“Certainly,” said Hornblower; he was able now to relax his attention a little; Gerard was a good flag-lieutenant and had supported his commander-in-chief very satisfactorily during the ten months that Hornblower had held command. He supplied some of the social flair that Hornblower was too indifferent to acquire. The business was rapidly settled.

“Very well, then, My Lord,” said Sharpe. “Now I can take my leave. I will have the pleasure of seeing Your Lordship again at the Governor’s house.”

“I am deeply obliged to you, sir.”

This city of New Orleans was an enchanting place. Hornblower was bubbling internally with excitement at the prospect of exploring it. Nor was he the only one, as appeared as soon as Sharpe had taken his leave, when Lieutenant Harcourt, captain of the Crab, intercepted Hornblower on the quarterdeck.

“Pardon, My Lord,” he said, saluting. “Are there any orders for me?”

There could be no doubt about what Harcourt had in mind. Forward of the mainmast most of the crew of Crab were congregated together looking eagerly aft—in a tiny ship like this everyone was aware of everyone else’s business, and discipline ran on lines different from those in a big ship.

“Can you trust your men to be steady on shore, Mr. Harcourt?” asked Hornblower.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Hornblower looked forward again. The hands looked remarkably smart—they had been labouring on making new clothes for themselves all the way from Kingston, from the moment when it was announced that Crab would have the astonishing distinction of flying the Admiral’s flag. They were wearing neat blue frock-jumpers and white ducks and shady straw hats; Hornblower saw their self-conscious poses as he glanced towards them—they knew perfectly well what was being discussed. These were peacetime sailors, voluntarily enlisted: Hornblower had had twenty years of wartime service with pressed crews who could never be trusted not to desert, and even now he had consciously to adjust his mind to the change.