In a moment they would slide down the slippery slopes of sentiment, which would be unbearable.

“Time for me to appear on deck,” said Hornblower. “We’d better say goodbye, Mr. Bush. The best of luck under your new captain.”

He went so far towards yielding to the mood of the moment as to hold out his hand, which Bush took. Luckily Bush’s emotions prevented him from saying more than just “Goodbye, sir,” and Hornblower hurried out through the cabin door with Bush at his heels.

There was instantly plenty of distraction as the waterhoy was laid alongside the Hotspur; the side of the hoy was covered from end to end with old sails in rolls and with substantial fendoffs of sandbags, yet it was a ticklish business, even in the sheltered waters of this little bay, to pass lines between the two ships and draw them together. A gangplank came clattering out from the hoy to bridge the gap between the two decks, and a burly man in full unicorn made the precarious crossing. He was very tall — two or three inches over six feet and heavily built; a man of middle age or more, to judge by the shock of grey hair revealed when he raised his hat. The boatswain’s mates pealed loudly on their calls; the two ship’s drummers beat a ragged ruffle.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” said Hornblower.

The new captain pulled a paper from his breast pocket, opened it, and began to read. A shout from Bush bared every head so that the function would take place with due solemnity.

“Orders given by us, William Cornwallis, ViceAdmiral of the Red, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Commanding His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels of the Channel Fleet, to James Percival Meadows, Esquire—”

“D’ye think we have all day?” This was a new stentorian voice from the deck of the hoy. “Stand by to take the hoses, there! Mr. Lieutenant, let’s have some hands for the pumps.”

The voice came, appropriately enough, from the barrel-shaped captain of the hoy. Bush signalled frantically for him to stay quiet until this vital ceremonial was completed.