Hornblower and the Hotspur

Chapter II

Someone must have been knocking at the bedroom door for some time; Hornblower had been conscious of it but was too stupid with sleep to think more about it. But now the door opened with a clank of the latch, and Maria, awakening with a start, clutched at him in sudden fright, and he was now fully awake. There was the faintest gleam of light through the thick bed curtains, a shuffling step on the oak floor of the bedroom, and a high-pitched female voice.

“Eight bells, sir. Eight bells.”

The curtains opened an inch to let in a ray of brighter light still, and Maria’s grip tightened, but they came together again as Hornblower found his voice.

“Very well. I’m awake.”

“I’ll light your candles for you,” piped the voice, and the shuffling step went round the room and the light through the curtains grew brighter.

“Where’s the wind? What way’s the wind?” asked Hornblower, now so far awake as to feel the quickening of his heart beat and the tensing of his muscles as he realized what this morning meant to him.

“Now that I can’t tell you, sir,” piped the voice. “I’m not one who can box the compass, and there’s no one else awake as yet.”

Hornblower snorted with annoyance at being kept in ignorance of this vital information, and without a thought reached to fling off the bedclothes so as to get up and find out for himself. But there was Maria clasping him, and he knew that he could not leap out of bed in such a cavalier fashion. He had to go through the proper ritual and put up with the delay. He turned and kissed her, and she returned his kisses, eagerly and yet differently from on other occasions. He felt something wet on his cheek; it was a tear, but there was only that one single tear as Maria forced herself to exert self control. His rather perfunctory embrace changed in character.

“Darling, we’re being parted,” whispered Maria. “Darling, I know you must go. But—but—I can’t think how I’m going to live without you. You’re my whole life. You’re…”

A great gust of tenderness welled up in Hornblower’s breast, and there was compunction too, a pricking of conscience. Not the most perfect man on earth could merit this devotion. If Maria knew the truth about him she would turn away from him, her whole world shattered. The cruellest thing he could do would be to let her find him out; he must never do that. Yet the thought of being loved so dearly set flowing deeper and deeper wells of tenderness in his breast and he kissed her cheeks and sought out the soft eager lips. Then the soft lips hardened, withdrew.

“No, angel, darling. No, I mustn’t keep you. You would be angry with me—afterwards. Oh, my dear life, say goodbye to me now. Say that you love me—say that you’ll always love me. Then say good-bye, and say that you’ll think of me sometimes as I shall always think of you.”

Hornblower said the words, the right words, and in his tenderness he used the right tone. Maria kissed him once more, and then tore herself free and flung herself on to the far side of the bed face downward. Hornblower lay still, trying to harden his heart to rise, and Maria spoke again; her voice was half muffled by the pillow, but her forced change of mood was apparent even so.

“Your clean shirt’s on the chair, dear, and your second-best shoes are beside the fireplace.”

Hornblower flung himself out of bed and out through the curtains. The air of the bedroom was certainly fresher than that inside. The door latch choked again and he had just time to whip his bedgown in front of him as the old chambermaid put her head in. She let out a high cackle of mirth at Hornblower’s modesty.

“The ostler says ‘light airs from the s’uth’ard,’ sir.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed behind her.

“Is that what you want, darling?” asked Maria, still behind the curtains. “Light airs from the s’uth’ard—that means south, does it not?”

“Yes, it may serve,” said Hornblower, hurrying over to the wash basin and adjusting the candles so as to illuminate his face.

Light airs from the south now, at the end of March, were hardly likely to endure. They might back or they might veer, but would certainly strengthen with the coming of day. If Hotspur handled as well as he believed she would he could weather the Foreland and be ready for the next development, with plenty of sea room. But of course—as always in the Navy—he could not afford to waste any time. The razor was rasping over his cheeks, and as he peered into the mirror he was vaguely conscious of Maria’s reflection behind his own as she moved about the room dressing herself. He poured cold water into the basin with which to wash himself, and felt refreshed, turning away with his usual rapidity of movement to put on his shirt.

“Oh, you dress so fast,” said Maria in consternation.

Hornblower heard her shoes clacking on the oaken floor; she was hurriedly putting on a fresh mob cap over her hair, and clearly she was dressing as quickly as she could, even at the cost of some informality.

“I must run down to see that your breakfast is ready,” she said, and was gone before he could protest.

He folded his neckcloth carefully, but with practiced fingers, and slipped on his coat, glanced at his watch, put it in his pocket and then put on his shoes. He rolled his toilet things into his housewife and tied the tapes. Yesterday’s shirt and his nightshirt and bedgown he stuffed in the canvas bag that awaited them, and the housewife on top. A glance round the room told him that he had omitted nothing, although he had to look more carefully than usual because there were articles belonging to Maria scattered here and there. Bubbling with excitement, he opened the window curtains and glanced outside; no sign of dawn as yet. Bag in hand, he went downstairs and into the coffee-room. This smelt of stale living, and was dimly lit by an oil lamp dangling from the ceiling. Maria looked in at him from the farther door.

“Here’s your place, dear,” she said. “Only a moment before breakfast.”

She held the back of the chair for him to be seated.

“I’ll sit down after you,” said Hornblower; it went against the grain to have Maria waiting on him.

“Oh, no,” said Maria. “I have your breakfast to attend to—only the old woman is up as yet.”

She coaxed him into the chair. Hornblower felt her kiss the top of his head, felt a momentary touch of her cheek against his, but before he could seize her, reaching behind him, she was gone. She left behind her the memory of something between a sniff and a sob; the opening of the door into the kitchen admitted a smell of cooking, the sizzling of something in a pan, and a momentary burst of conversation between Maria and the old woman. Then in came Maria, her rapid steps indicating that the plate she held was too hot to be comfortable. She dropped it in front of him, a vast rump steak, still sizzling on the plate.

“There, dear,” she said, and busied herself with putting the rest of the meal within his reach, while Hornblower looked down at the steak with some dismay.

“I picked that out for you specially yesterday,” she announced proudly. “I walked over to butcher’s while you were on the ship.”

Hornblower steeled himself not to wince at hearing a naval officer’s wife speak about being ‘on’ a ship; he also had to steel himself to having steak for breakfast, when steak was by no means his favourite dish, and when he was so excited that he felt he could eat nothing. And dimly he could foresee a future—if ever he returned, if ever, inconceivably, he settled down in domestic life—when steak would be put before him on any special occasion. That thought was the last straw; he felt he could not eat a mouthful, and yet he could not hurt Maria’s feelings.

“Where’s yours?” he asked, temporizing.

“Oh, I shan’t be having any steak,” replied Maria. The tone of her voice proved that it was quite inconceivable to her that a wife should eat equally well as her husband. Hornblower raised his voice and turned his head.

“Hey, there!” he called. “In the kitchen! Bring another plate—a hot one.”

“Oh, no, darling,” said Maria, all fluttered, but Hornblower was by now out of his chair and seating her at her own place.

“Now, sit there,” said Hornblower. “No more words. I’ll have no mutineers in my family. Ah!”

Here came the other plate. Hornblower cut the steak in two, and helped Maria to the larger half.

“But darling—”

“I said I’ll have no truck with mutiny,” growled Hornblower parodying his own quarter-deck rasp.

“Oh, Horry, darling. You’re good to me, far too good to me.” Momentarily Maria clapped hands and handkerchief to her face, and Hornblower feared she would break down finally, but then she put her hands in her lap and straightened her back, controlling her emotions in an act of the purest heroism. Hornblower felt his heart go out to her. He reached out and pressed the hand she gladly proffered him.

“Now let me see you eat a hearty breakfast,” he said; he was still using his mock-bullying tone, but the tenderness he felt was still evident. Maria took up her knife and fork and Hornblower did the same. He forced himself to eat a few mouthfuls, and so mangled the rest of his steak that it did not appear as if he had left too much. He took a pull at his pot of beer—he did not like drinking beer for breakfast, not even beer as small as this, but he realized that the old woman could not be expected to have access to the tea-caddy.

A rattling at the window attracted their attention. The ostler was opening the shutters, and they could dimly see his face for a moment, but it was still quite dark outside. Hornblower looked at his watch; ten minutes to five, and he had ordered his boat to be at the Sally Port at five. Maria saw the gesture and looked over at him. There was a slight trembling of her lips, a slight moisture in her eyes, but she kept herself under control.

“I’ll get my cloak,” she said quietly, and fled from the room. She was back in no time, her grey cloak round her, and her face shadowed in her hood; in her arms was Hornblower’s heavy coat.

“You’re leaving us now, sir?” piped the old woman coming into the coffee-room.

“Yes. Madam will settle the score when she returns,” said Hornblower; he fumbled out half a crown from his pocket and put it on the table.

“Thank you kindly, sir. And a good voyage, and prize money galore.” The sing-song tone reminded Hornblower that she must have seen naval officers by the hundreds leaving the George to go to sea—her memories must go back to Hawke and Boscawen.

He buttoned up his coat and took up his bag.

“I’ll have the ostler come with us with a lantern to escort you back,” he said, consideringly.

“Oh, no please, darling. It’s so short a way, and I know every step,” pleaded Maria, and there was enough truth in what she said for him not to insist.

They walked out into the keen cold air, having to adjust their eyes to the darkness even after the miserable light of the coffee-room. Hornblower realized that if he had been an Admiral or even a distinguished Captain, he would never have been allowed to leave with so little ceremony; the innkeeper and his wife would certainly have risen and dressed to see him on his way. They turned the corner and started on the steep slope down to the Sally Port, and it was borne in anew on Hornblower that he was about to start out for the wars. His concern for Maria had actually distracted him from this thought, but now he found himself gulping with excitement.

“Dear,” said Maria. “I have a little present for you.”

She was bringing something out from the pocket of her cloak and pressing it into his hand.

“It’s only gloves, dear, but my love comes with them,” she went on. “I could make nothing better for you in this little time. I would have liked to have embroidered something for you—I would have liked to give you something worthy of you. But I have been stitching at these every moment since—since—”

She could not go on, but once more she straightened her back and refused to break down.

“I’ll be able to think of you every moment I wear them,” said Hornblower. He struggled into the gloves despite the handicap of the bag he was carrying; they were splendid thick woollen gloves, each with separate thumb and forefinger.

“They fit me to perfection. I thank you for the kind thought, dear.”

Now they were at the head of the steep slope down the Hard, and this horrible ordeal would soon be over.

“You have the seventeen pounds safely?” asked Hornblower—an unnecessary question.

“Yes, thank you, dearest. I fear it is too much—”

“And you’ll be able to draw my monthly half pay,” went on Hornblower harshly, to keep the emotion from his voice, and then, realizing how harshly, he continued. “It is time to say good-bye now, darling.”

He had forced himself to use that unaccustomed last word. The water level was far up the Hard; that meant, as he had known when he had given the orders, that the tide was at the flood. He would be able to take advantage of the ebb.

“Darling!” said Maria, turning to him and lifting up her face to him in its hood.

He kissed her; down at the water’s edge there was the familiar rattle of oars on thwarts, and the sound of male voices, as his boat’s crew perceived the two shadowy figures on the Hard. Maria heard those sounds as clearly as Hornblower did, and she quickly snatched away from him the cold lips she had raised to his.

“Good-bye, my angel.”

There was nothing else to say now, nothing else to do; this was the end of this brief experience. He turned his back on Maria; he turned his back on peace and on civilian married life and walked down towards war.