightening the competition every month.

Someone came out from a side street just in front of him and turned into the wind ahead of him—a naval officer.  Long legs, pale skin, those shoulders bent into the wind; he could not help but recognise Hornblower.

 “Sir! Sir!” he called, and Hornblower turned.

There was a momentary irritation in his expression but it vanished the moment he recognised Bush.

“It’s good to see you, “ he said, his hand held out and warmth lighting his eyes.

“Good to see you, sir,” said Bush.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’” said Hornblower.

“No, sir? That ---why---?”

Hornblower had no greatcoat on; and his left shoulder was bare of the epaulette he should have worn as a commander.  Bush’s eyes went to it automatically. He could see the old pinholes in the material, which showed where the epaulette had once been fastened.

“I’m not a commander,” said Hornblower. “They didn’t confirm my appointment.”

“Good God!” Bush exclaimed.

Hornblower’s face was unnaturally white – Bush was accustomed to seeing it deeply tanned – and his cheeks were hollow, but his expression was set in the old unrevealing cast that Bush remembered so well.

“Preliminaries of peace were signed the day I took Retribution into Plymouth,” said Hornblower

“What infernal luck!” said Bush.

Lieutenants waited all their lives for the fortunate combination of circumstances that might bring them promotion, and most of them waited in vain.  It was more than likely now Hornblower would wait in vain for the rest of his life.

“Have you applied for an appointment as lieutenant?” asked Bush.

“Yes. And I suppose you have?” replied Hornblower.

“Yes.”

There was no need to say more than that on that subject.  The peacetime navy employed one-tenth of the lieutenants who were employed in wartime; to receive an appointment on had to be of vast seniority or else have powerful friends.
“I spent a month in London,” said Hornblower. “There was always a crowd round the Admiralty and the Navy Office.”

“I expect so,” said Bush. The wind came shrieking round the corner.

“God, but it’s cold!” said Bush.

His mind toyed with the thought of various ways to continue the conversation in shelter.  If they went to the Keppel’s Head now it would mean paying for two pints of beer and Hornblower would have to pay for the same. 

I’m going into the Long Rooms just here,” said Hornblower. “Come in with me—or are you busy?”

“No, I’m not busy,” said Bush, doubtfully, “but –“

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Hornblower briskly. “Come on.”

There was reassurance in the confident way in which Hornblower spoke about the Long Rooms.  Bush only knew of them by reputation.  They were frequented by officers of the navy and the army with money to spare.  Bush had heard much about the high stakes that were indulged in at play there, and about the elegance of the refreshments offered by the proprietor.  If Hornblower could speak thus causally about the Long Rooms he could not be as desperately hard up as he seemed to be.  They crossed the street and Hornblower held open the door and ushered him through.  It was a long oak panelled room; the gloom of the outer day was made cheerful here by the light of candles, and a magnificent fire flamed on the hearth. In the centre several card tables with chairs round them stood ready for play; the ends of the room were furnished as comfortable lounges.  A servant in a green baize apron was making the room tidy and came to take their hats and Bush’s coat as they entered.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning, Jenkins,” said Hornblower.

He walked with unconcealed haste over to the fire and stood before it warming himself.  Bush saw that his teeth were almost chattering.

“A bad day to be out without your pea-jacket,” he said.

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

He clipped that affirmative a little short, so that in a minute degree it failed to be an indifferent, flat agreement. It was that which caused Bush to realise that it was not eccentricity or absentmindedness that had brought Hornblower out into a black frost without his greatcoat. Bush looked at Hornblower sharply, and he might even have asked a tactless question if he had not been forestalled by the opening of an inner door beside them. A short, plump, but exceedingly elegant gentleman came in; he was dressed in the height of fashion, save that he wore his hair long, tied back and with powder in the style of the last generation.  This made his age hard to guess.  He looked at the pair of them with keen dark eyes.

“Good morning, Marquis,” said Hornblower. “It is a pleasure to present –M. le Marquis de Sainte-Croix---Lieutenant Bush.”

The Marquis bowed gracefully, and Bush endeavoured to imitate him. But for all that graceful bow, Bush was quite aware of the considering eyes running over him.  A lieutenant looking over a likely hand, or a farmer looking at a pig at a fair, might have worn the same expression.  Bush guessed that the Marquis was making a mental estimate as to how much Bush might be good for at the card tables, and suddenly became acutely conscious of his shabby uniform.  Apparently the Marquis reached the same conclusion, but he began a conversation nevertheless.

“A bitter wind,” he said.

“Yes,” said Bush.

“It will be rough in the Channel,” the Marquis went on, politely raising a professional topic.

“Indeed it will,” agreed Bush.

“And no ships will come in from the westward.”

“You can be sure of that.”

The Marquis spoke excellent English. He turned to Hornblower.

“Have you seen Mr. Truelove lately?” he asked.

“No,” said Hornblower. “But I met Mr. Wilson.”
Truelove and Wilson were names familiar to Bush; they were the most famous prize agents in England – a quarter of the navy at least employed that firm to dispose of their captures for them.  The Marquis turned back to Bush.

“I hope, you have been fortunate in the matter of prize money, Mr. Bush?” he said.

“No such luck,” said Bush.  He cut a quick glance at Hornblower, whose lips were twisting in a small grin.  No doubt he was remembering that debauch at Kingston.  Bush felt a moment’s flush of embarrassment but he was glad that he could make Hornblower smile, if only for a moment.

The Marquis went on, “The sums they handle are fabulous, nothing less than fabulous.  I understand the ship’s company of the Caradoc will share seventy thousand pounds when they come in.”

“Very likely,” said Bush.  He had heard of the captures the Caradoc had made in the Bay of Biscay.

“But while this wind persists they must wait before enjoying their good fortunes, poor fellows.  They were not paid off on the conclusion of peace, but were ordered to Malta to assist in relieving the garrison.  Now they are expected back daily.”

For an immigrant civilian the Marquis displayed a laudable interest in the affairs of the service.  And he was consistently polite, as his next speech showed.

 “I trust you will consider yourself at home here, Mr. Bush,” he said. “Now I hope you will pardon me, as I have much business to attend to.”

He withdrew through the curtained door, leaving Bush and Hornblower looking at each other.

“A queer customer,” said Bush.

“Not so queer when you come to know him,“ said Hornblower. The fire had warmed him by now and there was a little colour in his cheeks.

“What do you do here?” asked Bush, curiosity finally overcoming his politeness.

“I play whist,” said Hornblower.

“Whist?”

All that Bush knew about whist was that it was a slow game favoured by intellectuals.  When Bush gambled he preferred something with a greater element of chance and which did not make any demand on his thoughts.

“A good many men from the services drop in here for whist,” said Hornblower. “I’m always glad to make a fourth.”

“But I’d heard—“

Bush had heard of all sorts of other games being played in the Long Rooms; hazard, vingt-et-un, even roulette.

“The games for high stakes are played in there,” said Hornblower, pointing to the curtained door. “I stay here.”

“Wise man,” said Bush. But he was quite sure there was some further information that was being withheld from him.  And he was not actuated by simple curiosity. The affection and the interest that he felt towards Hornblower drove him into further questioning.

“Do you win?” he asked.

“Frequently,” said Hornblower. “Enough to live.”

“But you have your half pay?” went on Bush.

Hornblower yielded in face of the persistence.

“No,” he said. “I’m not entitled.”

“Not entitled?” Bush’s voice rose a semitone. “But you’re a permanent lieutenant.”

“Yes. But I was a temporary commander. I drew three months’ full pay for that rank before the Admiralty refused to confirm.”

“And then they put you under stoppages?”

“Yes. Until I’ve repaid the excess.” Hornblower smiled, a nearly natural smile. “I’ve lived through two months of it. Only five more and I’ll be back on half pay.”

“Holy Peter!” said Bush.

Half pay was bad enough; it meant a life of constant care and economy, but one could live. Hornblower had nothing at all. Bush knew now why Hornblower had no greatcoat. He felt a sudden wave of anger. A recollection rose in his mind, as clear to his inward eye as this pleasant room was to his outward one. He remember Hornblower swinging himself down, sword in hand,  onto the deck of the Renown, plunging into a battle against odds which could only result in either death or victory.  Hornblower, who had planned and worked endlessly to ensure success –even in that last conflict – and then had flung his life upon the board as a final stake; and today Hornblower was standing with chattering teeth trying to warm himself beside a fire by the charity of a frog-eating gambling hall keeper with the look of a dancing master.  It made Bush want to smash something.

“It’s a hellish outrage,” said Bush, and then he made his offer.  He offered his money, even though he knew as he offered it that it meant most certainly that he would go hungry, and that his sisters, if not exactly hungry, would hardly have enough to eat. He thought desperately for a moment of Archie Kennedy and his family in Sussex. But Hornblower was already shaking his head.

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll never forget that. But I can’t accept it. You know that I couldn’t.  But I’ll never cease to be grateful to you.  I’m grateful in another way, too.  You’ve brightened the world for me by saying that.”

Even in the face of Hornblower’s refusal Bush repeated his offer and tried to press it, but Hornblower stood firm.  Perhaps it was because Bush looked so downcast that Hornblower gave him some further information in the hope of cheering him up.

“Things aren’t as bad as they seem,” he said. “You don’t understand that I’m in receipt of regular pay –a permanent salarium from our friend the Marquis.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Bush.

“Half a guinea a week,” explained Hornblower “Ten shillings and sixpence every Saturday morning, rain or shine.”

“And what do you have to do for it?” Bush’s half pay was more than twice that sum.

“I only have to play whist,” explained Hornblower. “Only that. From twelve midday until two in the morning I’m here to play whist with any three that need a fourth.”

“I see,” said Bush.

“The Marquis in his generosity also makes me free of these rooms. I have no subscription to pay. No table money. And I can keep my winnings.”

“And pay your losses?”

Hornblower shrugged.

“Naturally. But the losses do not come as often as one might think.  The reason’s simple enough.  The whist players who find it hard to obtain partners, and who are cold-shouldered by the others, are naturally the bad players.  Strangely anxious to play, even so. And when the Marquis happens to be in here and Major Jones and Admiral Smith and Mr. Robinson are seeking a fourth while everyone seems strangely preoccupied he catches my eye and I rise to my feet and offer to be the fourth.  It is odd they are flattered to play with Hornblower, as often it costs them money.”

“I see,” said Bush again, and he remembered Hornblower standing by the furnace in Fort Samaná organising the firing of red-hot shot at the Spanish privateers.

“The life is not entirely one of beer and skittles, naturally,” went on Hornblower; with the dam once broken he could not restrain his loquacity. “After the fourth hour or so it becomes irksome to play with bad players.  When I go to Hell I don’t doubt that my punishment will be always to partner players who pay no attention to my discards. But then on the other hand, I frequently play a rubber or two with the good players. There are moments when I feel I would rather lose to a good player than win from a bad one.”

“That’s just the point,” said Bush, harking back to an old theme. “How about the losses?”

Bush’s experiences of gambling had mostly been of losses, and in this hardheaded moment he could remember the times when he had been weak.

“I can deal with them,” said Hornblower. He touched his breast pocket. “I keep ten pounds here in reserve. I can always endure a run of losses in consequence. Should that reserve be depleted, then sacrifices have to be made to build it up again.”

The sacrifices being skipped meals, thought Bush grimly. He looked so woebegone that Hornblower offered further comfort.

“But five more months,” he said, “and I’ll be on half pay again.  And before that –who knows? Some captain may take me off the beach.”

“That’s true,” said Bush.

It was true insofar as the possibility existed. Sometimes ships were recommissioned. A captain might be in need of a lieutenant; a captain might invite Hornblower to fill the vacancy.  But every captain was besieged by friends seeking appointments and in any event the Admiralty was also besieged by lieutenants of great seniority – or lieutenants with powerful friends – and captains were most likely to listen to recommendations of high authority.

The door opened and a group of men came in.

“It’s high time for customers to arrive,” said Hornblower, with a grin at Bush. “Stay and meet my friends.”

The red coats of the army, the blue coats of the navy, the bottle-green and snuff coloured coats of civilians; Bush and Hornblower made room for them before the fire after the introductions were made, and the coattails were parted as their wearers lined up before the flames. But the exclamations about the cold and the polite conversation died away rapidly.

“Whist?” asked on of the newcomers tentatively.

“Not for me. Not for us,” said another, the leader of the redcoats. “The Twenty-Ninth Foot has other fish to fry. We’ve a permanent engagement with our friend, the Marquis, in the next room. Come on, Major, let’s see if we can call a main right this time.”

“Then will you make a fourth, Mr. Hornblower? How about your friend, Mr. Bush?”

“I don’t play,” said Bush.

“With pleasure,” said Hornblower. “You will excuse me, Mr. Bush, I know. There is the new number of the Naval Chronicle on the table there. There’s a Gazette letter on the last page which might perhaps hold your interest for a while.”

Bush could guess what the letter was even before he picked the periodical up, but when he found the place there was the same feeling of pleased shock to see his name in print there, as keen as the first time he saw it: “I have the honour to be, etc., Wm. Bush.”

The Naval Chronicle in these days of peace found it hard apparently to obtain sufficient matter to fill its pages and gave much space to the reprinting of these despatches. Here was the first one – it was with a strange internal sensation that he remembered helping Buckland with the writing of it, as the Renown ran westerly along the coast of Santo Domingo the day before the prisoners broke out. It was Buckland’s report on the fighting at Samaná. To Bush the most important line was “in the handsomest manner –under the direction of Lieutenant William Bush, the senior officer, whose report I enclose.” And here was his very own literary work, as enclosed by Buckland.

H.M.S. Renown, off Santo Domingo. January 9^th, 1802

 

Sir,

            I have the honour to inform you…

 

Bush relived those days of a year ago as he re-read his own words; those words which he had composed with so much labour even though he had referred, during the writing of them, to other reports written by other men so as to get the phrasing right.

...I cannot end this report without a reference to the gallant conduct and most helpful suggestions of Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, who was my second in command on this occasion, and to whom in great part the success of the expedition is due.

There was Hornblower now, playing cards with a post captain and two contractors.

Bush turned back through the pages of the Naval Chronicle.  Here was the Plymouth letter, a daily account of the doings in the port during the last month. 

“Orders came down this day for the following ships to be paid off…” “Came in from Gibraltar La Diana, 44, and the Tama, 38, to be paid off as soon as they go up the harbour and to be laid up.” And here was an item just as significant, or even more so: “Yesterday there was a large sale of serviceable store landed from the different men of war.” The navy was growing smaller every day, and with every ship that was paid off another batch of lieutenants would be looking for billets. And here was an item – “This afternoon a fishing boat turning out of Catwater jibed and overset, by which accident two industrious fishermen with large families were drowned.” This was the Naval Chronicle, whose pages had once bulged with the news of Niles and of Camperdown; now it told of accidents to industrious fishermen. Bush was too interested in his own concerns to feel any sympathy towards their large families.

Another name at the bottom of the page caught his eye and when he had completed the small paragraph he smiled.  It is with great pleasure that we announce…

It was unlikely that he was ever to see Archie again. He remembered the feel of Archie’s hair under his hand, blushed and cursed himself again.

Bush reread the passage and pondered over it. He thought it important to the extent that he read the remainder of the Naval Chronicle without taking in any of it; and it was with surprise that he realised he would have to leave quickly in order to catch the carrier’s waggon back to Chichester.

A good many people were coming into the Rooms now; the door was continually opening to admit them. Some of them were naval officers with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. All of them made straight for the fire for warmth before beginning to play. And Hornblower was on his feet now; apparently the rubber was finished, and Bush took the opportunity to catch his eye and give an indication that he wished to leave. Hornblower came over to him. It was with regret that they shook hands.

“When do we meet again?” asked Hornblower.

“I come in each month to draw my half pay,” said Bush. “I usually spend the night because of the carrier’s waggon. Perhaps we could dine--?”

“You can always find me here,” said Honblower. “But—do you have a regular place to stay?”

“I stay where it’s convenient,” replied Bush.

They both of them knew that meant that he stayed where it was cheap.

“I lodge in Highbury Street. I’ll write the address down.” Hornblower turned to a desk in the corner and wrote on a sheet of paper, which he handed to Bush. “Would you care to share my room when next you come? My landlady is a sharp one.  No doubt she will make a charge for a cot for you, but even so—.”

“It’ll save money,” said Bush, putting the paper in his pocket; his grin as he spoke masked the sentiment in his next words. “And I’ll see more of you.”

“By George, yes,” said Hornblower. Words were not adequate.

Jenkins had come sidling up and was holding Bush’s greatcoat for him. There was that in Jenkins’ manner which told Bush that gentlemen when helped into their coats at the Long Rooms presented Jenkins with a shilling. Bush decided at first that he would be eternally damned before he parted with a shilling, and then he changed his mind.  Maybe Hornblower would give Jenkins a shilling if he did not. He felt in his pocket and handed the coin over.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jenkins.

With Jenkins out of earshot again Bush lingered, wondering how to frame his thoughts. “That’s some news for our Mr. Kennedy,” he said, lamely.

 Hornblower grinned, “I had quite the letter about the lady.  He indicated that he was writing to you as well. Have you not received it then?

“No,” said Bush, “The post, you know…. I wonder if we shall ever see him again.  I can’t really imagine him a country squire.”  Bush had a suspicion that Archie might have found it difficult to write to him, despite the intentions he had expressed to Hornblower.

“Never say never,” said Hornblower, cheerfully.

The Marquis had come into the room and was looking round in unobtrusive inspection. Bush saw him take note of the several men who were not playing, and of Hornblower standing in idle gossip by the door. Bush saw the meaning glance that he directed at Hornblower, and fell into sudden panic.

“Good-bye,” he said, hastily.

The black northeast wind that greeted him in the street was no more cruel than the rest of the world.

 

********* 

It was a short, hard-faced woman who opened the door in reply to Bush’s knock, and she looked at Bush even harder when he asked for Lieutenant Hornblower.

“Top of the house,” she said and left Bush to find his own way up.

There could be no doubt about Hornblower’s pleasure at seeing him. His face was lit with a smile and he drew Bush into the room while shaking his hand. It was an attic with a steeply sloping ceiling: it contained Hornblower’s chest, a bed and a night table and a single wooden chair, but as far as Bush’s cursory glance could discover, nothing else at all.

“And how is it with you?” asked Bush, seating himself in the proffered chair, while Hornblower sat on the bed.

“Well enough,” replied Hornblower –but was there a guilty pause before that answer? In any case, the pause was covered up by the quick counterquestion. “And with you?”

“So-so,” said Bush. “As a matter of fact, I might need to stay for a few days.  A dear friend of our mother’s (widowed now) needs a strong person to supervise her moving her household to Dover.” He continued, wryly, “My sisters thought nothing of volunteering me.”

“You must be accustomed to that kind of volunteerism by now surely?” Hornblower laughed and Bush joined in.

“I have simply never seen such service as a civilian. It won’t be a problem, to stop here awhile? Your landlady certainly looks a right harpy.”

“Money calls her tune.” Hornblower replied ruefully.  “I’m sure, between the two of us, we’ll get you a bed. I’ll go down and give her a hail.”

“I’d better come too,” said Bush.

Mrs. Mason lived in a hard world, she turned the proposition over in her mind for several seconds before she agreed to it.

“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 gennelmen. And douse the light while you talk, too, or you’ll be burning a shilling’s worth of tallow.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower.

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 universal 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 particularise. 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.

As the boy manhandled the truckle bed into the room, Hornblower resumed his interrupted toilette. He put his shaving things away and brushed futilely at his worn coat. Bush suddenly had a moment of painful tenderness looking at his dear friend in the pale watery light of the high window. 

Thoughtlessly, he remarked, “You’ve mended that shirt yourself.”

“Yes I have.” Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn garment.

Desperately and clumsily, Bush tried to cover his lapse.  “It is just…it isn’t fit that you should patch your own shirts.”

“Whose should I patch, then?”

Bush gave a quick bark of laughter. “I’m sorry.  The country living has made me witless.”

But Hornblower was looking at him with the oddest expression.

 “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 and tried to smile.

He had sisters who devoted all their attention to him whenever it was possible and he was used to it. At home he took their ministrations for granted. Hornblower had absolutely no one. 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 want to go to the dockyard? The Clerk of the Cheque?”

“Yes.”

“We can walk together as far as the Rooms, if you care to.”

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 at four-penny 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 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. 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.

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

“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 recognised 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 Bloodybones” 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.  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. Hornblower cut the cards and the next deal began in the same mystic silence. Bush could not see the fascination of it. No, he was wrong. There was undoubtedly a fascination about it; a poisonous fascination. 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.”

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

Bush glanced quickly at Hornblower. There never was such a perfect 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 old Justinian. I believe the story is still 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 call on 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 tomorrow 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 would be the last to stand in the way.”

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

“Yes, my lord.”

Parry withdrew then, ushered out by his flag lieutenant who had been one of the whist four, with all the dignity and pomp that might be expected of a peer, an admiral, and a commissioner, and he left Hornblower grinning at Bush.

“D’you think it’s time for us to dine too?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Bush.

The eating house in Broad Street was run, as might almost have been expected, by a wooden legged sailor. He had a pert son to assist him, who stood by when they sat at a scrubbed oaken table on oak benches, their feet in the sawdust, and ordered their dinner.

“Ale?” asked the boy.

“No. No ale,” said Hornblower.

The pert boy’s manner gave some indication of what he thought about gentlemen of the navy who ate the fourpenny ordinary and drank nothing with it. He dumped the loaded plates in front of them; boiled mutton—not very much mutton—potatoes and carrots and parsnips and barley and a dab of pease pudding, all swimming in pale gravy.

“It keeps away hunger,” said Hornblower.

It might indeed do that, but apparently Hornblower had not kept hunger away lately. He began to eat his food with elaborate unconcern, but with each mouthful his appetite increased and his restraint decreased. In an extraordinarily short time his plate was empty; he mopped it clean with his bread and ate the bread. Bush was not a slow eater, but he was taken a little aback when he looked up and saw that Hornblower had finished every mouthful while his own plate was still half full. Hornblower laughed nervously.

“Eating alone gives one bad habits,” he said—and the best proof of his embarrassment was the lameness of his explanation.  Bush’s heart ached a little at this and he cast about for a change of subject. 

“I think that I shall retire early. Mrs. Nelson does not expect me until half past ten but chaffing with the Clerk of the Cheque is more tiring than one would think.”

“That is certainly so,” said Hornblower, wryly. “I think that is a good plan. I will try to be quiet upon my return. To a good night’s rest!” Hornblower toasted ironically with water.

“To a fortunate evening,” Bush said raising his glass in turn.

“A timely toast,” said Hornblower.

“You can afford to play?” asked Bush.

“Naturally.”

“You can stand another run of bad luck?”
“I can afford to lose one rubber,” answered Hornblower.

“Oh.”

“But if I win the first I can afford to lose the next two. If I win the first and second, I can afford to lose the next three. And so on.”

“Oh.”

That did not sound too hopeful; and Hornblower’s gleaming eyes looking at him from his wooden countenance were positively disturbing. Bush shifted uneasily in his seat and changed the conversation again.

“They’re putting the Hastings into commission again,” he said. “Had you heard?”

“Yes. Peacetime establishment—three lieutenants and all three selected two months back.”

“I was afraid that was so.”

“But our chance will come,” said Hornblower. “Here’s to it.”

“D’you think Parry will really bring Lambert back to the Long Rooms?” Bush asked when he took the glass from his lips.

“I have no doubt about it,” said Hornblower.

Now he was restless again.

“I must be back there soon,” he said.

 

******* 

 

The quiet tread on the stairs drew Bush from a confusing dream of the tropics.  Hornblower entered the room and Bush could see that he was making an effort to walk softly despite his fatigue.  It was the darkest hour of the evening and the temperature had dropped considerably. Hornblower guarded his wan candle’s flame while gazing intently at where he put his feet.  Bush’s cot lay in shadow and he realised that it was something of a novel experience to be able to observe Hornblower thus unguarded. 

Bush prided himself on his devotion to duty but Hornblower, despite (or perhaps because of) his passion and intelligence tried to mold the mask to his face so tightly that it would never come off.  He remembered many instances where he had been shocked and slightly frightened by Hornblower’s daring.  He wondered if Hornblower ever frightened himself. Bush was momentarily completely at a loss with what to do with the surfeit of tenderness that he felt welling up inside him.

Hornblower had slipped out of his shoes and as he sat on the bench under the window to unlace his breeches below the knee, he shivered involuntarily. Undoubtedly there was a draft. He unrolled his stockings and draped them carefully over the bench.  He had pulled his threadbare sleep shirt from his chest and Bush could see that he hesitated a moment, his fingers stiff with the cold. Unlacing his collar was doubly a trial for the low light and the stiff fingers.  Bush watched his shoulders slump with exhaustion.

“Did you win?” Bush asked softly.

Hornblower glanced his way sharply and his eyes were suspiciously bright in the candlelight. “I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“You didn’t,” said Bush, firmly, drawing himself to the edge of the little bed. “Now did you win enough to be playing admirals and lords tomorrow?”

“I….I am better off to the tune of one pound.  So I cannot really say that my streak of losses is continuing. But one could wish to be better prepared.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Bush murmured as he stood and made his way over to where Hornblower was standing frozen in the moonlight. “Why do you do it?”

 “Do what?” asked Hornblower, puzzled.

“Why do you sing my praises to Admiral Parry, but tell him that ridiculous story about something that happened to you almost ten years ago?”

Hornblower gaped at him, either at the nature of the question or at the vehemence of his tone.  He stuttered with confusion. “What ever do you mean?”

“Why can you never take credit for what you’ve accomplished? Some of those men in the Long Rooms wearing epaulettes and ribbons aren’t fit to lick your boots and you know it!”

Bush had actually grabbed Hornblower’s shoulders and was shaking him slightly with every syllable.  The desire to chide Hornblower had grown in him all evening and his pent-up frustration was overpowering his reason.

“William, please.” Hornblower broke out desperately. “You don’t know me truly…you can’t see how I fall short of the mark in so many ways. I couldn’t….I could never…”

Bush could suddenly bear it no longer.  The pure injustice and unfairness of it all rose up in his mouth like bile.  The idea that this gifted and gracious man should suffer such indignity was so deeply galling. Staring at Horatio, who was staring back at him slightly flushed, with what could only be embarrassment, Bush was struck hard by memory.  The expression on Horatio’s face was a mirror to the moment that he had faced down mad Captain Sawyer who had threatened him with a pistol on the swaying deck of the Renown. He had that look again, determined, impassioned, but at the very back of his eyes was a weary resignation that made Bush clench his teeth.  At one time he had been this man’s superior officer.  Just at that moment Bush felt a fierce desire to be back in the days when Horatio had looked to him to know what to do. He could gamble for high stakes as well.

“You are going to stop this,” he said firmly. “You are going to stop punishing yourself for imagined shortcomings.” It was as Archie had suggested. Horatio needed someone to protect him…most particularly from himself.

 Carefully, he drew Horatio’s slim form into his arms.  “You need this….” He murmured. “Let me give you some ease. Let me take care of you.”  As his breath feathered over his friend’s shoulder, he could feel the goosebumps begin to rise and Horatio began to shake uncontrollably. Horatio was just a spare inch taller than he was, but his prolonged hunger had drawn him so thin that Bush felt as though he could simply wrap himself around his friend. He pulled him down into the bed that was still warm from his earlier heat.

Bush pulled his friend into a tight embrace and held him until his quaking abated.  Horatio’s eyes were so large it looked as though they could easily swallow his face and when he tried to speak only small choked-off sounds escaped him. Bush slowly worked him into the exact middle of the bed and lay alongside him, his broad back blocking any hint of draft.  Horatio’s head rested in the crook of his elbow and their faces were inches apart.  Now there was only the faintest light between them reflecting from their pale faces.

“I…I never…” Horatio finally.

“I know you never,” Bush said in a firm, soft voice, “The question is: do you want to?”

There was a long pause, while Horatio squeezed his eyes shut.  Bush was left to wonder if he had fainted for a second. Then in answer, he pressed his lips against the underside of Bush’s jaw.  Bush felt heat flood over him starting from that gentle caress, banishing the last hint of cold beneath the covers. He slid his hand down the slim torso pausing to clasp at the hip. Horatio was innocent to all of this, innocent as a dove. He hoped that Horatio would understand….he would probably have to make him understand…that he was being moved by affection and tenderness, not pity.

Slowly and lightly, he ran his hands over Horatio’s angular face. His fingertips could tell him more in this low light than his eyes. Horatio’s mouth was dry when Bush pressed his lips to it, so he licked gently at the surprisingly full lips. Horatio gasped and Bush was inside. He pressed his tongue gently into his friend’s mouth and cradled his face running his thumbs over his cheekbones.  He felt the slight dampness in the corners of Horatio’s eyes and pulled instantly away.

“Am I..?” he began. Horatio silenced him by grabbing his neck and pulling himself up into another deeper kiss. 

Bush could feel the moment when the dam began to break.  Bush wondered dizzily how long it had been since anyone had touched Horatio.  The feel of Bush’s skin appeared to be driving him into a frenzy. Horatio had splayed his fingers over Bush’s ribs and he was rubbing his face cat-like over Bush’s chest.  The panting breath and the tickling feeling of his eyelashes were so arousing that Bush had to bite his tongue and attempt to wrest control back.

He realised that Horatio still had his breeches on and grinned to himself. “Let me,” he murmured and began unbuttoning the front of his friend’s trousers. Horatio went completely stiff.  Bush stopped what he was doing, “Horatio?” he whispered.

“I’m…please you, I can’t…” Despite the lack of coherence, Bush thought he could divine the problem. He rose up and tucked his left arm under Horatio’s neck. He licked the ear that was closest to him and muttered soft endearments that made Horatio shiver.  With his right hand, he skated over the bare chest, pinching at nipples, scratching lightly and caressing while he bit at Horatio’s jaw.  He placed his hand over his friend’s lower belly and felt the muscles ripple and tense.

“It’s all right,” said Bush quite audibly. Horatio looked at him and Bush felt him nod. Gently Bush ran his fingers under the thick broadcloth. As he ran his fingers over his friend’s swelling cock, Horatio arched his back and cried out. Bush took him firmly in hand, squeezing his fingers around the base. Horatio looked as if he’d just swallowed his tongue and he had stopped breathing.

“Let me…”whispered Bush again. It felt as though his friend’s entire body was determined to mimic his responsive cock…Horatio was stiffening up entirely. He was like a bow drawn ever tauter.  Bush squeezed the stiffening shoulder and stuck two fingers into the wide mouth. Horatio bit down as his release burst upon him and Bush was grateful.  Two fingers were a small sacrifice to make, the pain staved off his own impending explosion and it had kept Horatio from rousing the house.

Horatio was panting thinly now. Bush could see him enter the dreamlike post-orgasmic haze and then visibly attempt to shake himself out of it.  His body wanted to force him into sleep, but Horatio’s discipline was up to the task. Bush was completely nonplussed by what he said next.

“I was terribly envious, you know.” Horatio said in a low tone. “But I have such affection for the both of you.”

Not surprisingly, Bush knew immediately of whom Horatio spoke. Bush felt an utter fool, but there was nothing for it.  He realised that he had quite unconsciously been contrasting the skin beneath his hand to Archie’s skin. While his passion was held flimsily at bay, words felt completely inadequate to the task.

“You must not think that I...” he lost momentum.

“Of course not. You must allow me to illustrate how much I greatly esteem you,” Horatio shyly gripped his thigh.

The renewed heat washed over him thoroughly. When he brought his attention back from the places where Horatio was caressing him, he discovered that Horatio’s whispers were another kind of touch. 

“I could see that when you looked at one another, something had changed between you. Imagining you together was driving me half-wild. It was almost a relief to leave on Retribution, though I missed you both terribly. Luckily, it was too small to have a wardroom because it would have been horribly lonely.  I would lie at night and think of you touching him and boiling with it…he’s very beautiful and I wanted to be him and be touched by you, be touched by him all at once…” Horatio seemed utterly unconscious of the fact that he had stopped making sense. Bush kissed him lightly, wanting to be invited back for more and Hornblower left off talking at once.

 When Bush raised his head to draw breath, Horatio murmured, “He’s much better at this than I am, isn’t he?”

 Bush nipped his earlobe. “Don’t be silly now.”

“I know,” said Horatio, turning his face away, “I simply wish…”

“Belay that,” Bush grabbed his jaw and turned his face up for another kiss. “You’re you, he’s himself. You are the best men I know.” Bush licked the line of Horatio’s jaw and then sucked at the smooth collarbone. He could feel the Horatio’s interest focusing and returning.

 “Show me,” Horatio wantonly rubbed himself against Bush’s flank, “Show me this.”

Bush drew in a breath and shut his eyes against the prickles of feeling up his spine.  “Take these off,” he grunted tugging at Horatio’s breeches.  To give him a moment of privacy, Bush pulled his own shirt over his head. He turned around to find that Horatio still struggled.  His progress was impeded by the bashful glances he was shooting at Bush.

“Slowly,” soothed Bush. “You’ll get tangled up.”  Gently, he pulled the recalcitrant trousers while Horatio pushed them over his hips.  Horatio seemed determined to memorise the planes and angles of Bush’s body until he realised that he was also being subjected to scrutiny. He reddened and attempted to draw the covers up subtly. Bush was having none of it. He sat on the bed next to Horatio and slowly ran the tips of his fingers over every inch of skin that he could reach.  Horatio trembled under this onslaught of sensation. Bush grasped Horatio’s hand and pulled it up to suck on two of his fingers. Horatio moaned and reached out with his other hand to pull himself free.  It seemed that it was only then that he re-awoke to the fact that Bush’s flesh was bared to his touch. His half-closed eyes flew open and he grasped Bush’s shoulder and took the two wet fingers down along Bush’s collarbone.  He trailed the moist fingers down around the light flesh of Bush’s nipple. Bush arched his neck with approval.

Horatio seemed emboldened by this success. He pulled Bush down beside him. They blazed with heat at every point they touched.  The skin feeling had Horatio enthralled, he tried to press every inch of his body up against Bush. Bush obliged him by stroking lightly the edges and creases of any exposed flesh.  He wrestled his way in between his friend’s legs and crawled up to layer kisses on each one of the exposed rib-bones.

Horatio squeezed his eyes shut and hissed slightly as he felt the tickling loose hair stroke over his nipples. Bush braced himself on his left hand and reached between their trembling bodies with his right. He grasped Horatio’s cock, biting his tongue as the other man thrust his pelvis upward. He brought his own swollen member upward and clutched it with the tips of his fingers. The touch of Horatio’s cock nearly brought him over the edge and he paused for a second to draw breath. In the meantime, Horatio had grasped what he was doing and reached to cup his own hand around Bush. The different pressures and textures were a sensual maelstrom. Bush began to set a loose rhythm that Horatio quickly picked up and mimicked.

Bush began to feel the strength bleeding out of his body as Hornblower’s unschooled hands tried to squeeze him while he panted and writhed underneath. Bush began to sink closer as his braced arm went limp. Hornblower welcomed every inch of new flesh with a kiss or a caress and Bush never wanted it to end.  He could feel that Horatio was being stretched to a breaking point; the tears were gathering in his eyes again. He paused a moment to sink his teeth into the spare flesh over Horatio’s shoulder and squeezed their cocks together in an unbearably slow pace that had Horatio muffling his yelps against Bush’s chest and spilling his seed all over their stomachs.  Bush could do nothing to stop his own ecstatic heave and he came back to himself only very slowly…and only to find Horatio very definitely asleep.

 

******* 

Bush woke early the next morning with the long ingrained habit of the bell. He had not felt so comfortably warm in quite some time.  He grinned when he registered the sensation of many parts of a slim form touching him. He could feel Horatio’s feet under his. Horatio’s hip pressed against the small of Bush’s back and he could feel his breath on the back of his neck. Bush rolled over to look his fill. Horatio’s emotional whirlwind had completely exhausted him. Some of the tension he held inside him seemed to have bled away and Bush wondered how much was the result of a deep sleep or rather, something else.  While his face was relaxed, Horatio resembled a marble statue. His lips curved unconsciously as Bush petted his shoulder lightly.  Bush nuzzled his hair and then reluctantly pulled his shirt on and slid out of the warm cocoon.

Hornblower was tangled up in the blankets that they had taken from the other bed. When he stirred to get up, Bush pulled the blankets straight around him and tucked them in.

“Rest a bit longer, why don’t you?” he said almost gaily. “There’s no need for you to be anywhere before noon.”

Hornblower opened his mouth as if to protest and then shut it again with a snap.  He suddenly considered his surroundings, stretched and grinned at Bush.

“What unlooked-for luxury to be able to laze in a warm bed. I’ve not slept so well in a long while.”

Bush smiled back at him kindly. It was obvious that Hornblower could hardly enjoy anything unless practically ordered to. He sat down on the edge of the bed, carded his fingers through the curly hair and kissed both of those sharp cheekbones.

“I’ll finish up with Mrs. Nelson as soon as I can and I’ll meet you around six o’clock in Broad Street.  Then you’ll be doubly fortified upon your return to the rooms.”

“There’s no necessity for you to come back with me if you don’t care to,” said Hornblower.

“You might find it wearisome to sit idle there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for worlds,” said Bush.

 

**********

 

The Long Rooms were full with the early evening crowd. At nearly every table in the outer room there were earnest parties playing serious games, while through the curtained door that opened into the inner room came a continuous murmur that indicated that play in there was exciting and noisy. But for Bush standing restlessly by the fire, occasionally exchanging absent-minded remarks with the people who came and went, there was only one point of interest and that was the candlelit table near the wall where Hornblower was playing in very exalted society. His companions were the two admirals and a colonel of infantry, the latter a bulky man with a face almost as red as his coat, whom Parry had brought with him along with Admiral Lambert. The Marquis had looked in more than once. Bush had observed his glance to rest upon the table with something of approval. No matter if there were others who wanted to play; no matter if the rules of the rooms gave any visitor the right to join a table at the conclusion of a rubber; a party that included two flag officers and a field officer could do as it pleased.

Hornblower had won the first rubber to Bush’s enormous relief, although actually he had not been able to follow the details of play and the score well enough to know that such was the case until the cards were swept up and payments made. He saw Hornblower tuck away some money into that breast pocket.

“It would be pleasant,” said Admiral Parry, “if we could restore the old currency, would it not? If the country could dispense with these dirty notes and go back again to our good old golden guineas?”

“Indeed it would,” said the colonel.

“The longshore sharks,” said Lambert, “meet every ship that comes in from abroad. Twenty three and sixpence they offer for every guinea, so you can be sure they are worth more than that."
Parry took something from his pocket and laid it on the table.

“Boney has restored the French currency, you see,” he said. “They call this a napoleon, now that he is First Consul for life. A twenty-franc piece—a louis d’or, as we used to say.”

“Napoleon, First Consul,” said the colonel, looking at the coin with curiosity, and then he turned it over. “French Republic.”
“The ‘republic’ is mere hypocrisy, of course,” said Parry. “There never was a worse tyranny since the days of Nero.”

“We’ll show him up,” said Lambert.

“Amen to that,” said Parry, and then he put the coin away. “But we are delaying the business of the evening. I fear that is my fault. Let us cut again. Ah, I partner you this time, colonel. Would you care to sit opposite me? I omitted to thank you, Mr. Hornblower, for your excellent partnership.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” said Hornblower.

The next rubber began and progressed silently to its close.

“I am glad to see that the cards have decided to be kind to you, Mr. Hornblower,” said Parry, “even though our honours have reduced your winnings. Fifteen shillings, I believe?”

“Thank you,” said Hornblower, taking the money.

Bush remembered what Hornblower had said about being able to afford to lose three rubbers if he won the first two.

“Damned small stakes in my opinion, my lord,” said the colonel. “Must we play as low as this?”

“That is for the company to decide,” replied Parry. “I myself have no objection. Half a crown instead of a shilling? Let us ask Mr. Hornblower?”

Bush turned to look at Hornblower with renewed anxiety.

“As you will, my lord,” said Hornblower with the most elaborate indifference.

“Half a crown a trick, then,” said Parry. “Waiter, fresh cards, if you please.”

Bush had hurriedly to revise his estimate of the amount of losses Hornblower could endure. With the stakes nearly trebled it would be bad if he lost a single rubber.

“You and I again, Mr. Hornblower,” said Parry observing the cut. He heaved himself out of his chair and moved opposite Hornblower and play began again, with Bush watching more anxiously even than at the start. He watched each side in turn take the odd trick and then three times running he saw Hornblower lay the majority of tricks in front of him. During the next couple of hands he lost count of the score, but finally he was relieved to see only two tricks before the colonel when the rubber ended.

“Excellent,” said Parry, “a profitable rubber, Mr. Hornblower. I’m glad you decided to trump my knave of hearts. It must have been a difficult decision for you, but it was undoubtedly the right one.”

“It deprived me of a lead I could well have used,” said Lambert. “The opposition was indeed formidable, Colonel.”

“Yes,” agreed the colonel, not quite as good-temperedly. “And twice I held hands with neither an ace nor a king, which helped the opposition to be formidable. Can you give me change, Mr. Hornblower?”

There was a five-pound note among the money that the colonel handed over to Hornblower, and it went into the breast pocket of his coat.

“At least, Colonel,” said Parry, when they cut again, “you have Mr. Hornblower as your partner this time.”

As the rubber proceeded Bush was aware that the flag lieutenant beside him was watching with greater and greater interest.

“By the odd trick, by George!” said he when the last cards were played.

“That was a close shave, partner,” said the colonel, his good humour clearly restored. “I hoped you held that queen, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Fortune was with us, sir,” said Hornblower.

The flag lieutenant glanced at Bush; it seemed as if the flag lieutenant was of the opinion that the colonel should have been in no doubt from the previous play, that Hornblower held the queen. Now that Bush’s attention was drawn to it, he decided that Hornblower must have thought just the same—the slightest inflection in his voice implied it—but was sensibly not saying so.

“I lose a rubber at five pounds ten and win one at fifteen shillings,” said the colonel, receiving his winnings from Lambert. “Who’d like to increase the stakes again?”

To the credit of the two admirals they both glanced at Hornblower without replying.

“As you gentlemen wish,” said Hornblower.

“In that case, I’m quite agreeable,” said Parry.

“Five shillings a trick, then,” said the colonel. “That makes the game worth playing.”

“The game is always worth playing,” protested Parry.

“Of course, my lord,” said the colonel, but without suggesting that they should revert to the previous stakes.

Now the stakes were really serious; by Bush’s calculation a really disastrous rubber might cost Hornblower twenty pounds, and his further calculation told him that Hornblower could hardly have more than twenty pounds tucked away in his breast pocket. He shifted uncomfortably and Hornblower glanced up at him, smiling slyly at his concern. As the colonel was dealing the cards, Hornblower leaned back in his chair, ostensibly to stretch subtly. He held Bush’s eye and tapped lightly at his left collarbone with his right hand. Bush wondered if he was misinterpreting some secret code and then he remembered the purple mark he had left there, sucking at that delightfully warm, soft skin. At that moment, it felt as though he could see right through the blue wool of Hornblower’s coat, the cotton broadcloth of his shirt and he felt the taste of that skin again. He looked down quickly and felt his face burning. It was a relief to him when Hornblower and Lambert won the next rubber easily.

“This is a most enjoyable evening,” said Lambert and he smiled with a glance down at the fistful of the colonel’s money he held, “nor am I referring to any monetary gains.”

“Instructive as well as amusing,” said Parry, paying out to Hornblower.

Play proceeded, silently as ever, the silence only broken by the brief interchanges of remarks between rubbers. Now that he could afford it, fortunately, Hornblower lost a rubber, but it was a cheap one, and he immediately won another profitable one. His gains mounted steadily with hardly a setback. It was growing late and Bush was feeling weary, but the players showed few signs of fatigue.  The other players drifted away from the room; later still the curtained door opened and the gamblers from the inner room came streaming out, some noisy, some silent, and the Marquis made his appearance, silent and unruffled, to watch the final rubbers with unobtrusive interest, seeing to it that the candles were snuffed and fresh ones brought and new cards ready on demand. It was Parry who first glanced at the clock.

“Half past three,” he said. “Perhaps you gentlemen--?”

“Too late to go to bed now, my lord,” said the colonel. “Sir Richard and I have to be up early, as you know.”

“My orders are all given,” said Lambert.

“So are mine,” said the colonel.

Bush was stupid with the long late hours spent in a stuffy atmosphere, but he thought he noticed an admonitory glance from Parry, directed at the two speakers. He wondered idly what orders Lambert and the colonel would have given, and still more idly why they should be orders that Parry did not wish to be mentioned. There seemed to be just the slightest trace of hurry, just the slightest hint of a desire to change the subject in Parry’s manner when he spoke.

“Very well then, we can play another rubber, if Mr. Hornblower has no objection?”

“None at all, my lord.”

Hornblower was imperturbable; if he had noticed anything remarkable about the recent interchange he gave no sign of it. Bush knew he had to be terribly weary, though.  He comforted himself with the thought that this had to be the final game. Bush knew by now that Hornblower worked as hard to conceal his human weaknesses as some men worked to conceal ignoble birth. 

Hornblower had the colonel as a partner and no one could be in the room without being aware that this final rubber was being played in an atmosphere of even fiercer competition than its predecessors. Not a word was spoken between the hands; the score was marked, the tricks swept up, the other pack proffered and cut in deadly silence. Each hand was desperately close, too. In nearly every case it was only a single trick that divided the victors and the vanquished, so that the rubber dragged on and on with painful slowness. Then a hand finished amid a climax of tension. The flag lieutenant and the Marquis had kept count of the score, and when Lambert took the last trick they uttered audible sighs, and the colonel was so moved that he broke the silence at last.

“Neck and neck, by God!” he said. “This next hand must settle it.”

But he was properly rebuked by the stony silence with which he remark was received. Parry merely took the cards from the colonel’s right side and passed them over to Hornblower to cut. Then Parry dealt, and turned up the king of diamonds as a trump, and the colonel led. Trick succeeded trick. For a space, after losing a single trick, Lambert and Parry carried all before them. Six tricks lay before Parry and only one before Hornblower. The colonel’s remark about being neck and neck was fresh in Bush’s ears. One more trick out of the next six would give the rubber to the two admirals. Five to one was long odds, and Bush uncomfortably resigned himself to his friend losing this final rubber. Then the colonel took a trick and the game was still alive. Hornblower took the next trick, so that there was still hope. Hornblower led the ace of diamonds and before it could be played to, he laid down his other three cards to claim the rest of the tricks; the queen and knave of diamonds lay conspicuously on the table.

“Rubber!” exclaimed the colonel, “we’ve won it, partner! I thought all was lost.”

Parry was ruefully contemplating his fallen king.

“I agree that you had to lead your ace, Mr. Hornblower,” he said, “but I would be enchanted to know why you were so certain that my king was unguarded. There were two other diamonds unaccounted for. Would it be asking too much of you to reveal the secret?”

Hornblower raised his eyebrows in some slight surprise at a question whose answer was so obvious.

“You were marked with the king, my lord,” he said, “but it was the rest of your hand that was significant, for you were also marked with holding three clubs. With only four cards in your hand the king could not be guarded.”

“A perfect explanation,” said Parry, “it only goes to confirm me in my conviction that you are an excellent whist player, Mr. Hornblower.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Parry’s quizzical smile had a great deal of friendship in it. If Hornblower’s previous behaviour had not already won Parry’s regard, this last coup certainly had.

“I’ll bear your name in mind, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “Sir Richard has already told me the reason why it was familiar to me. It was regrettable that the policy of immediate economy imposed on the Admiralty by the Cabinet should have resulted in your commission as commander not being confirmed.”

“I thought I was the only one who regretted it, my lord.”

Bush winced again when he heard the words; this was the time for Hornblower to ingratiate himself with those in authority, not to offend them with unconcealed bitterness. This meeting with Parry was a stroke of good fortune that any half-pay naval officer would give two fingers for. Bush was reassured, however, by a glance at the speakers.  Hornblower was smiling with infectious lightheartedness, and Parry was smiling back at him. Either the implied bitterness had escaped Parry’s notice or it had only existed in Bush’s mind.

“I was actually forgetting that I owe you a further thirty five shilling,” said Parry, with a start of recollection. “Forgive me. There, I think that settles my monied indebtedness; I am still in your debt for a valuable experience.”

It was a thick wad of money that Hornblower put back in his pocket.

“I trust you will keep a sharp lookout for footpads on your way back, Mr. Hornblower,”

“Mr. Bush will be walking home with me, my lord. It would be a valiant footpad that would face him.”

“No need to worry about footpads tonight,” interposed the colonel. “Not tonight.”

The colonel wore a significant grin; the others displayed a momentary disapproval of what apparently was an indiscretion, but the disapproval faded when the colonel waved a hand at the clock.

“Our orders go into force at four, my lord,” said Lambert.

“And now it is half past. Excellent.”

The flag lieutenant came in at that moment; he had slipped out when the last card was played.

“The carriage is at the door, my lord,” he said.

“Thank you. I wish you gentlemen a good evening then.”

They all walked to the door together; there was the carriage in the street and the two admirals, the colonel and the flag lieutenant mounted into it. Hornblower and Bush watched it drive away.

“Now what the devil are those orders that come into force at four?” asked Bush. The hint of dawn was in the air, but it was still almost completely dark.

“God knows,” said Hornblower, yawning.

They headed for the corner of Highbury Street.

“How much did you win?”

“It was over forty pounds—it must be about forty-five pounds,” said Hornblower.

“A good night’s work.”

“Yes.” Hornblower shot him a glance and a smile. “The chances usually right themselves in time.”

Bush, for perhaps only the third time in his life, damned caution.  He shoved Hornblower into the narrow alley that they were just passing and kissed him fiercely. Hornblower stiffened for a moment in shock but then returned the passion with equal fervour as he realised the depths of the darkness that surrounded them.  He worked his hands through Bush’s coats and then down and under his waistcoat. Bush had curved one of his hands gently over the back of Hornblower’s skull; the other grasped the gentle curve of Hornblower’s arse.  He rubbed his forehead against his friend’s brow and licked his upper lip.  Hornblower gasped, “Dubious protection, I call this.” Bush’s chuckle turned into a growl. Hornblower suddenly stiffened and paused.

“Listen!”

Ahead of them, along the silent street, a heavy military tread could be heard. It was approaching. The faint light shone on white crossbelts and brass buttons. It was a military patrol, muskets at the slope, a sergeant marching beside it, his chevrons and his half-pike revealing his rank.

“Now what the deuce--?” said Bush.

“Halt!” said the sergeant to his men and then to the other two, “may I ask you gennelmen who you are?”

“We are naval officers,” said Bush.

The sergeant came to attention.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“What are you doing with this patrol, sergeant?” asked Bush.

“I have my orders, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir. By the left, quick—march!”

The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his half-pike in salute as he passed on.

“What in the name of all that’s holy?” wondered Bush.

“Boney can’t have made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so. You’d think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can’t be.”

“Look there!” said Hornblower.

Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red coats, not with the military stiffness of the soldiers. Checked shirts and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on his collar and his dirk at his side.

“The press gang for certain!” exclaimed Bush. “Look at the bludgeons!”

Every seaman carried a club in his hand.

“Midshipman!” said Hornblower, sharply. “What’s all this?”

The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the uniforms.

“Orders, sir,” he began, and then, realising that with the growing daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he went on. “Press gang sir, we’veWe’ve orders to press every seaman we find. The patrols are out on every road.”

“So I believe. But what’s the press for?”

“Dunno, sir. Orders, sir.”

That was sufficient answer, maybe.

“Very good. Carry on.”

“The press, by jingo!” said Bush. “Something’s happening.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Hornblower.

They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way along to Mrs. Mason’s house.

“There’s the first results,” said Hornblower.

They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least, escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were talking volubly—the noise they were making was rousing the street. Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.

“It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”

With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trousers would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.

“A likely-looking lot of seamen,” said Bush, running a professional eye over them.

“Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.

“Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise.

Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathise with the pressed man than he could sympathise with the night being replaced by day.

Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.

“It may be war,” he said, slowly.

“By God!” said Bush.

“We’ll know when the mail comes in,” said Hornblower. “Parry could have told us last night, I fancy.”

“But—war!” said Bush.

The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard; its noise dwindling with the increasing distance and Hornblower turned towards the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they entered the house they saw Mrs. Mason standing at the foot of the staircase, a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat over her nightclothes; she had put on her mobcap hastily, for a couple of curling papers showed under its edge.  Her blank expression turned vaguely sour when she registered their identity.

“I’ll pay my reckoning now, Mrs. Mason.” Said Hornblower, forestalling her outburst.  It was evident she did not believe him and her indignation was set to wake the house until Hornblower brought a fistful of silver out of his trouser pocket, supplementing it with a note from the full breast pocket.

“So!” said Mrs. Mason. She looked down at the money in her hand as if it were fairy gold, and opposing emotions waged war in her expression. She obviously had no precedent for naval officers who came home at five o’clock, flush with cash and decidedly not drunk.

“When did you gennelmen have supper?” asked Mrs. Mason.

“I don’t think we did,” answered Hornblower, with a side-glance at Bush.

“You must be hungry then, if you was up all night. Let me cook you a nice breakfast. A couple of thick chops for each of you. You go on up. I’ll send the boy up with hot water an’ you can shave. Then when you come down there’ll be a nice breakfast ready for you.”

Up in the attic Hornblower looked whimsically at Bush.

“That bed you paid a shilling for is still virgin,” he said. “You haven’t had a wink of sleep all night and it’s my fault. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to it.” Bush threw himself down on the pallet. “It’s not the first night I haven’t slept.” 

He felt gloriously alive watching Hornblower pace the floor. After a month of living with his sisters in the Chichester cottage, of nothing to do except to weed the garden, of trying to sleep for twelve hours a night for that very reason, the variety of excitement he had gone through had been actually pleasant.

“You’ll have plenty more if it’s war,” Hornblower said and Bush shrugged his shoulders.

A thump on the door announced the arrival of the boy, a can of hot water in each hand. Hornblower waved a hand at the washstand and the hot water.

“You first,” said Bush.

Hornblower peeled off his coat and his shirt and addressed himself to the business of shaving. The razor blade rasped on his bristly cheeks; he turned his face this way and that so as to apply the edge. Neither of them felt any need for conversation and it was practically in silence that Hornblower rinsed himself, poured the wash water into the slop pail, and stood aside for Bush to shave himself.

As Bush stepped up to the stand, he was momentarily startled to feel Hornblower’s long arms encircling his waist.  He felt Hornblower’s freshly shaved chin pressing in between his shoulder blades.  It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever known Hornblower to initiate a touch.  With his typical quick study, Hornblower made it an embrace.  His heart warmed.

“Make the most of it,” murmured Hornblower. “A pint of fresh twice a week for shaving’ll be all you’ll get if you have your wish.”

“Who cares?” said Bush.

He shaved, restropped his razor and put it back into his roll of toilet articles. The scars that seamed his ribs gleamed pale as he moved. When he had completed the process with as much expediency as possible, he pounced on Hornblower and wrestled him to the bed. Hornblower was inclined to protest with a loud laugh, but Bush quelled him with hand over his mouth.

“Shshhhhsh! You’ll disturb my other gennelmen with all this noise!” he said, his impression of Mrs. Mason dead to rights. Hornblower writhed harder with suppressed laughter and nibbled at his palm. His eyes narrowed with a speculative look.

Bush tightened the grip in which he held Horatio’s thin wrists and leaned down for a kiss. He was deep into Horatio’s mouth, swept away by the sensation and the slight lightheadedness that comes after a sleepless night. He realised that Horatio had managed to work his hands free and had untied his club. He shook his head so that his hair fell over his shoulders in a wave.  The ends fell over Horatio’s face and he chuckled at the tickling on his chin.  Hornblower had lost some of his hunted look.

“What is it?” asked Hornblower puzzled by the sudden scrutiny.

Bush just shook his head and kissed him. Horatio shyly traced his hands over Bush’s ribs, giving special attention to the tracework of scars.  He then ducked his head and reached blindly for the buttons at Bush’s waist.  Bush grinned and moved his fumbling fingers back to his own breeches.

“Best if you do it yourself,” he whispered. Hornblower blushed hard but he managed to undo all of his buttons. Bush watched him, amused, as the flush deepened. 

“What are you looking at?” Hornblower finally found a way to muster up some indignation.

Bush chuckled inwardly when he remembered the last time he’d heard that tone. Hornblower had addressed it to the drunken Stiles. Horatio was glaring at his grin.

“You’re beautiful, Mr. Hornblower.” Bush’s chuckle broke from him as he rendered his friend speechless. Before Horatio could protest, he grabbed the top of his breeches and jerked them straight off.  Horatio yelped and then hushed himself. Bush clasped Horatio’s wrists again and pinned him to the bed. He then set about kissing a straight line from the middle of Hornblower’s forehead, down his long nose, over his lips and slightly cleft chin. He paused for a moment at the hollow of the throat. Hornblower had closed his eyes and it was obvious that he had allayed the momentary pique.

Bush started slowly downward with his lips and tongue. After he brushed the hard sternum he elected to detour slightly to savour the tight nipples. Hornblower’s muscles rippled under him and he experience a swelling thrill of feeling, listening to the younger man’s moans. After many long moments licking from one to the other, his own excitement was almost too much to bear.  He ran his tongue down between the V of the ribs into the smoother, softer skin of his belly. Bush stuck his tongue into Horatio’s navel and gripped him tighter as he convulsed.

Horatio sat up abruptly, bodily pressing his chest up to Bush.  Bush was forced back off the bed, up to his feet, one knee in between Horatio’s thighs, his hands still gripping Horatio’s wrists.  Bush pulled back a few inches to assess Horatio’s expression.  Hornblower had tilted his chin down and the look he shot Bush from under his brows practically steamed.  Bush had to catch his breath from sheer surprise, overwhelmed by how quickly wide-eyed innocence had been replaced by an almost practised seduction. Horatio tilted his head back and rolled it to one side, flaunting the smooth skin and warm scent of his throat. Bush unconsciously leaned in to capture his mouth but Horatio pulled back and whispered, “Release me.”

Bush pretended to pause and consider, “Why should I?”

“Please,” said so softly that Bush was completely undone. “You won’t regret it.”

Bush drew his hands up over his friend’s forearms, elbows, shoulders. Horatio leaned his head forward, nuzzling at Bush’s waist, circling him with his arms. Bush caressed his back and untied his club, tousling the curly hair. It was almost past his shoulder blades, Bush thought and then all thought ceased as Horatio began mouthing his groin.

Bush’s body wasn’t sure if it wanted to pitch forward or backwards so he was left hovering on shaky knees while Horatio, slowly and inexpertly, undid his trouser buttons.  When Bush could balance enough to spare a look down, he did not know whether Horatio’s intent face made him want to smile or just breathe. Bush braced himself with one hand against the slanting wall and caressed Horatio’s head with the other. He groaned as Horatio chose to do more than breathe.

Horatio’s mouth moved over him. It was as if Horatio was tasting the intimate texture with his lips before deciding to savour it fully. Bush’s knees started to tremble and he had to quell the baser instinct that made him want to tighten his grip on Horatio’s long hair. He squeezed Horatio’s shoulders instead and it was at that moment that Horatio’s mouth closed over the tip of his cock and he almost yelped aloud.

Horatio made a pleased sound and gripped Bush’s hips and drew him in. His fingers felt like iron and Bush wondered at the marks they were leaving. But when he’d gotten Bush’s knees tight against the side of the mattress, he Horatio spread his legs wide and reached to stroke his hand up Bush’s flanks. Horatio pulled one of his own knees up to the bed, allowing him to give himself a little ease. When he found a rhythm stroking his own thickened member, he mirrored it with gentle licks and squeezes on Bush. The sight of this made Bush lean down and bite his own shoulder.  Somehow the pain did not distract him nearly enough and after a few more strokes he lost all control. 

When he came back to himself, he was caught in the look in Horatio’s eyes and the creamy essence that had spattered all over his friend’s chin and neck.  Horatio’s eyes were hot and glazed. When Bush swept the thick drops onto his fingers and reached down to squeeze the top of Horatio’s cock, they both shivered and Horatio’s eyes rolled back in his head.  Bush had to clutch at Horatio’s head to keep him from banging it against the wall while Horatio cried out his release.

They lay back down, gasping in unison. After a few minutes, Hornblower roused himself and rubbed his head on Bush’s shoulder.

“How did you…?” Bush found himself unable to finish.

“I have seen a few things in the cable tier,” said Hornblower nonchalantly.

Bush guffawed and Hornblower grinned with a pleased light in his eyes.

“Chops,” said Hornblower. “Thick chops. Come on.”

There were several places laid at the table in the dining room opening out of the hall, but nobody else was present; apparently it was not the breakfast hour of Mrs. Mason’s other gentlemen.

As the boy struggled in with a fully-laden tray, Bush and Hornblower seated themselves. Coffee pot and toast, butter and jam, sugar and milk, and a wide dish that when the cover was removed revealed a noble dish of chops whose scent filled the room.  After insisting that the boy accept half a crown (in truth he looked half-starved), Hornblower fell to.  They ate for many minutes in silence.  There was a knocking at the street door. From the dining room they heard a masculine voice and the boy reappeared, a corporal of marines towering behind him.

“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.

“In the name of all that’s holy, open it!” exclaimed Bush.

Hornblower tore the wafer and unfolded the sheet. He read the note and then re-read 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 lop-sided.

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.

The arrival at this moment of the Mail Coach with the London newspapers 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 apologise 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.

“You’ll send word to your sisters?” asked Hornblower. “You’ll stay until I receive official word, won’t you? We must go down to the dockyard later and see what is to be seen.”

“Of course, of course. I have not yet offered you my congratulations. 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, his gaze softening. “But please…not “sir” not quite…yet.”

Bush bowed his head lest his expression give him away. He felt jubilation on Hornblower’s behalf, but duty was such a part of his soul that he never wanted to be accused of taking liberties. Of course, he could trust Hornblower to understand that, indeed, Hornblower would understand that better than anyone.  But it seemed that Hornblower was leaving the door open to a few liberties. Bush steadfastly refused to allow his imagination to take over.

“Perhaps we should get some rest,” Bush said vaguely gesturing up the stairs. “There’s bound to be no sleep as soon as you get official orders.”

“Oh,” said Hornblower, sounding shocked. “I couldn’t sleep right now for the world.”

“Me neither,” confessed Bush.  They exchanged a glance and Bush grinned. Horatio’s smile was so sweet he could almost taste it. Bush led him up the stairs, both walking on the balls of their feet, so as not to disturb the other “gennelmen”.

 

*********** 

At around ten o’clock in the morning, they walked down to the dockyard in silence. The day was bright and clear but still quite chill.  The dockyard was a scene of loosely controlled chaos. Men were leaping out of the way of waggons of stores. Officers were shouting, midshipmen were haring about with messages.

“It is probably best to call in with the steward,” said Bush in low tone.

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Hornblower.

The steward’s office was experiencing a momentary lull in the bedlam largely due to a distinguished visitor. After some negotiation with the outer secretary, they were hailed from the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Hornblower, Mr. Bush. Welcome!” said Admiral Parry  “I suspected that you would hardly wait for official orders.”

“Naturally, it is most exciting, my lord,” said Hornblower. Bush made his assent. Parry’s face was infused with a boyish enthusiasm; he looked ten years younger than he had just five hours previously. He paused for a second, sizing up his audience.

“I don’t mind telling you at once, Mr. Hornblower, I have singled you out for a rather challenging assignment.”

 “I am certainly honoured, my lord,” replied Hornblower.

Bush made a gesture as if to excuse himself but Parry gestured that he might stay. “You will have the first fruits of the press, Mr. Hornblower. I have in mind for you the Hotspur. That sloop has thirty-two twenty-four pounders. As such, it rates a commander and two lieutenants, four midshipmen. Due to the nature of this commission, I would prefer you to have picked men, who have proved themselves. Can you put yourself forward, Mr. Bush?”

Hornblower and Bush exchanged the briefest of glances, before Bush replied, “I am certainly honoured, my lord,” in unconscious mimicry of Hornblower’s reply.

“You’ll be senior lieutenant. Have you anyone to recommend for the other posting?” Parry leafed through a large list with many blots on it.  Bush realised that it was the officer’s list. In the sudden silence, he could hear a carriage clatter up outside.

“You cannot think of anyone?” asked Parry incredulously, “Or do you have so many in mind that you cannot choose?”

“No, my lord,” Hornblower practically stuttered. “There is one lieutenant…”

A loud bang and a familiar voice sounded in the outer room. The clerk appeared for a moment to announce the figure that shadowed him.

“Ah, Sir Edward!” exclaimed Parry. “I knew you would waste no time in joining us.”

Under his thunderous brows, Captain Pellew’s eyes flashed at the sight of the two newly recommissioned officers.

“Well, my lord, I see you have wasted no time in securing yourself the most reckless young sparks in the Navy.”

Parry chuckled and remarked, “I’m anxious to get our first squadron under weigh. Unfortunately, we have come undone with the choice of second lieutenant.”

“That’s easily managed,” said Captain Pellew with certainty in his cultured tones. “You will find one Archibald Kennedy on your list and I suggest that you send for him at once. Then these three will be stealing the stars from the sky in a month’s time.”

“Excellent!” laughed Parry. “Now as to the stores you will require…”

 

the end

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Wine-dark seas