“I wouldn’t have expected it of a Bradford manufacturer’s son,” said Hooper, grudgingly.
“Are you dining on board the Bride of Abydos, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“I am going there to dinner,” answered Hooper, who enjoyed food, “but seeing that it is only a yacht I have little hope of dining.”
Hornblower arrived on board early, at Ramsbottom’s suggestion, so as to have time to inspect the vessel. He was received in Navy fashion with sideboys attending the side and a long flourish on boatswain’s pipes as he stepped on board. He looked keenly about him even while he shook Ramsbottom’s hand. He could not have said he was not in a King’s ship, as his eye took in the gleaming white deck, the ropes coiled in perfect symmetry, the gleaming trophy of pikes and cutlasses against the bulkhead, the brass winking in the sunshine, the disciplined orderly crew in blue jumpers and white trousers.
“May I present my officers, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.
They were two half-pay lieutenants, hardbitten men; as Hornblower shook their hands he told himself that if it had not been for a dozen strokes of luck he himself might still be a lieutenant, perhaps eking out his half-pay by serving in a rich man’s yacht. As Ramsbottom led him forward he recognised one of the hands standing at attention by a gun.
“You were with me in the Renown, out here in 1800,” he said.
“Yes, sir. My Lord, so I was, sir.” The man grinned with uneasy pleasure as he shyly took Hornblower’s outstretched hand. “And Charlie Kemp, sir, My Lord, over there, sir, ‘e was with you in the Baltic. And Bill Cummings, up on the fo’c’sle, ‘e was foretopman in the Lydia round the Horn with you sir, My Lord.”
“Glad to see you again,” said Hornblower. That was true, but he was equally glad that he had not been under the necessity of remembering names. He moved on.
“You seem to have a Navy crew, Mr. Ramsbottom,” he remarked.
“Yes, My Lord. They are nearly all man-o’-wars men.”
In these years of peace and depression it would be easy enough to recruit a crew, thought Hornblower. Ramsbottom might be considered to be doing a public service in providing easy employment for these men who had deserved well of their country. Listening to the sharp orders given as the crew was put through their paces Hornblower could not suppress a smile. It was a harmless enough fad, he supposed, for Ramsbottom to indulge himself in playing at commanding a ship of war.
“You have a most efficient ship and a well-trained crew, Mr. Ramsbottom,” he said.
“It is a pleasure to hear Your Lordship say so.”
“You have seen no service yourself?”
“None, My Lord.”
There was a certain degree of surprise still to be found in the fact that in this year of 1821 there were to be found grown men, even heads of families, who nevertheless had been too young to see service in the wars that had devastated the world for a whole generation. It made Hornblower feel like a centenarian.
“Here come further guests, My Lord, if you will pardon me.”
Two planters—Hough and Doggart—and then the Chief Justice of the island. So the arrival of the Governor would make a dinner party of six, three officials and three men in private life. They gathered under the awning, which, stretched across the main boom, shaded the quarterdeck, and watched the reception of His Excellency.
“Do you think the dinner will come up to the ceremonial?” asked Doggart.
“Ramsbottom’s purser bought two tons of ice yesterday,” said Hough.
“At sixpence a pound that bids fair,” commented Doggart.
Jamaica was the centre of a small trade in ice, brought down from New England in fast schooners. Cut and stored away in deep places during the winter, it was hurried to the Caribbean insulated in a packing of sawdust. At the height of summer it commanded fantastic prices. Hornblower was interested; he was more interested still in the sight of a seaman down in the waist steadily turning a crank. It did not seem a very hard labour, although unremitting. He could not for the life of him think of what function that crank could play in the life of the ship. The guests made their bows to His Excellency, and at his suggestion seated themselves in the comfortable chairs. A steward appeared at once passing round glasses of sherry.
“Excellent, by George!” exclaimed the Governor after his first cautious sip. “None of your Olorosos, none of your sweet sticky dark sherries.”
The Governor by virtue of his reputed royal blood as well as in consequence of his position could make remarks that well might appear rude in another man. But the sherry was indeed delightful; pale, dry, infinitely delicate in flavour and bouquet, cool but not chilled. A new sound struck on Hornblower’s ear, and he turned and looked forward. At the foot of the mainmast a small orchestra had struck up, of various stringed instruments whose names he had never bothered to learn except for the fiddle. If it were not for the intrusion of this horrible music there could be nothing more delightful than to sit under an awning on the deck of a well-found ship with the sea breeze just beginning to come in, drinking this excellent sherry. The Governor made a small gesture which brought a fresh glass promptly to him.
“Ah!” said the Governor. “You keep a good orchestra, Mr. Ramsbottom.”
It was well known that the royal family inherited a taste for music.
“I must thank Your Excellency,” said Ramsbottom, and the glasses went round again before he turned an ear to the murmured words of the steward. “Your Excellency, My Lord, gentlemen, dinner is served.”
They filed down the companion; apparently every bulkhead had been taken down in the after part of the ship to make a cabin spacious though, low. The carronades on either side struck a subdued warlike note in a scene of luxury, for there were flowers everywhere; the dining table stood in the centre concealed under a glittering linen cloth. Wind scoops at the scuttles helped to deflect the trade wind into the cabin, which, under the double shade of the awning and the deck, was pleasantly cool, but Hornblower’s eye at once caught sight of a couple of strange objects, like small wheels, set in two scuttles and ceaselessly whirling round. Then he knew why the seaman was turning that crank in the waist; he was driving these two wheels, which by some ingenious mechanism propelled currents of air from outside into the cabin, acting like windmill vanes but in the opposite sense.
Seated at the table in accordance with the courteous indications of their host, the guests awaited the serving of the dinner. The first course made its appearance—two ample dishes set in dishes even more ample filled with cracked ice. The inner dishes held a grey granular substance.
“Caviare!” exclaimed His Excellency, helping himself liberally after his first astonished stare.
“I hope it is to your taste, sir,” said Ramsbottom. “And I hope you will accompany it with some of the vodka here. It is the same as is served at the Russian Imperial table.”
Conversation regarding caviare and vodka occupied the attention of all during the first course. The last time Hornblower had tasted the combination was during the defence of Riga in 1812; the experience enabled him to add his quota to the conversation. The next course made its appearance.
“You gentlemen are accustomed to this dish,” said Ramsbottom, “but I need not apologise for it. It is, I believe, one of the delicacies of the Islands.”
It was flying fish.
“Certainly no need to apologise when it is served like this,” commented His Excellency. “Your chef de cuisine must be a man of genius.”
The sauce that came with it had the merest hint of mustard.
“’Ock or Champagne, My Lord?” murmured a voice in Hornblower’s ear. Hornblower had already heard the Governor answer the same question with ‘I’ll try the hock first’. The champagne was dry and insidiously delicate, an ideal companion for the food. The great eaters of antiquity, Nero or Vitellius or Lucullus, had never known what it was like to partake of champagne and flying fish.
“You’ll be living differently from this soon, Hornblower,�
� said His Excellency.
“No doubt about that, sir.”
Ramsbottom, between them, looked a polite inquiry.
“Your Lordship’s going to sea?”
“Next week,” replied Hornblower. “I take my squadron to sea for exercises before the coming of the hurricane season.”
“Of course that would be necessary to maintain efficiency,” agreed Ramsbottom. “The exercises will last for long?”
“A couple of weeks or more,” said Hornblower. “I have to keep my men accustomed to hard tack and salt pork and water from the cask.”
“And yourself too,” chuckled the Governor.
“Myself too,” agreed Hornblower ruefully.
“And you take your whole squadron, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.
“All I can. I work ‘em hard and try to make no exceptions.”
“A good rule, I should think,” said Ramsbottom.
The soup that followed the flying fish was a fiery mulligatawny, well adapted to West Indian palates.
“Good!” was the Governor’s brief comment after his first spoonful. The champagne went round again and conversation became livelier and livelier, and Ramsbottom deftly kept it going.
“What news from the mainland, sir?” he asked the Governor. “This fellow Bolivar—is he making any progress?”
“He fights on,” answered the Governor. “But Spain hurries out reinforcements whenever her own troubles permit. The government at Caracas is looking for the arrival of more at this moment, I believe. Then they may be able to conquer the plains and drive him out again. You know he was a refugee here in this very island a few years ago?”
“Indeed, sir?”
All the guests at the table were interested in the desperate civil war that was being fought on the mainland. Massacre and murder, blind heroism and devoted self-sacrifice, loyalty to the King and thirst for independence—all these were to be found in Venezuela; war and pestilence were laying waste the fertile plains and depopulating the crowded cities.
“How will the Spaniards stand now that Maracaibo has revolted, Hornblower?” asked the Governor.
“It’s not a serious loss, sir. As long as they have the use of La Guaira their sea communications remain open—the roads are so bad that Caracas has always made use of La Guaira to preserve contact with the outside world; it’s only an open roadstead but it provides good anchorage.”
“Has Maracaibo revolted, Your Excellency?” asked Ramsbottom mildly.
“The news came this morning. A feather in Bolivar’s cap after his recent defeats. His army must have been growing disheartened.”
“His army, sir?” This was the Chief Justice speaking. “Half his men are British infantry.”
Hornblower knew that to be true. British veterans formed the backbone of Bolivar’s army. The llaneros—the men of the Venezuelan plains—supplied him with a brilliant cavalry, but not with the material for permanent conquest.
“Even British infantry could grow disheartened in a hopeless cause,” said the Governor, solemnly. “The Spaniards control most of the coast—ask the Admiral here.”
“That’s so,” agreed Hornblower. “They’ve made it hard for Bolivar’s privateers.”
“I hope you’re not going to venture into that turmoil, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said the Governor.
“They’ll make short work of you if you do,” added the Chief Justice. “The Dons will tolerate no interference. They’ll snatch you up and you’ll languish in a Spanish prison for years before we can extricate you from King Ferdinand’s clutches. Unless jail fever carries you off first. Or they hang you as a pirate.”
“I have certainly no intention of venturing near the mainland,” said Ramsbottom. “At least not while this war continues. It is a pity, because Venezuela was my mother’s country, and it would give me pleasure to visit it.”
“Your mother’s country, Mr. Ramsbottom?” asked the Governor.
“Yes, sir. My mother was a Venezuelan lady. There I would be Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona.”
“Most interesting,” remarked the Governor.
And more grotesque than Horatio Hornblower. It was significant of the worldwide interests of British commerce that a Bradford woollen manufacturer should have a Venezuelan mother. At any rate it accounted for Ramsbottom’s dark, almost swarthy, good looks.
“I can very well wait until peace is settled one way or the other,” said Ramsbottom off-handedly. “There will be other voyages to make. Meanwhile, sir, let me call your attention to this dish here.”
The main course had now arrived on the table, roast chickens and a leg of pork as well as the dish that Ramsbottom indicated. What lay in it was concealed by poached eggs covering the surface.
“A made dish?” asked the Governor, doubtfully. His tone indicated that at this stage of the dinner he looked rather for a substantial roast.
“Please try it, sir,” said Ramsbottom coaxingly.
The Governor helped himself and tasted cautiously.
“Pleasant enough,” he decided. “What is it?”
“A ragout of preserved beef,” answered Ramsbottom. “Can I persuade you gentlemen to try it? My Lord?”
At least it was something new; it was like nothing Hornblower had ever tasted before—certainly not in the least like the beef preserved in brine which he had eaten for twenty years.
“Extremely good,” said Hornblower. “How is it preserved?”
Ramsbottom made a gesture to the waiting steward, who laid a square box, apparently of iron, upon the table. It weighed heavy in Hornblower’s hand.
“Glass serves equally well,” explained Ramsbottom, “but it is not as convenient on shipboard.”
The steward was now at work upon the iron box with a stout knife. He cut it open and prized back the top and offered it for inspection.
“A tinned box,” went on Ramsbottom, “sealed at a high temperature. I venture to suggest that this new method will make a noticeable difference to the food supply on shipboard. This beef can be eaten cold on removal from the box, or it can be hashed as you have it here.”
“And the poached egg?” asked the Governor.
“That was the inspiration of my cook, sir.”
Discussion of this new invention—and of the excellent Burgundy served with this course—distracted attention from the troubles of Venezuela, and even from Ramsbottom’s Venezuelan mother. Conversation became general, and somewhat disjointed, as the wine flowed. Hornblower had drunk as much as he desired, and, with his habitual dislike of excess, contrived to avoid drinking more. It was noticeable that Ramsbottom remained sober as well, cool and quiet-voiced, while the other faces grew redder and redder, and the cabin echoed to the roaring toasts and the bursts of inconsequential song. Hornblower guessed that his host was now finding the evening as tedious as he himself found it. He was glad when at last His Excellency rose, supporting himself by the table, to take his leave.
“A damned good dinner,” he said. “And you’re a damned good host, Ramsbottom. Wish there were more like you.”
Hornblower shook hands.
“It was very good of you to come, My Lord,” said Ramsbottom. “I regret that I must take this opportunity to say goodbye to Your Lordship.”
“You are sailing soon?”
“In a couple of days, I expect, My Lord. I trust you will find your squadron exercises satisfactory.”
“Thank you very much. Where will you head for now?”
“I shall beat back through the Windward channel, My Lord. Perhaps I shall see something of the Bahamas.”
“Be careful of your navigation there. I must wish you good luck and a pleasant voyage. I shall write to my wife and tell her of your visit.”
“Please give Lady Hornblower my best wishes and respects, My Lord.”
Ramsbottom’s good manners persisted to the end; he remembered to send round his cards ‘Pour prendre congé’ before he left, and mothers of unmarried daughters much regretted his leaving. Hornblower saw the Bri
de of Abydos in the early dawn reaching to the eastward to round Morant Point with the land breezes, and then forgot about her in the bustle of taking his squadron to sea for exercises.
It never failed to raise a wry smile on his face when he looked about him at ‘His Majesty’s ships and vessels in the West Indies’ under his command. In wartime he would have had a powerful fleet; now he had three small frigates and a motley collection of brigs and schooners. But they would serve his purpose; in his scheme the frigates became three-deckers and the brigs seventy-fours and the schooners frigates. He had a van, a centre, and a rear; he cruised in formation ready to meet the enemy, with rasping reprimands soaring up his signal halliards when any ship failed to keep station; he cleared for action and he turned by divisions into fighting line ahead; he tacked to double on the imaginary enemy’s line. In pitch darkness he would burn blue lights with the signal ‘Enemy in sight’, so that a score of captains and a thousand seamen came tumbling from their beds to deal with the non-existent foe.
Without warning he would hang out a signal putting the most junior lieutenants in command of their respective ships, and then he would plunge into intricate manoeuvres calculated to turn the anxious substantive captains, looking helplessly on, grey with anxiety—but those junior lieutenants might some day be commanding ships of the line in a battle on which the destiny of England might depend, and it was necessary to steel their nerves and accustom them to handle ships in dangerous situations. In the middle of sail drill he would signal ‘Flagship on fire. All boats away.’ He called for landing parties to storm non-existent batteries on some harmless, uninhabited cay, and he inspected those landing parties once they were on shore, to the last flint in the last pistol, with a rigid disregard for excuses that made men grind their teeth in exasperation. He set his captains to plan and execute cutting-out expeditions, and he commented mordantly on the arrangements for defence and the methods of attack. He paired off his ships to fight single-ship duels, sighting each other on the horizon and approaching ready to fire the vital opening broadside; he took advantage of calms to set his men to work towing and sweeping in desperate attempts to overtake the ship ahead. He worked his crews until they were ready to drop, and then he devised further tasks for them to prove to them that they still had one more effort left in them, so that it was doubtful whether ‘Old Horny’ was mentioned more often with curses or with admiration.
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