“Emperor!”
Even Bush could catch the connotations of that title, with its claims to universal preeminence.
“I suppose he’s mad?” asked Bush.
“If he is, he’s the most dangerous madman in Europe.”
“I don’t trust him over this Malta business. I don’t trust him an inch,” said Bush, emphatically. “You mark my words we’ll have to fight him again in the end. Teach him a lesson he won’t forget. It’ll come sooner or later—we can’t go on like this.”
“I think you’re quite right,” said Hornblower. “And sooner rather than later.”
“Then—” said Bush.
He could not talk and think at the same time, not when his thoughts were as tumultuous as the ones this conclusion called up; war with France meant the reexpansion of the navy; the threat of invasion and the needs of convoy would mean the commissioning of every small craft that could float and carry a gun. It would mean the end of half pay for him; it would mean walking a deck again and handling a ship under sail. And it would mean hardship again, danger, anxiety, monotony—all the concomitants of war. These thoughts rushed into his brain with so much velocity, and in such a continuous stream, that they made a sort of whirlpool of his mind, in which the good and the bad circled after each other, each in turn chasing the other out of his attention.
“War’s a foul business,” said Hornblower, solemnly. “Remember the things you’ve seen.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Bush; there was no need to particularize. But it was an unexpected remark, all the same. Hornblower grinned and relieved the tension.