Chapter IX (5500 words)
When Hornblower returned the following day, he looked tired and drawn—just as he had when he'd left the ship.
"How was your leave, sir?"
Hornblower was better at disguising his emotions now than he had been as a midshipman, but he had not yet perfected the art. Bush speculated that even Hornblower's small improvement was more from that winter scrapping a living playing whist than from his time captaining the Hotspur. Bush, in any case, easily recognized the entire spread of emotions that flashed across Hornblower's face at this innocent question. The tableau began and ended with a blend of agitation, horror, and self disgust. Sandwiched in between was a brief glimpse of joy and pride. Bush could well imagine the source of these emotions, between Mrs. Mason, Little Horatio, and Maria, and so he knew better than to comment when Hornblower finally responded in a flat voice, "Well enough."
He tipped his hat to the captain and found an excuse to shout at one of the men dawdling amidships, thus giving Hornblower time to retreat unharassed. This the captain did with as much haste as he could muster, given his injuries, and his dignity. Doughty was slower coming up the side. It was on him to direct the men in raising the captain's sea chest, and he was clearly as aware of the captain's need for privacy as Bush was. They shared a glance of mutual understanding, and Bush did his best to keep the hands so busy in the following hours that even had they wanted to gossip they could not have.
It was not entirely useless evolutions that he put them through either; the Hibernia had raised the Blue Peter, which meant the fleet was to depart on the morrow. It was a strange tradition, this raising of that blue and white pendant, and while it was sanctioned by navy protocol, Cornwallis was the only admiral to ever use it. Indeed, the Blue Peter might as well be the white pendent for the association both had with the white haired devil of the British navy. Bush was suspicious of this new flag. If the fleet was to depart, it was probable that the Hotspur would sail with it, and that made it unlikely that they were returning to the Goulet.
oooooo
Bush's suspicions were confirmed the next morning. Hornblower went early to the Hibernia to receive his orders, and when he returned he did not set a course, he did not loose the sails, he did not even weigh anchor. He told Bush to watch the flag signals aboard the admiral's ship and call him when they indicated any change. Hornblower seemed agitated, almost out of sorts and for a moment Bush worried what their orders could possibly be. Just before reaching the companion stairs, the captain turned to call back to Bush, and then Bush realized the true cause of Hornblower's discomfort.
"Mr. Bush, you will see to the unloading of my gig."
"Unloading, sir?"
"Yes," Hornblower replied sharply, "The admiral has seen fit to give me his share of the last prize."
"That's good news, sir! Very good news indeed!" Hornblower looked much less pleased by this gift than Bush was on his behalf, but the captain was often ornery about such things. Bush had no doubt that come morning he'd enjoy his new fresh cup of coffee regardless of its source. Then Bush noticed something else—something different about Hornblower . . .
"Sir! Is that a new sword, sir?"
Hornblower looked, if possible, even more flustered. "Ha-h'mm. Yes. Yes it is, Mr. Bush. A gift from the patriotic fund, in reward for the Hotspur's destruction of the French invasion fleet. God knows how they had it made so swiftly." He spoke flippantly, as if the present irritated him, but Bush saw his hand unconsciously curl protectively around the sword's hilt.
Bush was prompted by this tell to comment on the final change. "Your hat as well, sir?"
"Hmm. Indeed. It appears they heard of its loss at my capture, and thought it a fitting accompaniment to the sword." Again Hornblower's irritation was belied by a motion, as Hornblower's other hand moved upward as if to reposition the object. The bircorn looked to be of the finest quality felted wool, and there was a golden line of ribbon running its length.
"It's a very fine hat, sir, if you don't mind my saying. It suits you."
Hornblower's mouth tightened, a sure sign he was fighting to suppress his true feelings on the matter. He settled for a grumbled, "Thank you, Mr. Bush." Then he truly did give in to his irritation. "I'll thank you further to call me when the signal flags change!" With that he spun and went below.
Bush smiled to himself when the captain was no longer in view, for even though Hornblower's pride demanded he feel embarrassment for these gifts, he clearly appreciated them nonetheless. He walked over to the side to order the proper unloading of the gig, but he could already see it was underway thanks to Doughty's close attention. The steward must be having kittens! From where he stood at the rail Bush could see tin after tin of coffee beans, as well as cartons he guessed must contain butter and cheese. There were six chickens and a rooster, and—Lord knows how they got it on the boat—but there was a lamb! A true lamb, too, not an old mutton. He rather wondered that Hornblower had believed all this could come from a prize, but then again, perhaps he did not.
Bush wanted someone to share his pleasure with, and his eyes caught Doughty's without any effort. They grinned in unison. Then, as Bush turned to better watch the men, something blue caught his eye. It was not the blue of the sea, but the dark navy blue of his uniform, and it was tucked under the sternsheets of the gig, only just revealed with the unloading. A bolt of fabric. The white haired devil, indeed! Cornwallis had thought of everything it seemed; he could not give Hornblower a new uniform, but he could certainly ensure that Doughty had all the material necessary for patching his old ones.
An hour passed before the signal ran up the Hibernia's halyard ordering the squadron to make sail, and Bush was full of energy when it finally did. He sent Young below to fetch the captain and sent the hands up the ratlines and on to the jackropes so they could unfurl sail as soon as the command was given. The wind had veered slightly and was now coming from the north, abeam of the Hotspur's port side. It would be on their quarter fine when they joined the line of ships leaving the port bay, but once in the channel it would again be abeam, on their starboard side. Bush almost grinned in anticipation of the bracing this would require, for he loved nothing better than exercising the hands. Hornbower came on deck in time to catch something of Bush's expression, and while he made no comment, there was a light in his eyes that told Bush he shared his excitement. It was a light Bush had feared for a time that he might never see again, and his joy was doubled at catching it now, so soon after Hornblower's return.
Of course, there was no hint of this secret pleasure they shared when the captain shouted to the men, "Set tops'l's!"
And while the topmen were unfurling sail, Hornblower turned to the others on the main deck, "Man the braces! I want the yards swung up!"
That would set the sails close hauled even as the canvas was spread. As soon as they turned they'd have to square the yards, but with only the tops'l's out, there would be little stress on the braces.
"Where are we headed, sir?" He could not restrain the question in his excitement, and it was only when he took in the stern expression on Hornblower's face that he remembered it was not the captain's want to share such things. Bush turned away to pretend, as he assumed Hornblower would, that the question had never been asked.
Yet as his eye came to rest on the lengthening sail, a voice answered from behind him, "Ushant. We join the fleet at Ushant."
Bush dared not turn around, but he smiled softly at the admission, cherishing the gift just imparted. Perhaps Hornblower would be alright after all.
oooooo
Upon leaving the enclosed bay at Plymouth, it seemed to Bush that the ship had been restored to its former peace, for it was at sea again under the stern eye of its true captain. The sail to Ushant in the company of the squadron was an easy one, even when they encountered poor weather. The gusts that poured icy rain and graupel on the Hotspur's deck and sent her thrashing from side to side in choppy swells were from a northwest wind, which meant that even while they were battered they made good time. And when they passed that outlaying island, they left Cornwallis and the rest of the channel fleet behind, so that the Hotspur was free and clear on the open sea. Hornblower set them tacking south by southeast, and though Bush did not know their precise orders, he knew they were not destined for the Goulet. He speculated that Cornwallis, and by association Hornblower, must expect French movement, for Hornblower had put the topmen on half shift, which meant he wanted them particularly keen-eyed.
By the sixth day of their journey from Plymouth, some of the lines had left Hornblower's face, and though there were still deeps bags under his eyes and his face was mottled purple-yellow, he walked the deck each morning less stiffly than he had that first day. Bush had almost convinced himself that everything would truly be well with his friend when chance allowed him to overhear another conversation in the wardroom.
It was of course Young's high voice that he heard first, "He came up half way through my watch—almost gave me a fright, I can tell you! He didn't say a thing, just paced back and forth like he does."
"He was still there when I took over at the morning watch—stayed on deck till third bells." Orrock added.
"But that doesn't make sense! He was up on deck with me most of the first watch." That had to be Poole.
"Well maybe he takes a nap in the afternoon. Hey Cargill! Was the captain on deck during your watch?"
There was the squeal of a chair being moved and a fourth voice joined the assemblage. "Aye. He was on deck all day."
"Then when does he sleep?" Young demanded.
"I don't think he does."
"But-everyone's got to sleep."
"Aye."
"But . . . well . . . that cannot be a healthy, surely!"
"Aye. The captain doesn't look too well."
"Maybe we should-"
"Lieutenant!"
Bush was unaware that he'd gotten to his feet, or that he'd left his cabin. He was quite as surprised as the young gentlemen when he suddenly stepped into the wardroom. But this was not idle gossip; this was important. Bush shut the door behind him, which was an indication of how serious he was, for the wardroom door was always kept open.
He ran his eyes over each of the assembled officers. They could tell from his demeanor that they'd been overheard, and they all wore chagrined expressions at their indiscretion. Best to let that discomfort linger a moment.
"How long has this been going on?"
Orrock, Young, Poole, and Cargill all exchanged glances. Cargill, as the senior present, was the one to reply. "How long has what been going on, sir?"
Bush narrowed his eyes. "How long has the captain been coming on deck during your watches?"
Cargill's eyes softened as he realized the true source of Bush's irritation. He looked to the young gentlemen to answer the lieutenant's question, however, for he, like Bush, had a day shift.
"He's been on deck every night for the past four days, sir. Almost since we left port," Poole summarized.
"And none of you saw fit to mention this?"
"We didn't think it was our place, sir," said Young. "He's the captain."
Bush turned away in frustration, but he was mostly angry at himself. Angry that he hadn't noticed this sleeplessness on his own, and angry that he had revealed his displeasure with that tactless question. Of course the young officers would not report on the captain's activities; the captain was the absolute ruler aboard his ship, and it was no one's place to question his comings and goings.
Orrock called his attention back to the assembled officers, "Sir? Is he well, sir?"
His head whipped back and he glared at Orrock, who, to his merit, wore an earnest expression. If it was not their place to comment on the captain's night walks, it was even less their place to comment on his health.
Cargill saved them all from a scathing reproach with a more solicitous question, "Is there anything we can do to help, sir?"
"No." Bush said quickly. The last thing he needed was the ship's young gentlemen acting peculiar around the captain. Hornblower might seem unobservant in his walks, but Bush knew from experience that he was far from it. He settled his face into a half scowl—an expression that Orrock and Poole and Young at least would recognize well. "I'll thank you gentlemen to discuss this matter no further." He looked them over keenly, so that each would see the threat in his words; then he turned on his heel, opened the door, and left the wardroom.
It took Bush a frustratingly long span of time to track down and isolate the one man who could tell him more, but Bush was never one to approach a topic indirectly. When he finally managed to corner Doughty in the galley, he made no attempt to at dissembling.
"Doughty, has the captain been sleeping?"
Doughty looked mildly affronted and grateful at the same time, as if he'd been hoping someone would ask him this question and dreading it at the same time. He looked straight at Bush and said, as if it was of no concern, "It's not my place to say whether the captain prefers the company of a watched deck to an empty cabin, sir."
Doughty left before Bush could question him further, and it took Bush the remainder of the day to puzzle out the meaning of his words. It's not my place to say whether the captain prefers . . . Clearly the captain did prefer the deck to his cabin . . . which meant Doughty was giving him not just confirmation of the captain's sleeplessness, but the reason behind it. The captain prefers the company of a watched deck. The captain couldn't sleep alone in his cabin. The realization, when it finally came to Bush, saddened him, and he was immediately filled with a desire to set it to rights.
It would require careful maneuvering. The captain was not likely to look on a direct intervention kindly, which left Bush with the difficulty of contriving to get the captain to think that whatever Bush devised was in fact his own idea. And Hornblower was a far cleverer man than Bush, an attribute he had often admired. It would require careful maneuvering indeed.
oooooo
Once he was decided on his course, Bush had only to await the opportunity, and prepare. Unsurprisingly it arrived that night, as it had every night for the past week. Doughty fetched him during the middle watch, and he made haste to the captain's door.
"Come in." Bush had half expected the captain to pretend to be asleep, seeing as it was just past two in the morning, but when he entered he saw that the captain was fully dressed. There was no point in pretending sleep only to appear on deck minutes later.
Bush stumbled into the cabin, and when he spoke, the slur to his speech was not entirely feigned. He had stayed up all night worrying about this encounter, and had been fortifying his courage since midnight with his carefully hoarded rum ration. The wine bottle in his hand he had saved for Hornblower.
"Sir! Sir! Will you drink a toast with me, sir?"
"A toast? A toast to what, man?"
"T-to . . . to glorious battles . . and . . courage at sea!"
"Are you drunk, Bush?" Hornblower sounded disbelieving—clearly it had been too long since they'd shared a glass.
"It's all in the Gazette, sir—we read it tonight in the wardroom. 'Showing great courage at sea, the Hotspur caught two frigates and several loaded brigs unawares in the shoaled waters of the Goulet.'" Bush hiccupped. "I insist you drink a toast with me, sir!"
"You are drunk!"
"Is it against the articles for a man to enjoy himself?" Brooking no argument, Bush set the two glasses clutched in his left hand on the table and tipped the wine bottle in his right hand to each glass's rim. He filled them both to the top. Not trusting his hands with lifting a full glass, he pushed Hornblower's across the table.
Hornblower accepted it, amusement evident in his voice when he said, "Very well, Mr. Bush. Let's hear your toast."
"It's a rather long toast, sir. You may want to sit down."
Hornblower rolled his eyes. "Continue, Mr. Bush."
"Raise you glass! Raise your glass! To the Hotspur, our bonny lass!
Her braces are sure, Her cannons are bright,
She's been through many a glorious fight!"
Bush hiccupped again.
"And when she prowls the dark of night
You'd best show nary a flag or light,
For if of you she catches sight,
She'll tack right fast to take a bite,
And though you run with all your might,
You'll find yourself in real deep shite!"
Bush was rather proud of this speech. He'd spent the better part of an hour coming up with the rhymes, though he'd been in to the rum by then, so perhaps that wasn't saying much.
"I do believe that is the most ridiculous toast I've ever heard, Mr. Bush." There was laughter behind Hornblower's words, and Bush congratulated himself on time well spent.
"Well there's another verse, sir, if you'll let me-"
Hornblower laughed outright then, and Bush feigned effrontery.
"Well then, sir, I will read you this Gazette, instead. You really must listen to it. It's the first report I've contributed to myself, ya see, sir. Hear this, "Hotspur, under the command of Captain Horatio Hornblower, engaged both frigates in heavy fog, allowing them to move through the French lines initially undetected. When shots were finally exchanged, the first frigate was drawn away to protect a convoy of packed brigs, and the second frigate was forced onto the shoals and beached. The Hotspur suffered a fracture to her foremast, but was otherwise only mildly damaged. She lost three men in the engagement . . ." Bush droned on for some time until he saw the captain blinking.
"Bush! You're putting me to sleep!"
"You're welcome to lay down, sir. But you really must hear the rest. I insist. Just lay on your cot, sir."
Hornblower again rolled his eyes, but he hefted himself to his feet and ambled to his cot.
"You'll be more comfortable if you take off your coat, sir."
"Carry on, Mr. Bush."
And Bush did. He skipped to another section of the Gazette—it didn't matter what he read now—and continued in a low voice until he heard a quiet snore from Hornblower's corner. Then Bush grinned. His plan had succeeded, and he had only to carry out the second part, which was really quite straight forward. All it required was for him to put down the Gazette, lay his head on his arms . . . and fall asleep. Not difficult at all, really.
Hornblower's snores were joined by Bush's in a matter of minutes.
oooooo
Hornblower and Bush were roused simultaneously by Doughty in the morning, and Bush put on an appropriately sheepish expression for being found to have apparently passed out on his captain's table. Doughty gave him a knowing, grateful look when the captain was in the head, and Bush forced himself to maintain his air of innocence. He waited for Hornblower to come out before departing so as to offer rightly penitent apologies, then rushed away to change his uniform before the watch.
A full day passed before Bush got the reaction from his captain that he had hoped for.
"Mr. Bush. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?"
Bush had to force the smile that crawled to his lips back down. He had begun to worry that Hornblower would brush off the Gazette incident entirely—dismissing Bush's drunkenness as a peculiarity only. That the captain had been found on deck again the night following his reading had seemed confirmation. He was happy to be proven wrong.
"I would be honored, sir."
"Ha-h'mm. Very well. I'll have Doughty serve us at seven in my cabin."
The appointment was hardly necessary. Bush and Hornblower stayed on deck until ten 'til seven and then went to Hornblower's cabin together. Doughty was waiting for them when they entered, two trays of food and a bottle of wine laid out on the table. Bush hadn't noticed Doughty come on deck that afternoon, but he must have, to know to serve two that night.
"Thank you, Doughty," Hornblower said upon taking his seat. "We'll crack the bottle now, if you please." He gestured to the wine.
"A-yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Dinner was boiled chicken and leek stew, and it was one of the best ship-board meals Bush had ever partaken of, though he wasn't normally one for the fancy preparations Doughty seemed to favor. He wondered if the captain always preferred stews and soups, or that was a recent development. Bush certainly would not mind stew every day if it tasted like this one.
The dinner was a quiet one. Hornblower didn't talk much during the meal, and Bush followed his lead. As if to make up for the silence, the captain drank frequently and deeply, quite out of character, and Bush followed him in that as well. By the end of their meal the first bottle of wine was empty, and Doughty, when he came in to take away their dishes, noted the depletion and returned with another bottle.
With the food gone there was little to fill the silence except the wine, and Bush was finally compelled to start a real conversation, in spite of Hornblower's reticence.
"It's been a clear sea for a week now. Do you think the French are waiting for the storm season to pass?"
Hornblower's expression darkened, and Bush knew even before his captain responded that that line of questioning would get him nowhere. "Perhaps, Mr. Bush."
Bush switched tacks. "I was thinking, sir, that we might start regular gun drills, if might suggest it. We could use more practice in running out the guns under pressure, and with switching out of gun crews with the deck crew."
Bush had more success with this line—Hornblower seized upon the logistical problem of rearranging the sub-crews and of scheduling drills. And of course the conversation naturally progressed into a debate on tactics and seamanship under fire, as they both envisioned sailing the Hotspur through various types of French fleets. The topic lasted them better than an hour, and they were both so intent on the various difficulties and points of contention that the time passed quite without their notice.
Bush was on his fourth glass of the night, and Hornblower on his fifth when the tone of the night shifted. It caught Bush by surprise, coming so late in the evening, and he could not tailor his reaction.
There had been a comfortable break in the conversation as they both nursed their glasses and contemplated the other's speech. Then Hornblower looked up at Bush with an assessing frown and said, seemingly out of the ether, "You came because I can't sleep."
"Sir?"
"The other night-the Gazette, the drinks."
"Sir-"
"How did you—ha-h'm . . . am I that transparent?"
Bush said nothing, crafting his expression, rather ineffectually he was sure, into one of studied confusion.
"You're a lousy liar Bush."
Bush let his mask drop. Between the alcohol and his innate honesty, he was incapable of prevaricating. "Sir—You're-you're on deck nearly every watch, sir. We're worried about you, sir."
"We? The other officers . . . they . . ." Hornblower looked beseechingly at Bush, clearly appalled.
"You're on deck nearly every watch, sir."
"Dammit, Bush! So what if I am!" Hornblower slammed his hand on the table, his enraged eyes boring into Bush.
Bush met his gaze directly, "Everyone needs sleep, sir. And you so recently ill—sir, it's not healthy."
"So you're a doctor now, are you, Mr. Bush?"
"I'm your first lieutenant, sir, and I'm your friend."
Hornblower looked searchingly at Bush's face, and Bush tried to contain his mounting anxiety. Hornblower was a fickle character—as prone to issuing a scathing dismissal as a laugh, and Bush felt quite precarious in his situation, perched as he was at the captain's table. But Hornblower had drunk enough wine to yield the one response Bush had not dared to hope for: honesty, frightening in its intensity.
Hornblower stood, using the table to push himself up fully. He was forced to duck as he shuffled to the aft window, for he had always been too tall for the cross beams below decks, but once he reached the glass, he lifted an arm to the wood lining of the window and leaned against it, so his head rested against the crook of his elbow. His posture was defeated and tired, to Bush's eyes, and it was so profound a change from Hornblower's cold strength on deck that Bush was forced to acknowledge that the captain had become better at hiding his emotions than Bush had given him credit for.
Hornblower spoke quietly from that dark corner, "I cannot sleep, Bush. I cannot sleep, and when I do, it is worse than if I hadn't. A man should not be afraid of his dreams. He should not be afraid of the dark, dammit."
Bush rose from his seat at these words, and took a step towards Hornblower, "Everyone has nightmares, sir. There's no shame in it." Bush contemplated telling Hornblower about some of the things he heard the midshipmen cry about during the night, but he feared that might be more insult than comfort. So he simply repeated, "There's no shame in it at all, sir."
"But there is shame, Bush! There is shame in not being able to control one's body, and even worse shame in not being able to control one's mind! I cannot stand it! My mind betrays me during the night, and my body betrays me during the day!"
"You were grievously injured, sir! Surely you can't expect your back to heal overnight!"
"I'm not talking about my back, Bush!" Hornblower looked over his shoulder to Bush, his eyes wild, "It's—I—dammit, man! You saw what happened that first night!"
Bush felt his eyes go wide. When Hornblower said he was betrayed by his body, Bush assumed the captain was referring to his general weakness—the pain that was no doubt constantly with him, the soreness whenever he paced the deck, his fatigue . . . Bush had firmly put out of mind that violent flinch he'd witnessed the night Hornblower had first woken. And with this realization Bush remembered other scenes. Hornblower stepping quickly back when Orrock came a little too close when making a report; Hornblower standing taught as a mainstay as Doughty pulled off his jacket; Hornblower emphatically dismissing any help from the hands as he painfully climbed down to the gig. And Bush remembered the words spoken by Hornblower the day after his fever had broken. I do not want to be fawned over, or held, or touched by anyone now.
Bush clenched his hands as he gazed on Hornblower's profile, half lit by lantern light, half in shadow. Seeing his captain, his friend so troubled made Bush sad and inexplicably furious. The emotions seemed all the more intense for his inexperience with them, for Bush had never considered himself an emotional man. It was not that he lacked feelings—it was not even that he disguised and repressed his emotions, as Hornblower did. It was more that Bush was such a practical, straight-forward man that he had never had much cause for strong sentiments, beyond anger in battle, pride in a well-run ship, and, in the last few years, a growing admiration for a certain dark eyed, melancholy young officer.
So it was that the onset of these unexpected and intense emotions seemed to strip Bush as fully of his ability to control his body as Hornblower was. He was quite unable to restrain his feet from stepping toward the window, and he had no control over the hand that rose up to grip Hornblower's arm. Bush was as surprised as Hornblower when that same hand twisted back on Hornblower's shoulder, forcing the captain to face his lieutenant. And he could never explain what force impelled him to then wrap both of his muscled arms around Hornblower's thin frame.
Hornblower immediately tensed, but Bush did not release him. Bush didn't know if Hornblower's discomfort was because of the pain in his back or because of the very instinct he had just discovered-in that moment he didn't care. "You're going to be alright, sir," he said fiercely. "You're going to be alright." Hornblower gradually relaxed—it seemed to Bush that he could feel each and every muscle of his captain's back slowly untense beneath his fingers. Soon Hornblower was almost sagging against Bush, and Bush tightened his grip in response. Then Hornblower's arms, which had fallen to his side over Bush's arms at the sudden hug, rose up to clutch at Bush's back. Bush felt the bony frame beneath his arms start to shake, and though he heard nothing but unevenly staggered harsh breaths in his ear, he knew Hornblower was crying. Bush, his chin resting on Hornblower's left shoulder, closed his eyes.
They remained by the window in that silent embrace for an indeterminate amount of time. Time was of no concern for Bush, and Hornblower, between the wine and his mental turmoil, was beyond the world. At length Hornblower's breathing settled and slowed, and Bush could tell, by the weight of Hornblower's body resting against him, that the captain was asleep, or nearly so. Bush would have liked to stand there forever, unmoved, but he thought that sleeping while standing could not possibly be comfortable for Hornblower, and too, there was always the chance that he would fall asleep as well. Bush shifted his right arm out from under Hornblower's and turned his body, so he could act as a support as he dragged his friend across the cabin. At the initial shifting Hornblower roused, and upon becoming aware of his surroundings he stepped immediately out of Bush's grasp.
Bush, feeling the sudden separation keenly, looked to Hornblower in question and saw shamed embarrassment suffuse his melancholy face. He sensed the captain was about to send him away in his usual contrary reaction, and he quickly opened his mouth to cut off any such dismissal. "I'll call on Doughty to set me up a floor cot, sir, if you don't mind. Why don't you get settled?" He moved to the door without giving his superior time to respond, and so missed the war of emotions across Hornblower's countenance. As he reached the door he heard the shuffle of a waistcoat being removed.
Doughty set up a cot in the corner without a word spoken, and Bush stripped off his coat and breeches even as Hornblower lay down on his bed. Hornblower made no comment on Bush's arrangement, and there was silence between them until Bush fell asleep.