“The Admiral will see you, sir.”
It was only yesterday, when Hornblower had examined the log more carefully in the troy, that he had discovered the French brig’s name. It was only an hour ago that the
Dreadnought Foster was just as Hornblower remembered him, swarthy, with an expression of sardonic humour. Luckily he appeared to have no recollection of the nervous midshipman whose examination had been fortunately interrupted that evening in Gibraltar. Like his flag-lieutenant he had heard something of the story of the capture of the brig already — one more example of the speed with which gossip can fly — and he grasped the details, as Hornblower supplied them, with professional ease.
“And those are the documents?” he asked, when Hornblower reached that point in his sketchy narrative.
“Yes, sir.”
Foster reached out a large hand for them.
“Not everyone would have remembered to bring them away, Captain,” he said, as he began to turn them over. “Log. Day book. Station bill. Quarter bill. Victualling returns.”
He had noticed the lead covered dispatch first of all, naturally, but he had laid it aside to examine last.
“Now what do we have here?” He studied the label. “What does ‘S.E.’ mean?”
“Son Excellence — His Excellency, sir.”
“His Excellency the Captain General of — what’s this, Captain?”
“Windward Isles, sir.”
“I might have guessed that seeing it says ‘Martinique’,” admitted Foster. “But I never had a head for French. Now —”
He fingered the penknife on his desk. He studied the tarred twine that bound the leaden sandwich. Then he put the knife down reluctantly and looked up at Hornblower.
“I don’t think I’d better meddle,” he said. “This’ll be best left for Their Lordships.”
Hornblower had had the same thought although he had not ventured to voice it. Foster was looking at him searchingly.
“You intend going to London, of course, Captain?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Naturally. You want a ship, I think.”
“Yes, sir. Admiral Cornwallis named me for promotion last month.”
“Well — This —” Foster tapped the dispatch. “This will save you time and money. Flags!”
“Sir!” The flag-lieutenant was instantly in attendance.
“Captain Hornblower will need a post-chaise.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Have it at the gate immediately.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Have a travel warrant made out for London.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Foster turned his attention once more to Hornblower and smiled sardonically at the bewilderment and surprise he saw in his face. For once Hornblower had been caught off his guard and had allowed his emotions to show.
“Seventeen guineas that will cost King George, God bless him,” said Foster. “Aren’t you grateful for his bounty?”
Hornblower had regained control over himself; he was even able to conceal his irritation at his lapse.
“Of course, sir,” he said, in almost an even tone and with an expressionless face.
“Every day — ten times a day sometimes,” said Foster, “I have officers coming in here, even admirals sometimes, trying to get travel warrants to London. The excuses I’ve heard! And here you don’t care.”
“Of course I’m delighted, sir,” said Hornblower. “And greatly obliged, too.”
Maria would be waiting at the gate, but he was too proud to show any further weakness under Foster’s sardonic gaze. A King’s officer had his duty to do. And it was less than three months since he had last seen Maria; some officers had been parted from their wives since the outbreak of war more than two years ago.
“No need to be obliged to me,” said Foster. “This is what decided me.”
‘This’ was of course the dispatch which he tapped again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Their Lordships should think it’s worth seventeen guineas. I’m not doing it for your sweet sake.”
“Naturally, sir.”
“Oh yes. And I’d better give you a note to Marsden. It will get you past the doorkeeper.”
