Then he saw a ship’s boy in the front row. The hymn meant something to him, at least. He was weeping broken-heartedly, even while he tried to keep his back straight and to conceal his emotions, with the big tears running down his cheeks and his nose all beslobbered. The poor little devil had been touched in one way or another—some chord of memory had been struck. Perhaps the last time he had heard that hymn was in the little church at home, beside his mother and brothers. He was homesick and heartbroken now. Hornblower was glad for his sake as well as for his own when the hymn came to an end; the next ceremony would steady the boy again.

He took up the Articles of War and began to read them as the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty had ordained should be done each Sunday in every one of His Britannic Majesty’s Ships. He knew the solemn sentences by heart at this, his five hundredth reading, every cadence, every turn of phrase, and he read them well. This was better than any vague religious service or Thirty Nine Articles. Here was a code in black and white, a stern, unemotional call to duty pure and simple. Some Admiralty clerk or pettifogging lawyer had had a gift of phrasing just as felicitous as Cranmer’s. There was no trumpet-call about it, no clap-trap appeal to sentiment; there was merely the cold logic of the code which kept the British Navy at sea, and which had guarded England during seventeen years of a struggle for life. He could tell by the death-like stillness of his audience as he read that their attention had been caught and held, and when he folded the paper away and looked up he could see solemn, set faces. The ship’s boy in the front row had forgotten his tears. There was a far away look in his eyes; obviously he was making good resolutions to attend more strictly to his duty in future. Or perhaps he was dreaming wild dreams of the time to come when he would be a captain in a gold-laced coat commanding a seventy-four, or of brave deeds which he would do.

In a sudden revulsion of feeling Hornblower wondered if lofty sentiment would armour the boy against cannon shot—he remembered another ship’s boy who had been smashed into a red jam before his eyes by a shot from the Natividad.

In the afternoon Hornblower was walking his quarterdeck; the problem before him was so difficult that he had quitted his stern gallery—he could not walk fast enough there, owing to his having to bend his head, to set his thoughts going. The people on the quarterdeck saw his mood, and kept warily over to the lee side, leaving the whole weather side, nearly thirty yards of quarterdeck and gangway, to him. Up and down, he walked, up and down, trying to nerve himself to make the decision he hankered after. The Sutherland was slipping slowly through the water with a westerly breeze abeam; the convoy was clustered together only a few cables’ lengths to leeward.

Gerard shut his telescope with a snap.

“Boat pulling toward us from Lord Mornington, sir,” he said. He wanted to warn his captain of the approach of visitors, so that if he thought fit he could make himself unapproachable in his cabin; but he knew, as well as Hornblower did, that it might be unwise for a captain to act in too cavalier a fashion towards the notabilities on board the East India convoy.

Hornblower looked across at the boat creeping beetle-like towards him. Ten days of a strong north-easterly wind had not merely hurried the convoy to the latitude of North Africa where he was to leave them to their own devices, but had prevented all intercourse and visiting between ships, until yesterday. Yesterday there had been a good deal of coming and going between the ships of the convoy; it was only natural that today he should receive formal calls, which he could not well refuse. In another two hours they would be parting company—it could not be a prolonged ordeal.

The boat ran alongside, and Hornblower walked forward to receive his own guests—Captain Osborn of the Lord Mornington, in his formal frock coat, and someone else, tall and bony, resplendent in civilian full dress with ribbon and star.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” said Osborn. “I wish to present you to Lord Eastlake, Governor-designate of Bombay.”

Hornblower bowed; so did Lord Eastlake.

“I have come,” said Lord Eastlake, clearing his throat, “to beg of you, Captain Hornblower, to receive on behalf of your ship’s company this purse of four hundred guineas. It has been subscribed by the passengers of the East India convoy in recognition of the skill and courage displayed by the Sutherland in the action with the two French privateers off Ushant.”

“In the name of my ship’s company I thank your Lordship,” said Hornblower.

It was a very handsome gesture, and as he took the purse he felt like Judas, knowing what designs he was cherishing against the East India convoy.

“And I,” said Osborn, “am the bearer of a most cordial invitation to you and to your first lieutenant to join us at dinner in the Lord Mornington.”

At that Hornblower shook his head with apparent regret.

“We part company in two hours,” he said. “I was about to hang out a signal to that effect. I am deeply hurt by the necessity of having to refuse.”

“We shall all be sorry on board the Lord Mornington’ said Lord Eastlake. “Ten days of bad weather have deprived us of the pleasure of the company of any of the officers of the navy. Cannot you be persuaded to alter your decision?”

“This has been the quickest passage I have made to these latitudes,” said Osborn. “I begin to regret it now that it appears to have prevented our seeing anything of you.”

“I am on the King’s service, my Lord, and under the most explicit orders from the Admiral.”

That was an excuse against which the Governor-designate of Bombay could not argue.

“I understand,” said Lord Eastlake. “At least can I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your officers?”

Once more that was a handsome gesture; Hornblower called them up and presented them one by one; horny-handed Bush, and Gerard handsome and elegant, Captain Morris of the marines and his two gawky subalterns, the other lieutenants and the master, down to the junior midshipman, all of them delighted and embarrassed at this encounter with a lord. At last Lord Eastlake turned to go.

“Good-bye, Captain,” he said, proffering his hand. “A prosperous voyage in the Mediterranean to you.”

“Thank you, my lord. And a good passage to Bombay to you. And a successful and historic term of office.”

Hornblower stood weighing the purse—an embroidered canvas bag at which someone had laboured hard recently—in his hand. He felt the weight of the gold, and under his fingers he felt the crackle of the banknotes. He would have liked to treat it as prize money, and take his share under prize money rules, but he knew he could not accept that sort of reward from civilians. Still, his crew must show full appreciation.

“Mr. Bush,” he said, as the boat shoved off. “Man the yards. Have the men give three cheers.”

Lord Eastlake and Captain Osborn acknowledged the compliment as they pulled away; Hornblower watched the boat creep back to the Lord Mornington. Four hundred guineas. It was a lot of money, but he was not going to be bought off with four hundred guineas. In that very moment he came to his decision after twenty-four hours of vacillation. He would display to the East India convoy the independence of Captain Hornblower.

“Mr. Rayner,” he said. “Clear away the launch and the long-boat. Have the helm put up and run down to leeward of the convoy. I want those boats in the water by the time we reach them. Mr. Bush. Mr. Gerard. Your attention please.”

Amid the bustle and hurry of wearing the ship, and tailing on at the stay tackles, Hornblower gave his orders briefly. For once in his life Bush ventured to demur when he realised what Hornblower had in mind.