When he knocked at the door of the first floor front a deep voice that he well remembered said, “Come in.” It was so large a room that the four-poster bed at the far end was inconspicuous; so was the secretary seated at the desk by the window. Cornwallis was standing in the middle, apparently engaged in dictation until this interruption.

“Ah, it’s Hornblower. Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“The last time we met was over that unfortunate business with the Irish rebel. We had to hang him, I remember.”

Cornwallis, ‘Billy Blue’, had not changed perceptibly during those four years. He was still the bulky man with the composed manner, obviously ready to deal with any emergency.

“Please sit down. A glass of wine?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“I expected that, seeing the ceremony you’ve just come from. My apologies for interrupting your wedding, but you must blame Boney, not me.”

“Of course, sir.” Hornblower felt that a more eloquent speech would have been in place here, but he could not think of one.

“I’ll detain you for as short a time as possible. You know I’ve been appointed to the command of the Channel fleet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know that Hotspur is under my command?”

“I expected that, but I didn’t know, sir.”

“The Admiralty letter to that effect came down in my coach. You’ll find it awaiting you on board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Hotspur ready to sail?”

“No, Sir.” The truth and no excuses. Nothing else would do.

“How long?”

“Two days, sir. More if there’s delay with the ordnance stores.”

Cornwallis was looking at him very sharply indeed, but Hornblower returned glance for glance. He had nothing with which to reproach himself; nine days ago Hotspur was still laid up in ordinary.