“Dearest,” he said. “I do not mind if the whole world knows I have just kissed you, but I fear lest you would be ashamed.”

“Goodness!” said Maria, grasping his meaning and hurrying to the mirror to wipe off the smears of lather. Then she snatched up the baby. “I’ll see that your breakfast is ready when you come down.”

She smiled at him with so much happiness in her face, and she blew him a kiss before she left the room. Hornblower turned again to renew the lather and prepare himself for going on board. His mind was full of his ship, his wife, his child, and the child to be. The fleeting happiness of yesterday was forgotten; perhaps, not being aware that he was unhappy now, he could be deemed happy today as well, but he was not a man with a gift for happiness.

With breakfast finished at last he took boat again at the Hard to go the short distance to his ship; as he sat in the sternsheets he settled his cocked hat with its gold loop and button, and he let his cloak hang loose to reveal the epaulette on his right shoulder that marked him as a captain of less than three years’ seniority. He momentarily tapped his pocket to make sure that his orders were in it, and then sat upright in the boat with all the dignity he could muster. He could imagine what was happening in Atropos–the master’s mate of the watch catching sight of the cocked hat and the epaulette, the messenger scurrying to tell the first lieutenant, the call for sideboys and bosun’s mates, the wave of nervousness and curiosity that would pass over the ship at the news that the new captain was about to come on board. The thought of it made him smile despite his own nervousness and curiosity.

“Boat ahoy!” came the hail from the ship.

The boatman gave an inquiring glance at Hornblower, received a nod in return, and turned to hail back with a pair of lungs of leather.

“Atropos!”

That was positive assurance to the ship that this was her captain approaching.

“Lay her alongside,” said Hornblower.

Atropos sat low in the water, flush-decked; the mizzen chains were within easy reach of Hornblower where he stood. The boatman coughed decorously.

“Did you remember my fare, sir?” he asked, and Hornblower had to find coppers to pay him.

Then he went up the ship’s side, refusing, as far as his selfcontrol would allow, to let the incident fluster him. He tried to conceal his excitement as he reached the deck amid the twittering of the pipes, with his hand to his hatbrim in salute, but he was not capable of seeing with clarity the faces that awaited him there.

“John Jones, First Lieutenant,” said a voice. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

Then there were other names, other faces as vague as the names. Hornblower checked himself from swallowing in his excitement for fear lest it should be noticed. He went to some pains to speak in a tone of exactly the right pitch.

“Call the ship’s company, Mr. Jones, if you please.”

“All hands! All hands!”

The cry went through the ship while the pipes twittered and squealed again. There was a rush of feet, a bustling and a subdued murmur. Now there was a sea of faces before him in the waist, but he was still too excited to observe them in detail.

“Ship’s company assembled, sir.”

Hornblower touched his hat in reply—he had to assume that Jones had touched his hat to him, for he was not aware of it—and took out his orders and began to read.

He read them through to the end, folded them, and returned them to his pocket. Now he was legally captain of the Atropos, holding a position of which only a court martial or an Act of Parliament—or the loss of the ship—could deprive him. And from this moment his half-pay ceased and he would begin to draw the pay of a captain of a sixth-rate. Was it significant that it was from this moment the mists began to clear from before his eyes? Jones was a lanternjawed man, his close-shaven beard showing blue through his tan. Hornblower met his eyes.

“Dismiss the ship’s company, Mr. Jones.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

This might have been the moment for a speech, Hornblower knew. It was even customary to make one. But he had prepared nothing to say; and he told himself it was better to say nothing. He had it in mind that he would give a first impression of someone cold and hard and efficient and unsentimental. He turned to the waiting group of lieutenants; now he could distinguish their features, recognize that they were distinct individuals, these men whom he would have to trust and use for years in the future; but their names had escaped him completely. He had really heard nothing of them in those excited seconds after arriving on the quarterdeck.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to them. “We shall know each other better soon, I do not doubt.”

There was a touching of hats and a general turning away of them all except Jones.

“There’s an Admiralty letter waiting for you, sir,” said the latter.

An Admiralty letter! Orders! The key to the future, which would reveal what was to be their fate—the words which might despatch him and the Atropos to China or Greenland or Brazil. Hornblower felt his excitement surge up again—it had hardly subsided in any case. Once more he checked himself from swallowing.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I’ll read it as soon as I have leisure.”

“Would you care to come below, sir?”

“Thank you.”

The captain’s quarters in the Atropos were as minute as Hornblower had expected; the smallest possible daycabin and nightcabin. They were so small that they were not bulkheaded off from one another; a curtain was supposed to be hung between them, but there was no curtain. There was nothing at all—no cot, no desk, no chair, nothing. Apparently Caldecott had made a clean sweep of all his belongings when he left the ship. There was nothing surprising about that, but it was inconvenient. The cabin was dark and stuffy, but as the ship was newly out of dry dock she had not yet acquired all the manifold smells which would impregnate her later.

“Where are these orders?” demanded Hornblower, brusque with his suppressed excitement.

“In my desk, sir. I’ll fetch ‘em at once.”

It could not be too quickly for Hornblower, who stood under the little skylight awaiting Jones’ return. He took the sealed package into his hand and stood holding it for a moment. This was an instant transition. The journey of the last twentyfour hours had been a longer period, but of the same kind—an interval between one kind of activity and another. The next few seconds would eventually transform the Atropos from an idle ship in the Thames to an active ship at sea, lookouts at the mastheads, guns ready for action, peril and adventure and death only just over the horizon if not alongside. Hornblower broke the seal—the foul anchor of the Admiralty, the most inappropriate emblem conceivable for a nation that ruled the sea. Looking up, he met Jones’ eyes, as the first lieutenant waited anxiously to hear what their fate was to be. Hornblower knew that he should have sent Jones away before breaking the seal, but it was too late now. Hornblower read the opening lines he could have announced beforehand what would be the first six words, or even the first twelve.

This was the moment; Hornblower savoured it for one half of one second.