Part VII (5400 words)

Hornblower awoke the next morning to Doughty gently shaking his shoulder through the blanket. He flinched at the touch, even indirect, then berated himself for this continued lack of control over his own body.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but the doctor's coming aboard shortly, and I thought you might like some breakfast first."

"Doctor?" Hornblower's voice was half angry, half questioning.

"Yes sir; Mr. Bush-"

"Ah. Yes." He vaguely recalled Bush mentioning a doctor in his report. "He's along side now?"

"Just left the dock, sir. He should be here in about twenty minutes, sir."

"Ha-h'mm." The sound was half a cough, half a clearing of the throat. His head cold, or whatever it was that had caused the tickling in his throat, had not entirely dissipated, and he found comfort now in the useless noise, which he fancied could be interpreted as anything and nothing.

But even he, who disdained small talk and unnecessary words, could not restrain a complaint, "Is this really necessary? My fever has broken, and I would be surprised if a man on this ship didn't know how to treat lash marks." This was an exaggeration of course—there had only been one flogging on board the Hotspur since he'd taken command. But it was rather common knowledge that there was no treatment for lashings, other than salt, vinegar, and wet bandages.

Doughty was diplomatic in his response, "I'm sure that's true, sir. And in that case, it will be a short meeting. Will you have breakfast first, sir?"

"Ha-h'mm. Yes."

ooooooooo

The doctor's visit was mercifully short. He examined Hornblower's back and probed his torso to ensure that the bruising and banging hadn't impaired his organs, tisking in admonition at Hornblower's protruding ribs and sunken stomach. Then he looked down the captain's throat to check for any growths or inflammation. He looked into Hornblower's eyes and proclaimed the sickness nearly gone, then prodded at the large bruise that spanned Hornblower's left check to ensure there wasn't a cracked cheek bone. And then he squeezed and tested each of Hornblower's fingers until he was certain they had not suffered from their exposure to cold and restricted circulation. He did not ask to examine Hornblower below the waste, and Hornblower did not volunteer any information to encourage such an inspection. Indeed, Hornblower was too intent on fighting his bodies reflexes and hiding his discomfort at all this touching and prodding to offer much in the way of conversation at all. Blessedly the whole exchange lasted no more than a quarter of an hour, and Hornblower ended by offering his apologies for the solicitude of his second in command. The doctor was all cordiality, apparently enjoying the travel across the bay, and so Hornblower was satisfied that no one had been greatly importuned, except perhaps himself. He could not know that this was the third doctor to see him, counting Wallis and the admiral's surgeon.

As soon as the doctor was over the side and well on his way, Hornblower informed Doughty that he would be going on deck. Doughty immediately protested, and was so affected by his worry that he stooped so far as to invent excuses for why Hornblower could not possibly go on deck.

"But sir, your clothes are in no shape to be worn. Surely it would be better if-"

Hornblower, in turn, took undue pleasure in forcing Doughty, through glares and orders, to submit to his will.

"Are you telling me, Doughty, that in the three days I have been bed-ridden you neglected to wash and mend my coat? I admit I am quite amazed. Not characteristic of your usual impressive performance. I would go so far as to say that your negligence is shocking." Hornblower raised an eyebrow in disdainful condescension.

"Oh-no, sir. Your uniform is clean and patched, sir, I only meant, sir, that perhaps you should wait until a new one can be acquired, or until I can install a softer lining to the back so's you don't suffer any discomfort. Beggin' your pardon, Sir."

"I see. Well, Mr. Doughty, much as I appreciate your concern, your efforts will not be necessary. I will have my uniform. Now."

Doughty could only bow to this demand, and he shuffled quickly out the door.

Hornblower took the few moments of solitude this garnered him to rise from his bed and to his feet. He had not stood in . . . was it four days? Five? He had no doubt that he could stand—his will and pride would not permit otherwise; it was his right as captain to pace the deck of his ship, as surely as he wore his bronze epaulette. He found himself, after an initial bout of dizziness, to be thankfully steady on his feet.

Not that he'd been unsure of that result, of course.

He took a few steps across his tiny cabin and found his legs supporting him with only the tiniest of wobbles, and while the movement irritated several of his bruises and pulled slightly on the skin of his back, it was all delightfully tolerable. His pleasure at his body's hardiness brought a smile to Hornblower's lips, a smile Doughty caught as he re-entered the cabin. And at this smile Doughty seemed to lose most of the misgivings he'd clearly been entertaining when first Hornblower voiced his intention.

He made no further protests, and Hornblower was aware of a particular gentleness in Doughty's hands as he helped the captain into his shirt, tights, trousers, and jacket. The coarse shirt rubbed uncomfortably against Hornblower's bandaged skin, and his jacket, tight at the shoulders as military fashion demanded, constricted painfully across his back when he lifted his arms. He almost decided to just leave the jacket unbuttoned and loose, uniform regulations be damned, but dismissed the notion as quickly as it came when he envisioned the eyes of his crew following his open-shirted figure while he paced. Buttons were a necessity. Doughty finished by tying Hornblower's stock, and Hornblower did his best to control the inexplicable revulsion that coiled in his stomach when Doughty's fingers came in contact with the skin of his neck. He would examine that reaction later, when he could think properly.

"Thank you, Doughty."

ooooooooo

It was hard to say who was more surprised to see Hornblower on deck. Cargill, standing by the wheel, stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, and Foreman looked like he might fall from the rigging, stationed as he was to catch the flag signals. Bush all but ran across the deck in his haste to reach the captain, though whether it was to berate him or hover protectively in concern was not immediately apparent from the pace of his strides.

Evidently it was to be a mixture of both. "Sir, you're not well. You should be in bed, resting. Let us handle things up here." He shot Doughty, standing behind Hornblower, a dark look. "Really, sir, I must protest." Hornblower had forced his face into a flat, emotionless mask before mounting the steps to the deck, his dignity as a captain, much damaged, demanding a show of stolidity before the men. But where Doughty's concern had alternately annoyed and amused him, Bush's concern simultaneously humbled and gratified him. There was shame in knowing that the lines of stress marring Bush's face and the bags under those keen blue eyes were caused by him, and yet there was pleasure in knowing that someone cared about Hornblower the man, not just Hornblower the captain. For he could see, from the strain in his movements and the near rudeness of his speech, that Bush was worried right now about his friend, not his superior. These unexpected emotions were more than sufficient to overcome Hornblower's carefully constructed composure, and a sad smile replaced his mask as he acknowledged his lieutenant, "Bush."

Even that did not seem sufficient, particularly after his brusque dismissal the previous night. Hornblower found himself extending his hand and clasping Bush's forearm. The movement pulled on his unforgiving jacket, but it was worth the look of surprised bemusement that suffused Bush's face at the contact.

And then Hornblower's ingrained self-consciousness reasserted itself. "Ha-h'mm." The half cough came naturally as he withdrew his arm from Bush's and worked to subdue his emotions. "I am as well as I can be, Mr. Bush, and I can not possibly confine myself to my cabin indefinitely. I merely wish to walk the deck. I will leave the ship's management in your capable hands. I trust that is acceptable?" The ring of command was back in his voice now, and Bush had very little choice but to reply. "Aye aye, sir." Hornblower fancied he'd caught a slight softening of Bush's eyes, however, and he congratulated himself on easing some of his lieutenant's concern.

The crew and officers seemed to adjust to his presence quickly enough, or they at least had the decency to cease their staring after the first five minutes of his pacing. He was sure he must cut a ridiculous figure; despite his confidence within the confines of his cabin, his steps were stiff and bow-legged, as various bruises and sore muscles made their discomfort known. His hands kept straying to his back, trying to clasp together as in his usual pose, only to be thrust forward again by Hornblower when the movement started pulling on his wounds. Hornblower felt his discomfort must be obvious and laughable, and his only consolation was that Bush and his crew knew better than to comment. It was only after a full ten turns of the deck that Hornblower's thoughts began traveling far and wide enough within the confines of his imagination that his ridiculousness ceased to bother him.

According to Bush's report the night before, Cornwallis had given them leave to resupply while in port and had delayed issuing any real orders until Hornblower's health had improved sufficiently for a proper report. He would have to make that report today, given that he was up and aware. He should be making it now. Ordinarily such a report would require a written account to hand over to the admiralty, but as he had accomplished and discovered nothing during his . . . captivity, he thought he could dispense committing anything to paper this once. If they were truly to remain in dock for more than a day, however, word would no doubt get to Maria. She would expect him to visit—and he might have a son, by God. A son! The duality this thought produced was interesting. His curiosity and paternalism engendered a strong desire to see this mysterious progeny, this extension of himself, but, contrastingly, he could not stand the thought of being with Maria. Cloying, doting Maria. She would touch him; cling to him. She would see his back and ask questions. Maybe she would see other things. She would certainly wonder why he did not want to touch her.

These oblique thoughts of intimacy inevitably brought his mind back to the source of his shame and discomfort. His emotions had to be analyzed, reconciled, and filed away; they could not just . . . sit there. It was strange how he had fixated on that one torture, when the others had, physically, been at least as painful—no, more painful. Perhaps that was the difference. He had genuinely feared for his life when they had first stripped him of his shirt and pulled out the cat o' nine tails, and he had certainly feared for life and limb as he was pulled through the icy water at the stern of the ship. Too much of his attention had been devoted to staying alive, and too much of him had been consumed with agony to feel shame, though that had no doubt been there too. But the other . . . he knew he would survive it, and so had time to fully appreciate the humiliation. But is that really what distressed him so? That men had seen him being used by other men, and so would think less of him? He would likely never see any of those damn pirates ever again, so what did it matter what they thought? Was it the helplessness of that moment? His inability to put up a respectable fight? But surely his weakness could be forgiven, tired as he was from his struggles at the end of the rope, and painfully injured as he was from the cat o' nine. Was it the threat to his career and reputation, should the shoddy details of his imprisonment be exposed to the public and admiralty? No, that was just an excuse.

He could not say what disturbed him so intensely about the incident, and his inability to account for his feelings was almost as horrible a misery, in its own way, as the feelings themselves. For he had always thought himself a practical man, driven by logic and pragmatism, rather than instinct and feelings. He had worked so hard to suppress any show of emotion in his role as an officer, and particularly as a captain, that he had begun to see himself as a man unmoved by such human weaknesses. But now here he was, completely overcome by intense emotions that he could not triangulate the source of. Emotions that he could not even fully identify. Emotions buried so deep within him that they had power over his mind and body. It was amazing and horrifying that something he couldn't understand could control him so.

And it was interesting, too, that he could touch Bush and feel no aversion. Perhaps it was just because Hornblower was the one initiating the contact, or perhaps his hands were not afflicted with the same sensitivity as the rest of him. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was because even his subconscious recognized Bush as a friend?

Another thirty minutes of pacing the deck, back and forth, back and forth, brought no further insight into his turmoil, and so, his legs aching, he stopped.

"Mr. Foreman!" He yelled into the shrouds.

"S-Sir?"

"Signal to flag, if you please. 'Captain requests permission to come aboard'."

"Aye aye, sir," Foreman replied hesitantly, and Hornblower caught him looking to someone behind him as if for permission.

Sure enough here came Bush. "Sir, you should rest before you go. There's no need-"

"It is my duty to report, Mr. Bush. And now that I am up and about, I hardly think the admiral would appreciate any delay.

"But sir, you've only just recovered from your fever, and your injuries-"

"What about my injuries, Mr. Bush?"

Bush looked like he'd swallowed a bad bite of beef. "Sir, I only meant that the admiral will not begrudge you a small delay."

Hornblower good mood upon rising had completely evaporated during his walk, so that Bush's solicitude, which had earlier gratified him, now merely irritated him. Bush was like a mother hen guarding her brood, which left Hornblower feeling like a child, and a fragile, recalcitrant child at that.

So he ignored Bush and turned again to Foreman. "I've given you my orders, Mr. Foreman. Is there a reasonable explanation for your delay?"

Bush could only look on in frustrated worry as the signal flags were exchanged between the Hotspur and Hibernia, and as the flag indicating 'Permission granted' rose from the Hibernia's topmast. His voice was hard, almost angry, as he shouted the orders necessary to launch the gig, and as Hornblower slowly climbed over the side Bush stooped to make one last plea, "Please don't stay long, sir."

ooooooooo

When Hornblower was escorted to the great stern cabin of the Hibernia, he was met with the same assemblage as when he'd been forced to run to Plymouth when the Hotspur had exhausted her water supply. Collins, the Fleet Captain, was sitting on the near side of the large, rectangular center table, the flag lieutenant next to him. Cornwallis was sitting too, but on the far side of the table so that he was facing the door when Hornblower entered. Upon seeing Hornblower's face and stilted gait, however, he rose to his feet. His keen blue eyes raked over Hornblower's body, before coming to rest on the junior captain's face. His mouth was parted in unconscious surprise, and he seemed to want to say something, but was restraining himself. Hornblower had not looked in the mirror since his return to the Hotspur, knowing that he would not like what he saw, but he thought, at that moment, that perhaps he should have. Then Cornwallis walked around the table and extended his hand.

"Good to have you with us, Captain Hornblower." Hornblower met the hand with his own. It was a great compliment the admiral was paying him by rising to shake his hand. Suddenly he felt Cornwallis's hand stiffen. He looked down to see what had caught the great man's attention and found that it was his own arm that was the distraction. The motion of extending his hand had pulled back the cuffs of his coat and shirt, revealing the lurid purple skin of his wrists. He hadn't even noticed the rope marks when Doughty had helped him dress that morning. He recalled then that his face was similarly disfigured, which would account for the stares of the other men in the room.

He withdrew his hand quickly, with an expressive, "Ha-h'mm," and Cornwallis seemed to collect himself.

"Take a seat, Hornblower, take a seat. Can we get you anything? Breakfast, perhaps? A more comfortable chair?" He turned to his side and grumbled, "We'll have some wine and cheese!", flicking his fingers at a footman who had been standing out of Hornblower's line of sight until that moment.

Hornblower sat in the proffered chair and found it's padded seat comfortable enough. Even so he sat stiffly, for he feared to let his back rest against the chair's backing. He struggled for a response, "I am fine, thank you. I dined before coming over." It had the merit of being the truth, while disguising the fact that he was unsure his stomach could process the admiral's fancy delicacies, unused as it was to eating much of anything for the past two weeks.

"Are you certain, sir? You look like you could use a good meal, if you don't my saying so." Cornwallis was again giving him an all to critical assessment, and for a second Hornblower contemplated retorting that he did mind the admiral saying so. He could not know how thin he looked to the officers before him. Even had Hornblower looked in the mirror he would not have seen it, for he had grown too accustomed to the sunken look of his cheeks and the pointedness of his chin. If pressed he may have admitted to being a bit thin. He could never appreciate that to Cornwallis and Collins, who had not seen him for over a month, he looked gaunt to point of being skeletal. His skin was pulled tight over his features, giving the almost grotesque impression of a death's head. The bluish purple bruise that marred most of the left side of his face only added to the effect, so that Hornblower was almost painful to look upon.

Hornblower had no such self-perception, and so his reply remained somewhat terse, "Thank you, but I am not hungry."

Cornwallis frowned, but it was worried, not angry, "I see. And are you well?"

It seemed a ridiculous query, given Hornblower's obvious state, but Hornblower took it as an unspoken questioning of his fitness for command. "I am well enough, sir. My fever broke last night, and the doctor believes that my sickness is past."

"And your injuries?"

"The infection in my wounds seems to have passed with the fever, and the rest is merely bruises."

Cornwallis nodded in apparent satisfaction, but there was a bleakness in Hornblower's eyes that hadn't been there before, and it was clear to everyone present that the young commander was not alright. Hornblower, not knowing the true direction of Cornwallis's thoughts, noticed only that the nod set Cornwallis's horse-hair wig slightly askew. He drew strength from the idea that he was not the only one in the room who looked a touch of the ridiculous.

"I'm glad to hear that, Hornblower. You're lieutenant's report last night had us fearing the worst. But fevers are a fickle thing, a fickle thing indeed."

Hornblower inclined his head in agreement.

The footman returned then, bearing a bottle of wine and a fruit and cheese platter, and Hornblower forced himself to nibble at a few pieces of the proffered display so as to not insult his host. The wine was a lighter red—an appropriate choice for a morning aperitif, and Hornblower sipped it slowly.

"Is there anything you'd like to contribute to your lieutenant's report? A capable man, that lieutenant of yours."

"Yes, sir. And no, sir, I believe Lieutenant Bush covered all the salient points. I discovered nothing of consequence during my captivity, except, perhaps, that Napoleon is desperate for intelligence, and the people of France desperate for any spare franc." Hornblower knew he sounded bitter as he said the words, but he could no more disguise it than he could pretend enthusiasm for the table cheese.

He saw Cornwallis's eye's catch Collin's, just for a moment, and he deduced that it must be a signal, for it was Collin's who continued the questioning.

"What did they want from you?"

"Information. They wanted to know the contents of my orders, and which ships and captains were deployed to this fleet. They wanted to know what we knew of the French fleet and its movements. They wanted to know as much as possible."

"They were French spies, then?"

"Not exactly, sir. I think they truly were just fishermen, most of them. Very desperate fishermen and a few genuinely bad men." Hornblower said this bitterly too, for it would be easier if he could label them all pirates and hate them dispassionately. "They said that Bonaparte, or the French navy, in any case, would pay for information. Pay more than they could ever get from selling fish. When they encountered the Hotspur so close to the shoals, they thought it a sudden windfall."

"So the rules of war didn't apply?"

"It would seem not." The look Hornblower leveled at Collins would have deterred any further questioning in a less self-assured man, but Collin's ignored it.

"So what did you tell them then?"

Hornblower understood then. Cornwallis needed to know if any state secrets had been compromised. He needed to know what the French knew. And, not wanting to be rude himself, he had relegated this questioning to Collins. And Collin's, in his arrogant ignorance, was making the assumption that of course Hornblower had talked, it was merely a question of how much.

"I told them they could go to hell."

"You mean to say that you told them nothing?" Collin's was openly skeptical, and Cornwallis looked uncomfortable at his captain's rudeness.

As the silence grew and Hornblower's expression darkened, the admiral finally intervened, "Come, Hornblower. There's no shame in admitting defeat. Everyone breaks after three days, everyone. And you were with them for a day and half. No one will blame you for what resulted, you have my word. It is not of that great a consequence. We just need to know what was said so that we can adjust our maneuvers accordingly."

The sympathy in Cornwallis's voice only fueled Hornblower's anger. It was ridiculous how men offered condolence for things they could not possibly understand, even Vice Admirals of the White.

But these were not men to be convinced by anger, and nor was Hornblower.

"I am a man of logic, sir." He said, then forced himself to draw a breath. "I deduced, almost from the moment of my capture, that if I spoke it would do nothing to help my situation. As a junior captain, I know little of consequence, but these men would not have believed that. They would think that I knew more; that I would tell more if they could only pry it from me. If I was to be tortured either way, then I preferred to be tortured as a loyal subject of England." Hornblower had been looking Cornwallis in the eyes, and now his gaze drifted to the wall, to nothingness. "And after . . . well, after a point, you begin to tell yourself that it cannot possibly get worse. That they cannot possibly injure you further." Hornblower was made aware, with this last revelation, that the wine was affecting him more than he'd anticipated. His stomach, nearly four days empty even with this morning's light breakfast, must be particularly susceptible to its effects.

Cornwallis looked solemn, and even Collins seemed to feel the weight of Hornblower's words. But what inspires gravity in some inspires curiosity in others, for the flag lieutenant couldn't restrain himself from asking, "What did they do to you, sir?" His tone indicated an innocent lack of understanding of what could possibly cause a man such as Hornblower so much distress. The lieutenant could not be much younger than Hornblower, if he was younger at all; perhaps he was contemplating his own mortality and courage. Cornwallis looked disgruntled at this breach of etiquette, but Collins, too, turned curious, if more compassionate eye's to Hornblower.

"Lieutenant Bush did not tell you?" Hornblower raised a brow in genuine surprise.

"No, sir, not exactly, sir. He said you were flogged, but would not say, or perhaps didn't know, anything more." The lieutenant seemed almost eager.

"Roger!" Cornwallis glared at the man, his voice threatening, and the lieutenant temporized his expression into something more appropriate.

"I see. Ha-Hmm." Hornblower struggled to organize his thoughts. For all that Cornwallis protested, he had not actually told Hornblower that he did not have to answer, nor had he stopped the questioning himself. That meant he had to answer. But as he was the only one who know what happened on that ship, he could easily leave out what he would.

"I see. Well it is a short list. I was flogged, fifty lashes with the cat. Then I was dragged by a rope line behind the ship as it cruised at five knots, to let the salt get properly in my wounds and to give the sharks a chance at some sport. The cold thankfully rendered me insensible before anything chanced to take a bite. I was then tied to the masthead most of the night to see if the weather and discomfort would do more than the pain."

"Fifty lashes!" It was typical that the lieutenant would focus on that particular torture. No doubt he had overseen many a flogging, and could thus appreciate the severity of that punishment. The cat did significantly more damage than a single barbed whip, and a sentence of 60 or more lashes was often a death sentence, due to the shock and increased chance of infection.

"Well no wonder your lieutenant looked so worried yesterday. I'm amazed you're here before us at all." Collins for once looked genuine as he regarded Hornblower.

Cornwallis, however, looked speculative, "How did you get that bruise on your face, Captain?"

Hornblower froze. He felt his face slammed hard to the deck of that awful cabin, his eyes so close they could see the scuffs on the wood varnish. Still he struggled, but rather than beat his head again, the man on top of him merely pressed his face flush to the planking, holding it there so he could not move it . . .

Hornblower told himself to relax, to think, but no clever excuse or white lie came to his lips. With those memories tearing through his mind, and the wine flowing through his veins it was frustratingly impossible to dissemble. His hand, resting near his glass on the table, trembled. Finally, when the silence grew noticeable, he forced himself to say only, "I do not wish to speak of it."

The implication was clear—there was more to his story, more done to him, that he was deliberately withholding. Cornwallis's eyes bore into his, and he felt the curious gazes of Collins and the flag lieutenant. If he had been in a more perceptive mood he might have seen that it was not curiosity on Collin's face, but uncertainty, and on Cornwallis's face resided as expression that was almost . . . paternal, though Hornblower would likely be incapable of recognizing it as such.

The admiral leaned back and said, "I understand." There was compassion in those words, and a sympathy in Cornwallis's eyes. For a brief moment it seemed to Hornblower that Cornwallis really did understand, and that frightened him more than any other single part of that meeting.

But the moment passed, and Hornblower allowed himself to breath.

ooooooooo

Bush was waiting for him when he returned to the Hotspur, and Hornblower could not disguise his weariness. His conversation aboard the Hibernia had unsettled him, and the churning of his mind was giving him a headache. Bush took one look at his pale face and stooped figure and yelled for Doughty.

"You're going to bed, sir." Bush did not phrase it as a question, and Hornblower smiled slightly at his presumption.

"Yes."

"I'll wake you if anything requires your attention."

"Yes."

Bush absorbed this acquiescence with some uneasiness as Hornblower made his way across the deck. He was not surprised, therefore, when his captain turned back to him when he neared the companionway stairs.

"I must speak with you before I retire, Mr. Bush. Will you join me in a minute?"

"Of course, sir."

Doughty had helped him out of his jacket and was working on his stockings and trousers when Bush knocked on Hornblower's cabin door.

"Come in."

Hornblower sat on the edge of his cot while Doughty worked the thin cotton off of his legs and as soon as that task was completed he dismissed his steward. Hornblower came straight to the point, his fatigue deterring any circumlocutions. "Cornwallis has ordered me on leave for two days, and I want the Hotspur fully refitted and vittled before I return. He has not given me our orders yet, but I suspect we will be returning to the Goulet."

"Aye aye, sir. Do you know when you'll be leaving?"

"Probably this afternoon. I am too tired to leave now. I shall return the evening of the eighth." Hornblower, still sitting on the edge of his bed, rested his forehead on his hands.

"Very well, sir." Bush hesitated, then continued, clearly having heard the anxiety in Hornblower's voice, "If you don't mind me saying, sir, you're long overdue for a break. I think it'll do you good."

"Perhaps." Hornblower grunted. Then, possibly because of the wine still in his system, possibly feeling it an obligation of friendship, he offered an explanation for his disquietude. "You have sisters, do you not, Mr. Bush?"

Bush's eyebrows went up. "Aye, sir. Four of them."

"And do they fawn over you and hover about, and hold on to you like you're their favorite piece of china?"

"I suppose, sir."

"I do not want to be fawned over, or held, or touched by anyone now. Not even my wife. Especially not my wife."

Bush looked uncomfortable at this revelation, Hornblower saw when he lifted his head, though there were other emotions contorting his friend's face that he could not identify. Hornblower himself suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious at his unusual openness. That was much too revealing a confession, and he felt a blush creep up his cheeks in shame.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Bush."

"Sir, I don't think-"

"LEAVE, damn you!"

Bush left, leaving Hornblower to cradle his head once more, alone.