Hornblower #08 - Commodore Hornblower by C. S. Forester

Author:C. S. Forester [Forester, C. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, Fiction, Great Britain, Literary, Historical, Action & Adventure, War stories, Sea Stories, Napoleonic Wars; 1800-1815, Great Britain - History; Naval - 19th Century, Great Britain - History; Naval - 19th Century - Fiction, Napoleonic Wars; 1800-1815 - Fiction, Hornblower; Horatio (Fictitious Character), Hornblower; Horatio (Fictitious Character) - Fiction
ISBN: 9780316289382
Google: eigBPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0316289388
Publisher: Little, Brown
Published: 1945-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hornblower turned over in his cot with a groan; the effort of turning brought back the pain into his temples, although he moved very cautiously. He was a fool to have drunk so much — it was the first time he had had this sort of headache for half a dozen years. Yet it had been hard to avoid, just as everything else had been hard to avoid; he did not know what else he could have done, once events had him in their grip. He raised his voice and shouted for Brown — it hurt his head again to shout, and his voice was a hoarse croak. He heard the voice of the sentry at the door passing on the word, and with an infinity of effort he sat up and put his legs out of bed, determined that Brown should not find him prostrate.

"Bring me some coffee," he said when Brown came in.

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower continued to sit on the edge of his cot. Overhead he heard the raucous voice of Hurst blaring through the skylight, apparently addressing a delinquent midshipman.

"A fine young flibberty-gibbet you are," said Hurst "Look at that brasswork! D'you call that bright? Where d'you keep your eyes? What's your division been doing this last hour? God, what's the Navy coming to, when warrants are given to young jackanapes who couldn't keep their noses clear with a marline-spike! You call yourself a King's officer? You're more like a winter's day, short, dark, and dirty!"

Hornblower took the coffee Brown brought in.

"My compliments to Mr Hurst," he croaked, "and ask him kindly not to make so much noise over my skylight."

"Aye aye, sir."

The first satisfaction that day was to hear Hurst cut his tirade abruptly short. Hornblower sipped at the scalding coffee with some degree of pleasure. It was not surprising that Hurst should be in a bad temper to-day. He had been through a harassing evening the night before; Hornblower remembered Hurst and Mound carrying Braun, unconscious and reeking with spirits, into the carriage at the palace door. Hurst had been strictly sober, but apparently the mental strain of keeping guard over a secret assassin in the Tsar's palace had been too much for his nerves. Hornblower handed his cup back to Brown to be refilled when Brown reappeared, and pulled his nightshirt over his head as he waited. Something caught his eye as he laid his nightshirt on his cot; it was a flea, leaping high out of the sleeve. In a wave of disgust he looked down at himself; his smooth round belly was pockmarked with flea-bites. That was a striking commentary on the difference between an Imperial palace and one of His Britannic Majesty's ships of the line. When Brown returned with his second cup of coffee Hornblower was still cursing fiercely both at Imperial uncleanness and at the dreary prospect of the nuisance of having to rid himself of vermin to which he was peculiarly susceptible.

"Take that grin off your face,"

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