“I suppose not,” said Buckland.
“He’ll have seen the prizes coming in with us—everyone in the flagship’s looking at them now and wondering about them. He’ll be expecting good news. He’ll be in no mood to ask questions this morning, sir. Except perhaps to ask you if you’ll take Madeira or sherry.”
For the life of him Bush could not guess whether Hornblower’s smile was natural or not, but he was a witness of the infusion of new spirits into Buckland.
“But later on—” said Buckland.
“Later on’s another day, sir. We can be sure of one thing, though—admirals don’t like to be kept waiting, sir.”
“I suppose I’d better go,” said Buckland.
Hornblower returned to Bush’s cabin after having supervised the departure of the gig. This time his smile was clearly not forced; it played whimsically about the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Bush.
He tried to ease his position under the sheet that covered him. Now that the ship was stationary and the nearby land interfered with the free course of the wind the ship was much warmer already; the sun was shining down mercilessly, almost vertically over the deck that lay hardly more than a yard above Bush’s upturned face.
“You’re quite right, sir,” said Hornblower, stooping over him and adjusting the sheet. “There’s nothing to laugh at.”