It was a cold winter’s day in Portsmouth; a black frost, and there was a penetrating east wind blowing down the street as Bush came out of the dockyard gates. He turned up the collar of his peajacket over his muffler and crammed his hands into his pockets, and he bowed his head into the wind as he strode forward into it, his eyes watering, his nose running, while that east wind seemed to find its way between his ribs, making the scars that covered them ache anew. He would not allow himself to look up at the Keppel’s Head as he went past it. In there, he knew, there would be warmth and good company. The fortunate officers with prize money to spend; the incredibly fortunate officers who had found themselves appointments in the peacetime navy—they would be in there yarning and taking wine with each other. He could not afford wine. He thought longingly for a moment about a tankard of beer, but he rejected the idea immediately, although the temptation was strong. He had a month’s half pay in his pocket—he was on his way back from the Clerk of the Cheque from whom he had drawn it—but that had to last four and a half weeks and he knew he could not afford it.

He had tried of course for a billet in the merchant service, as mate, but that was as hopeless a prospect at present as obtaining an appointment as lieutenant. Having started life as a midshipman and spent all his adult life in the fighting service he did not know enough about bills of lading or cargo stowage. The merchant service looked on the navy with genial contempt, and said the latter always had a hundred men available to do a job the merchantman had to do with six. And with every ship that was paid off a fresh batch of master’s mates, trained for the merchant service and pressed from it, sought jobs in their old profession, heightening the competition every month.

Someone came out from a side street just in front of him and turned into the wind ahead of him—a naval officer. The gangling walk; those shoulders bent into the wind; he could not help but recognise Hornblower.

“Sir! Sir!” he called, and Hornblower turned.

There was a momentary irritation in his expression but it vanished the moment he recognised Bush.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, his hand held out.

“Good to see you, sir,” said Bush.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” said Hornblower.

“No, sir? What—why—?”

Hornblower had no greatcoat on; and his left shoulder was bare of the epaulette he should have worn as a commander. Bush’s eyes went to it automatically. He could see the old pinholes in the material which showed where the epaulette had once been fastened.

“I’m not a commander,” said Hornblower. “They didn’t confirm my appointment.”

“Good God!”

Hornblower’s face was unnaturally white—Bush was accustomed to seeing it deeply tanned—and his cheeks were hollow, but his expression was set in the old unrevealing cast that Bush remembered so well.

“Preliminaries of peace were signed the day I took Retribution into Plymouth,” said Hornblower.

“What infernal luck!” said Bush.

Lieutenants waited all their lives for the fortunate combination of circumstances that might bring them promotion, and most of them waited in vain. It was more than likely now Hornblower would wait in vain for the rest of his life.

“Have you applied for an appointment as lieutenant?” asked Bush.

“Yes. And I suppose you have?” replied Hornblower.

“Yes.”

There was no need to say more than that on that subject. The peacetime navy employed onetenth of the lieutenants who were employed in wartime; to receive an appointment one had to be of vast seniority or else have powerful friends.

“I spent a month in London,” said Hornblower. “There was always a crowd round the Admiralty and the Navy Office.”

“I expect so,” said Bush.

The wind came shrieking round the corner.

“God, but it’s cold!” said Bush.

His mind toyed with the thought of various ways to continue the conversation in shelter. If they went to the Keppel’s Head now it would mean paying for two pints of beer, and Hornblower would have to pay for the same.

“I’m going into the Long Rooms just here,” said Hornblower. “Come in with me—or are you busy?”

“No. I’m not busy,” said Bush, doubtfully, “but—”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Hornblower. “Come on.”

There was reassurance in the confident way in which Hornblower spoke about the Long Rooms. Bush only knew of them by reputation. They were frequented by officers of the navy and the army with money to spare. Bush had heard much about the high stakes that were indulged in at play there, and about the elegance of the refreshments offered by the proprietor. If Hornblower could speak thus casually about the Long Rooms he could not be as desperately hard up as he seemed to be. They crossed the street and Hornblower held open the door and ushered him through. It was a long oakpanelled room; the gloom of the outer day was made cheerful here by the light of candles, and a magnificent fire flamed on the hearth. In the centre several card tables with chairs round them stood ready for play; the ends of the room were furnished as comfortable lounges. A servant in a green baize apron was making the room tidy, and came to take their hats and Bush’s coat as they entered.

“Good morning, sir,” he said.

“Good morning, Jenkins,” said Hornblower.

He walked with unconcealed haste over to the fire and stood before it warming himself Bush saw that his teeth were chattering.

“A bad day to be out without your peajacket,” he said.

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

He clipped that affirmative a little short, so that in a minute degree it failed to be an indifferent, flat agreement. It was that which caused Bush to realise that it was not eccentricity or absentmindedness that had brought Hornblower out into a black frost without his greatcoat. Bush looked at Hornblower sharply, and he might even have asked a tactless question if he had not been forestalled by the opening of an inner door beside them. A short, plump, but exceedingly elegant gentleman came in; he was dressed in the height of fashion, save that he wore his hair long, tied back and with powder in the style of the last generation. This made his age hard to guess. He looked at the pair of them with keen dark eyes.

“Good morning, Marquis,” said Hornblower. “It is a pleasure to present—M. le Marquis de SainteCroix—Lieutenant Bush.”

The Marquis bowed gracefully, and Bush endeavoured to imitate him. But for all that graceful bow, Bush was quite aware of the considering eyes running over him. A lieutenant looking over a likely hand, or a farmer looking at a pig at a fair, might have worn the same expression. Bush guessed that the Marquis was making a mental estimate as to how much Bush might be good for at the card tables, and suddenly became acutely conscious of his shabby uniform. Apparently the Marquis reached the same conclusion as Bush did, but he began a conversation nevertheless.

“A bitter wind,” he said.

“Yes,” said Bush.

“It will be rough in the Channel,” went on the Marquis, politely raising a professional topic.

“Indeed it will,” agreed Bush.

“And no ships will come in from the westward.”

“You can be sure of that.”

The Marquis spoke excellent English. He turned to Hornblower.

“Have you seen Mr. Truelove lately?” he asked.

“No,” said Hornblower. “But I met Mr. Wilson.”

Truelove and Wilson were names familiar to Bush; they were the most famous prize agents in England—a quarter of the navy at least employed that firm to dispose of their captures for them. The Marquis turned back to Bush.

“I hope you have been fortunate in the matter of prize money, Mr. Bush?” he said.

“No such luck,” said Bush. His hundred pounds had gone in a two days’ debauch at Kingston.