“This ‘ere’s Mr. Bush, sir. ‘Ere ‘e is!”
Hands were lifting his head. The sunshine was agonising as it poured into his eyes, and he closed his eyelids tight to keep it out.
“Bush! Bush!” That was Hornblower’s voice, pleading and tender. “Bush, please, speak to me.”
Two gentle hands were holding his face between them. Bush could just separate his eyelids sufficiently to see Hornblower bending over him, but to speak called for more strength than he possessed. He could only shake his head a little, smiling because of the sense of comfort and security conveyed by Hornblower’s hands.
Chapter XV
“Mr. Hornblower’s respects, sir,” said the messenger, putting his head inside Bush’s cabin after knocking on the door. “The admiral’s flag is flying off Mosquito Point, an’ we’re just goin’ to fire the salute, sir.”
“Very good.” said Bush.
Lying on his cot he had followed in his mind’s eye all that had been going on in the ship. She was on the port tack at the moment and had clewed up all sail save topsails and jib. They must be inside Gun Key, then. He heard Hornblower’s voice hailing.
“Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship.”
He heard the grumble of the tiller ropes as the wheel was put over, they must be rounding Port Royal point. The Renown rose to a level keel—she had been heeling very slightly—and then lay over to port, so little that, lying on his cot, Bush could hardly feel it. Then came the bang of the first saluting gun. Despite the kindly warning that Hornblower had sent down Bush was taken sufficiently by surprise to start a little at the sound. He was as weak and nervous as a kitten, he told himself. At fivesecond intervals the salute went on, while Bush resettled himself in bed. Movement was not very easy, even allowing for his weakness, on account of all the stitches that closed the numerous cuts and gashes on his body. He was sewn together like a crazy quilt; and any movement was painful.