“She’s holding her wind, sir. She ought to make the bay on this tack.”

“Hah’m,” said Hornblower, and went below again.

It would be four hours at least before the Natividad reached the entrance, and before he could take any further action. He found himself pacing, stoopshouldered, up and down the tiny limits of his cabin, and checked himself furiously. The ironnerved captain of his dreams would not allow himself to work himself into this sort of fever, even though his professional reputation was to be at stake in four hours’ time. He must show the ship that he, too, could face uncertainty with indifference.

“Pass the word for Polwheal!” he snapped, coming out through the screen and addressing a group by a maindeck gun; and when Polwheal appeared he went on: “My compliments to Mr. Bush, and tell him that if he can spare Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Clay and Mr. Savage from their duties I would be glad if they would sup with me and have a hand of a whist.”

Galbraith was nervous, too. Not merely was he anticipating a battle, but hanging over his head there was still the promised reprimand for his part in the skirmish of the afternoon. His rawboned Scotch figure moved restlessly, and his face was flushed over his high cheek bones. Even the two midshipmen were subdued as well as fidgety.

Hornblower compelled himself to play the part of the courtly host, while every word he uttered was designed to increase his reputation for imperturbability. He apologised for his shortcomings of the supper—the ship being cleared for action involved the extinction of all fires and the consequent necessity for serving cold food. But the sight of the cold roast chickens, the cold roast pork, the golden cakes of maize, the dishes of fruit, roused Mr. Midshipman Savage’s sixteen year old appetite and caused him to forget his embarrassment.

“This is better than rats, sir,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Rats?” asked Hornblower, vaguely. For all his appearance and attention his thoughts were up on deck, and not in the cabin.

“Yes, sir. Until we made this harbour rats had become a favourite dish in the midshipmen’s berth.”

“That they had,” echoed Clay. He carved himself substantial slices of cold pork, and plenty of crackling, and added them to the half chicken on his plate. “I was paying that thief Bailey threepence apiece for prime rats.”

Desperately Hornblower jerked his mind away from the approaching Natividad and delved into the past when he had been a half-starved midshipman, homesick and seasick. His seniors then had eaten rats with gusto, and maintained that a biscuitfed rat was far more delicate a dish than beef two years in cask. He had never been able to stomach them himself, but he would not admit it to these boys.

“Threepence apiece for rats seems a trifle dear,” he said. “I can’t remember paying as much as that when I was a midshipman.”

“Why, sir, did you ever eat them yourself?” asked Savage, amazed.

In reply to this direct question Hornblower could only lie.

“Of course,” he said. “Midshipmen’s berths were much the same twenty years ago as now. I always maintained that a rat who had had the run of the breadlocker all his life made a dish fit for a king, let alone a midshipman.”

“God bless my soul!” gasped Clay, laying down his knife and fork. He had never thought for a moment that this stern and inflexible captain of his had once been a rateating midshipman.

The two boys blinked at their captain with admiration. This little human touch had won their hearts completely, as Hornblower had known it would. At the end of the table Galbraith sighed audibly. He had been eating rats himself only three days ago, but he knew full well that to admit it would not increase the boys’ respect for him, but would rather diminish it, for he was that sort of officer. Hornblower had to make Galbraith feel at home, too.

“A glass of wine with you, Mr. Galbraith,” he said, raising his glass. “I must apologise because this is not my best Madeira, but I am keeping the last two bottles for when I entertain the Spanish captain as our prisoner tomorrow. To our victories of the future!”

The glasses were drained, and constraint dwindled. Hornblower had spoken of ‘our prisoner’ when most captains would have said ‘my prisoner.’ And he had said ‘our victories.’ The strict cold captain, the stern disciplinarian, had for a moment revealed human characteristics and had admitted his inferiors to his fellowship. Any one of the three junior officers would at that moment have laid down his life for his captain—and Hornblower, looking round at their flushed faces, was aware of it. It gratified him at the same moment as it irritated him; but with a battle in the immediate future which might well be an affair of the utmost desperation, he knew that he must have behind him a crew not merely loyal but enthusiastic.

Another midshipman, young Knyvett, came into the cabin.

“Mr. Bush’s compliments, sir, and the enemy is hull up from the masthead now, sir.”

“Is she holding her course for the bay?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Bush says two hours ought to see her within range.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knyvett,” said Hornblower, dismissing him. The reminder that in two hours he would be at grips with a fiftygun ship set his heart beating faster again. It took a convulsive effort to maintain an unmoved countenance.

“We still have ample time for our rubber, gentlemen,” said Hornblower.

The weekly evening of whist which Captain Hornblower played with his officers was for these latter—especially the midshipmen—a sore trial. Hornblower himself was a keen good player; his close observation and his acute study of the psychology of his juniors were of great help to him. But to some of his officers, without card sense, and floundering helplessly with no memory for the cards that had been played, Hornblower’s card evenings were periods of torment.

Polwheal cleared the table, spread the green tablecloth and brought the cards. When play began Hornblower found it easier to forget about the approaching battle. Whist was enough of a passion with him to claim most of his attention whatever the distraction. It was only during the intervals of play, during the deals and while making the score, that he found his heart beating faster again and felt the blood surging up in his throat. He marked the fall of the cards with close attention, making allowances for Savage’s schoolboy tendency to dash out his aces, and for the fact that Galbraith invariably forgot, until it was too late, to signal a short suit. One rubber ended quickly; there was almost dismay on the faces of the other three as Hornblower proffered the cards for cutting for a second one. He kept his face expressionless.

“You really must remember, Clay,” he said, “to lead the king from a sequence of king, queen, knave. The whole art of leading is based upon that principle.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Clay, rolling his eyes drolly at Savage, but Hornblower looked up sharply and Clay hurriedly composed his expression. Play continued—and to all of them seemed interminable. It came to an end at last, however.

“Rubber,” announced Hornblower, marking up the score. “I think, gentlemen, that it is almost time that we went on deck.”

There was a general sigh of relief and a scraping of feet on the deck. But at all costs Hornblower felt that he must consolidate his reputation for imperturbability.

“The rubber would not be over,” he said dryly, “if Mr. Savage had paid attention to the score. It being nine, Mr. Savage and Mr. Galbraith had only to win the odd trick to secure the rubber. Hence Mr. Savage, at the eighth trick, should have played his ace of hearts instead of risking the finesse. I grant that if the finesse had been successful he would have won two more tricks, but—”

Hornblower droned on, while the other three writhed in their chairs. Yet they glanced at each other with admiration for him in their eyes as he preceded them up the companion ladder.