Читать книгу Ship of the Line - Cecil Louis Troughton Smith - Страница 7

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When they walked away from the Angel through the pitch-dark street Maria clung eagerly to Hornblower’s arm.

“A delightful evening, my dear,” she said. “Lady Barbara seems to be a very genteel person.”

“I’m glad you have enjoyed yourself,” said Hornblower. He knew only too well that Maria after any party to which he accompanied her delighted in discussing the others who had been present. He shrank from the inevitable dissection of Lady Barbara which was bound to come.

“She has breeding,” said Maria, inexorably, “far beyond what I was led to expect by what you had told me about her.”

Searching back in his memory Hornblower realised that he had only laid stress on her fine courage and her ability to mix with men without embarrassment. At that time it had pleased Maria to think of an earl’s daughter as a masculine hoyden; now she was just as pleased to revert to the traditional attitude, admiring her for her breeding, and being gratified at her condescension.

“She is a very charming woman,” he said, cautiously falling in with Maria’s mood.

“She asked me if I were going to accompany you on your approaching voyage, and I explained that with the hopes of the future which we were beginning to cherish it was inadvisable.”

“You told her that?” asked Hornblower sharply. At the last moment he was able to keep the anguish out of his voice.

“She wished me joy,” said Maria, “and asked me to give you her fe-felicitations.”

It irked Hornblower inexpressibly to think of Maria discussing her pregnancy with Lady Barbara. He would not allow himself to think why. But the thought of Lady Barbara’s knowledge was one more complexity in the whirl of thoughts in his mind, and there was no chance of straightening anything out in the course of the short walk to their lodgings.

“Oh,” said Maria when they were in their bedroom. “How tight those shoes were!”

She chafed her feet in the white cotton stockings as she sat in the low chair; from the candle on the dressing table her shadow danced on the opposite wall. The shadow of the bed tester lay in a grim black rectangle on the ceiling.

“Hang up that best coat of yours carefully,” said Maria, beginning to take the pins out of her hair.

“I’m not ready for sleep,” said Hornblower, despairingly.

He felt that no price would be too great to pay at the moment to be able to slip away to the solitude of his ship. But he certainly could not do that; the hour would make such a thing odd and the full-dress uniform he wore would make it preposterous.

“Not ready for sleep?” It was so like Maria to repeat his words. “How strange, after this tiring evening! Did you eat too much roast duck?”

“No,” said Hornblower. It was hopeless to try to explain a too rapidly working mind to Maria, hopeless to try to escape. Any attempt to do so would only hurt her feelings, and he knew by experience he could never make himself do that. With a sigh he began to unbuckle his sword.

“You have only to compose yourself in bed and you will sleep,” said Maria, from her own constant experience. “We have few enough nights together left to us now, darling.”

That was so; Admiral Leighton had told them that the Pluto, Caligula, and Sutherland were ordered to escort as far as the Tagus the East India convoy which was even then assembling. And that raised once more the cursed question of the shortage of men—how the devil was he to complete his crew in time? Bodmin assizes might send him a few more criminals. His lieutenants, due to return any day now, might bring in a few volunteers. But he needed fifty more topmen, and topmen could not be picked up in gaols, nor in market squares.

“It is a hard service,” said Maria, thinking of the approaching separation.

“Better than counters at eightpence a week,” replied Hornblower, forcing himself to speak lightly.

Before their marriage Maria had taught in a school with graduated fees—readers paid fourpence, writers sixpence, and counters eightpence.

“Indeed, yes,” said Maria. “I owe much to you, Horatio. Here’s your nightshirt, ready for you. The torment I went through when Miss Wentworth found I had taught Alice Stone the multiplication table although her parents only paid fourpence! And then the ungrateful minx egged that little Hopper boy to let those mice loose in the schoolroom. But I’d suffer it all again, darling, if—if that would keep you near me.”

“Not while duty calls, my dear,” said Hornblower, diving into his nightshirt. “But I’ll be back with a bagful of guineas for prize money before two years are up. Mark my words.”

“Two years!” said Maria, pitifully.

Hornblower yawned elaborately, and Maria rose to the bait thus deftly cast, just as Hornblower had been sure she would.

“And you said you were not ready for sleep!” she said.

“It has come upon me now,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps the Admiral’s port is beginning to take effect. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I shall say ‘good night’ now, my love.”

He kissed her as she sat before the dressing table, and, turning hastily away, he climbed up into the big bed. There, lying on the farthest edge, keeping rigidly still, he lay until Maria had blown out the candle and climbed up beside him, until her breathing grew quiet and regular. Only then could he relax and change position and give rein to the galloping thoughts coursing through his mind.

He remembered what Bolton had said to him with a wink and a nod when they had found themselves together at one time during the evening in a corner where they could not be overheard.

“He means six votes to the Government,” said Bolton, jerking his head towards the Admiral.

Bolton was as stupid as a good seaman could be, but he had been in London recently and attended a levee and had heard the gossip. The poor old King was going mad again, a Regency was imminent, and with the Regency the Tories might go out and the Whigs might come in—the six votes of the Leighton interests were valuable. With the Marquis Wellesley as Foreign Secretary, and Henry Wellesley as Ambassador in Spain, and Sir Arthur Wellesley—what was his new title? Lord Wellington of course—as Commander in Chief in the Peninsula it was not surprising to find Lady Barbara Wellesley married to Sir Percy Leighton, and still less to find the latter given a command in the Mediterranean. The virulence of the Opposition was growing day by day, and the history of the world hung in the balance.

Hornblower shifted restlessly in bed at the thought, but a slight movement by Maria in reply fixed him rigid again. It was only a small party of men—the Wellesleys chief among them—who still had the resolution to continue the struggle against the Corsican’s dominion. The smallest check, on land, at sea, or in Parliament, might pull them from their high positions, bring their heads perilously near the block, and tumble all Europe into ruin.

Sometime during the evening Lady Barbara had been pouring tea, and Hornblower had found himself standing alone beside her, waiting for his refilled cup.

“It gave me pleasure,” she had murmured, “when my husband told me you had been given the Sutherland. England needs all her best captains at present.”

She must have meant more than she said then. Probably she was hinting at the necessity for maintaining Leighton in his command. It had been no indication, all the same, that she had exerted herself to obtain the appointment for Hornblower. But it was satisfactory to be able to think that she had married Sir Percy for some other reason than love. Hornblower hated the thought of Lady Barbara being in love with anyone. He began to remember every word she had said to her husband, every look she had given him. Certainly she did not seem in the least like an adoring bride. But the fact remained that she was Leighton’s wife—that she was in bed with him at this very minute. Hornblower writhed in fresh anguish at the thought.

Then he checked himself. He told himself very sensibly that only misery and madness lay before him if he allowed himself to think about that, and, grasping resolutely at the tail of the first train of thought which recurred to him, he began to analyse the whist he had been playing. If he had not taken that unsuccessful finesse against that lead of Elliott’s he would have saved the rubber. His play had been correct—the chances were three to two—but a gambler would not have stopped to consider that. He would have gone baldheaded for results and in this case would have achieved them. But only a gambler could risk a king being unguarded. He prided himself on the precision and science of his play. Nevertheless, he was two guineas the poorer as a result of this evening, and the loss of two guineas was a devilish serious matter at present.

He wanted to buy a litter of pigs and two dozen fowls—a couple of sheep as well, for that matter—before weighing anchor in the Sutherland. There was the wine he needed, too. Some he could buy later and more advantageously in the Mediterranean, but it would be well to have five or six dozen on board at the start. The effect on the officers and men might be bad for discipline if he were not provided with every luxury as a captain should be; and if the voyage out were long and lazy he would have to entertain his brother captains—the Admiral, too, most likely—and they would look at him askance if he offered them the ship’s fare on which he was content to live. The list of things he needed stretched longer and longer in his imagination. Port, sherry, and Madeira. Apples and cigars. Raisins and cheeses. A dozen at least of shirts. Four more pairs of silk stockings if there was to be much shore-going formality, as seemed likely. A chest of tea. Pepper and cloves and allspice. Prunes and figs. Wax candles. All these things were necessary to his dignity as captain—and to his own pride, for he hated the idea of people thinking him poor.

He could spend all the next quarter’s pay on these things and still not have bought too much. Maria would feel the pinch during the next three months, but Maria, fortunately, was used to poverty and to staving off creditors. It was hard on Maria, but if ever he became an admiral he would repay her loyalty with luxury. There were books which he wanted to buy as well; not for entertainment—he had a chest of books, including Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire for bedside reading, all old friends—but to fit him for the coming campaign. In the Morning Chronicle yesterday there had been a notice of An Account of the Present War in Spain which he would like to have, and there were half a dozen others. The more he knew about the peninsula on whose coast he was going to fight, and of the leaders of the nation he was to help, the better. But books cost money, and he did not know where to turn for money.

He rolled over again and thought of the ill fortune which had always dogged him in the matter of prize money. The Admiralty had refused to pay out a penny on account of the sunk Natividad. Since the capture of the Castilla when he was a young lieutenant he had never had a windfall, while frigate captains whom he knew had made thousands of pounds. It was maddening—especially as in his present poverty-stricken condition he was hampered in his exertions to complete the Sutherland’s crew. That shortage of men was the most harassing of all his worries—that and the thought of Lady Barbara in Leighton’s arms. Hornblower’s thoughts had gone full circle now, and were starting all over again. There was plenty to keep him restless and wakeful all through the weary night, until the dawn began to creep through the curtains; fantastic theories about Lady Barbara’s state of mind, and hard-headed plans for making the Sutherland efficient for sea.