“I can deal with them,” said Hornblower. He touched his breast pocket. “I keep ten pounds here. My corps de réserve, you understand. I can always endure a run of losses in consequence. Should that reserve be depleted, then sacrifices have to be made to build it up again.”
The sacrifices being skipped meals, thought Bush grimly. He looked so woebegone that Hornblower offered further comfort.
“But five more months,” he said, “and I’ll be on half pay again. And before that—who knows? Some captain may take me off the beach.”
“That’s true,” said Bush.
It was true insofar as the possibility existed. Sometimes ships were recommissioned. A captain might be in need of a lieutenant; a captain might invite Hornblower to fill the vacancy. But every captain was besieged by friends seeking appointments, and in any event the Admiralty was also besieged by lieutenants of great seniority—or lieutenants with powerful friends—and captains were most likely to listen to recommendations of high authority.
The door opened and a group of men came in.
“It’s high time for customers to arrive,” said Hornblower, with a grin at Bush. “Stay and meet my friends.”
The red coats of the army, the blue coats of the navy, the bottlegreen and snuffcoloured coats of civilians; Bush and Hornblower made room for them before the fire after the introductions were made, and the coattails were parted as their wearers lined up before the flames. But the exclamations about the cold, and the polite conversation, died away rapidly.
“Whist?” asked one of the newcomers tentatively.
“Not for me. Not for us,” said another, the leader of the redcoats. “The TwentyNinth Foot has other fish to fry. We’ve a permanent engagement with our friend the Marquis in the next room. Come on, Major, let’s see if we can call a main right this time.”