Cecil Forester: Hornblower and the Hotspur

“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.