Cecil Forester: Hornblower and the Atropos

“Captain—sir?” said Jenkins.

That was not the way he had used the word “captain” at their first acquaintance. Then it had been with an equalitarian gibe; now he was using the formula and the intonation that would be used by any member of a ship’s company addressing his captain.

“Yes?” said Hornblower.

“This is Oxford, sir, and the relief is here.”

In the wavering lantern light Hornblower could see the two men indicated.

“So now I can have my dinner?” he asked, with gentle irony.

“That you can, sir, an’ it’s sorry I am that you have had to wait for it. Sir, I’m your debtor. Sir—”

“Oh, that’s all right, Jenkins,” said Hornblower testily. “I had my own reasons for wishing to get to London.”

“Thank’ee sir, and—”

“How far to London now?”

“A hundred miles to Brentford, sir, by the river. You’ll be there at the first light. How’ll the tide be then, Jem?”

“Just at the flood,” said the member of the relief crew holding the whip. “You can take water there, sir, an’ be at Whitehall Steps in an hour.”

“Thank you,” said Hornblower. “I’ll say goodbye to you, then, Jenkins.”

“Goodbye, sir and thank’ee agen for a true gennelman.”

Maria was standing by the bows of the boat, and even in the dim light Hornblower thought he could detect reproach in her attitude. But it was not immediately apparent in her words.

“I’ve found you a hot supper, Horatio,” was what she said.

“By Jingo!” said Hornblower.

Standing on the quay were a few boys and young women come to sell food to the river travellers. The one who caught Hornblower’s eye was a sturdy lad with a keg, clearly containing beer, on a barrow, and Hornblower realized that he was consumed with thirst even more acutely than with hunger.

“That’s what I want,” he said. “Give me a quart.”

“On’y pints, sir,” said the boy.

“Two pints then, you lubber.”

He emptied the first wooden piggin without an effort without even taking breath, and started on the second, before he remembered his manners. He had honestly been so consumed with thirst that he had forgotten them completely.

“How about you, dear?” he asked Maria.

“I think I’d like half a pint,” said Maria—Hornblower could have guessed at her reply beforehand; Maria would think it was a sign of a lady to drink beer only by the half pint.

“Only pints, sir,” said the boy again.

“Well, give the lady a pint and I’ll finish it,” said Hornblower, his second piggin twothirds empty.

“All aboard!” called the new steersman. “All aboard!”

“That’ll be a shilling, sir,” said the boy.

“Fourpence a pint for this beer!” marvelled Maria.

“Cheap at the price,” said Hornblower. “Here, boy.”

Out of sheer lightness of heart he gave the boy a florin, and the boy spun it in the air delightedly before putting it in his pocket. Hornblower took the piggin from Maria’s hand and drained it and tossed it to the boy.

“All aboard!”

Hornblower stepped down into the boat and elaborately handed Maria down too. He was taken a little aback to find that the Queen Charlotte had acquired some more first class passengers either here or farther back along their route. There were two or three men and a half dozen women sitting in the cabin lit by the light of a lamp; little Horatio was asleep in one corner. Maria was fluttered; she wanted to speak about domestic subjects, but was selfconscious about it in the presence of strangers. She whispered what she had to say, while her hands now and then gesticulated towards the stonyfaced strangers to indicate how much more she would have said if there were no fellow passengers.

“That was two shillings you gave the boy, dear,” she said. “Why did you do it?”

“Just lunacy, my dear, lunacy,” said Hornblower, speaking lightheartedly but not so far from the truth.

Maria sighed as she looked at this unpredictable husband of hers who could throw away a shilling, and talk about lunacy in the bearing of strangers without dropping his voice.

“And here’s the supper I bought,” said Maria, “while you were talking to the men. I hope it’s still hot. You’ve not had a bite all day, and by now the bread and meat I brought for dinner will be stale.”

“I’ll eat whatever there is, and more,” said Hornblower, with more than a quart of beer inside his otherwise empty stomach.

Maria indicated the two wooden platters awaiting them on the bench beside little Horatio.

“I got out our spoons and forks,” explained Maria. “We leave the platters on board here.”

“Excellent,” said Hornblower.

There were two sausages on each platter, embedded in masses of pease pudding still steaming. Hornblower sat down with his platter on his lap and began to eat. Those were beef sausages, naturally, if they were not mutton or possibly goat or horse, and they apparently were made from the purest gristle. The skins were as tough as their contents. Hornblower stole a sideways glance at Maria, eating with apparent contentment. He had hurt her feelings several times today and he could not bear to do it again; otherwise he would have pitched those sausages over the side into the river where possibly the fish could deal with them. But as it was he made a valiant effort to eat them. By the time he bad started the second he decided it was beyond him. He made his handkerchief ready in his left hand.

“We’ll be at the first lock any moment,” he said to Maria, with a gesture of his right hand calling her attention to the dark window. Maria tried to peer out, and Hornblower flipped the second sausage into his handkerchief and stuffed it into his side pocket. He caught the eye of the elderly man sitting nearly opposite him across the narrow cabin. This individual had been sitting muffled up in great coat and scarf, his hat pressed down low on his forehead, grouchily keeping watch from under his eyebrows at every movement the Hornblowers had made. Hornblower gave him an elaborate wink in reply to the astonishment which replaced the grouchy old gentleman’s badtempered curiosity. It was not a conspiratorial wink, nor did Hornblower attempt the hopeless task of trying to pretend that he stuffed hot greasy sausages into his pocket every day of his life; the wink simply dared the old gentleman to comment on or even think about the remarkable act. He applied himself to finishing off the pease pudding.

“You eat so fast, dear,” said Maria. “It cannot be good for your stomach.”

She herself was struggling desperately with her own sausages.

“I’m hungry enough to eat a horse,” said Hornblower. “Now I’ll start on our dinner, stale or not.”

“I am delighted,” said Maria. “Let me—”

“No, dear. Sit still. I’ll look after myself.”

Hornblower took the food parcel and opened it.

“Quite excellent,” he said, with his mouth full of bread and meat.

At every moment he was making amends to Maria for his cavalier treatment of her during the day. The larger the meals he ate, the more appetite he evinced, the better Maria was pleased. A little gesture like helping himself to his own dinner gratified her absurdly. He could give her so much happiness; he could hurt her so easily.

“I regret having seen so little of you during the day, dear,” he said. “It was my loss. But if I had not helped with the working of the boat we should skill be at Sapperton Tunnel.”

“Yes, dear,” said Maria.

“I would have liked to point out the scenery to you as we passed it,” went on Hornblower, battling with the selfcontempt that his hypocrisy was arousing. “I trust you enjoyed it even so?”