csf.mrmidshipmanhornblower-第3部分

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ow　and　methodical　questioning　regarding　his　homelife　and　his　boyhood。　Every　question　had　to　be　answered；　on　pain　of　the　dirk…scabbard；　Hornblower　could　fence　and　prevaricate；　but　he　had　to　answer　and　sooner　or　later　the　relentless　questioning　would　draw　from　him　some　simple　admission　which　would　rouse　a　peal　of　laughter　from　his　audience。　Heaven　knows　that　in　Hornblower's　lonely　childhood　there　was　nothing　to　be　ashamed　of；　but　boys　are　odd　creatures；　especially　reticent　ones　like　Hornblower；　and　are　ashamed　of　things　no　one　else　would　think　twice　about。　The　ordeal　would　leave　him　weak　and　sick；　someone　less　solemn　might　have　clowned　his　way　out　of　his　difficulties　and　even　into　popular　favour；　but　Hornblower　at　seventeen　was　too　ponderous　a　person　to　clown。　He　had　to　endure　the　persecution；　experiencing　all　the　black　misery　which　only　a　seventeen…year…old　can　experience；　he　never　wept　in　public　but　at　night　more　than　once　he　shed　the　bitter　tears　of　seventeen。　He　often　thought　about　death；　he　often　even　thought　about　desertion；　but　he　realized　that　desertion　would　lead　to　something　worse　than　death；　and　then　his　mind　would　revert　to　death；　savouring　the　thought　of　suicide。　He　came　to　long　for　death；　friendless　as　he　was；　and　brutally　ill…treated；　and　lonely　as　only　a　boy　among　men…and　a　very　reserved　boy…can　be。　More　and　more　he　thought　about　ending　it　all　the　easiest　way；　hugging　the　secret　thought　of　it　to　his　friendless　bosom。
　If　the　ship　had　only　been　at　sea　everyone　would　have　been　kept　busy　enough　to　be　out　of　mischief；　even　at　anchor　an　energetic　captain　and　first　lieutenant　would　have　kept　all　hands　hard　enough　at　work　to　obviate　abuses；　but　it　was　Hornblower's　hard　luck　that　the　Justinian　lay　at　anchor　all　through　that　fatal　January　of　1794　under　a　sick　captain　and　an　inefficient　first　lieutenant。　Even　the　activities　which　were　at　times　enforced　often　worked　to　Hornblower's　disadvantage。　There　was　an　occasion　when　Mr　Bowles；　the　master；　was　holding　a　class　in　navigation　for　his　mates　and　for　the　midshipmen；　and　the　captain　by　bad　luck　happened　by　and　glanced　through　the　results　of　the　problem　the　class　had　individually　been　set　to　solve。　His　illness　made　Keene　a　man　of　bitter　tongue；　and　he　cherished　no　liking　for　Simpson。　He　took　a　single　glance　at　Simpson's　paper；　and　chuckled　sarcastically。
　'Now　let　us　all　rejoice；'　he　said；　'the　sources　of　the　Nile　have　been　discovered　at　last。'
　'Pardon；　sir？'　said　Simpson。
　'Your　ship；'　said　Keene；　'as　far　as　I　can　make　out　from　your　illiterate　scrawl；　Mr　Simpson；　is　in　Central　Africa。　Let　us　now　see　what　other　terrae　incognitae　have　been　opened　up　by　the　remaining　intrepid　explorers　of　this　class。'
　It　must　have　been　Fate…it　was　dramatic　enough　to　be　art　and　not　an　occurrence　in　real　life；　Hornblower　knew　what　was　going　to　happen　even　as　Keene　picked　up　the　other　papers；　including　his。　The　result　he　had　obtained　was　the　only　one　which　was　correct；　everybody　else　had　added　the　correction　for　refraction　instead　of　subtracting　it；　or　had　worked　out　the　multiplication　wrongly；　or　had；　like　Simpson；　botched　the　whole　problem。
　'Congratulations；　Mr　Hornblower；'　said　Keene。　'You　must　be　proud　to　be　alone　successful　among　this　crowd　of　intellectual　giants。　You　are　half　Mr　Simpson's　age；　I　fancy。　If　you　double　your　attainments　while　you　double　your　years；　you　will　leave　the　rest　of　us　far　behind。　Mr　Bowles；　you　will　be　so　good　as　to　see　that　Mr　Simpson　pays　even　further　attention　to　his　mathematical　studies。'
　With　that　he　went　off　along　the　'tweendecks　with　the　halting　step　resulting　from　his　mortal　disease；　and　Hornblower　sat　with　his　eyes　cast　down；　unable　to　meet　the　glances　he　knew　were　being　darted　at　him；　and　knowing　full　well　what　they　portended。　He　longed　for　death　at　that　moment；　he　even　prayed　for　it　that　night。
　
　Within　two　days　Hornblower　found　himself　on　shore；　and　under　Simpson's　mand。　The　two　midshipmen　were　in　charge　of　a　party　of　seamen；　landed　to　act　along　with　parties　from　the　other　ships　of　the　squadron　as　a　press　gang。　The　West　India　convoy　was　due　to　arrive　soon；　most　of　the　hands　would　be　pressed　as　soon　as　the　convoy　reached　the　Channel；　and　the　remainder；　left　to　work　the　ships　to　an　anchorage；　would　sneak　ashore；　using　every　device　to　conceal　themselves　and　find　a　safe　hiding…place。　It　was　the　business　of　the　landing　parties　to　cut　off　this　retreat；　to　lay　a　cordon　along　the　waterfront　which　would　sweep　them　all　up。　But　the　convoy　was　not　yet　signalled；　and　all　arrangements　were　pleted。
　'All　is　well　with　the　world；'　said　Simpson。
　It　was　an　unusual　speech　for　him；　but　he　was　in　unusual　circumstances。　He　was　sitting　in　the　back　room　of　the　Lamb　Inn；　fortable　in　one　armchair　with　his　legs　on　another；　in　front　of　a　roaring　fire　and　with　a　pot　of　beer　with　gin　in　it　at　his　elbow。
　'Here's　to　the　West　India　convoy；'　said　Simpson；　taking　a　pull　at　his　beer。　'Long　may　it　be　delayed。'
　Simpson　was　actually　genial；　activity　and　beer　and　a　warm　fire　thawing　him　into　a　good　humour；　it　was　not　time　yet　for　the　liquor　to　make　him　quarrelsome；　Hornblower　sat　on　the　other　side　of　the　fire　and　sipped　beer　without　gin　in　it　and　studied　him；　marvelling　that　for　the　first　time　since　he　had　boarded　the　Justinian　his　unhappiness　should　have　ceased　to　be　active　but　should　have　subsided　into　a　dull　misery　like　the　dying　away　of　the　pain　of　a　throbbing　tooth。
　'Give　us　a　toast；　boy；'　said　Simpson。
　'Confusion　to　Robespierre；'　said　Hornblower　lamely。
　The　door　opened　and　two　more　officers　came　in；　one　a　midshipman　while　the　other　wore　the　single　epaulette　of　a　lieutenant…it　was　Chalk　of　the　Goliath；　the　officer　in　general　charge　of　the　press　gangs　sent　ashore。　Even　Simpson　made　room　for　his　superior　rank　before　the　fire。
　'The　convoy　is　still　not　signalled；'　announced　Chalk。　And　then　he　eyed　Hornblower　keenly。　'I　don't　think　I　have　the　pleasure　of　your　acquaintance。'
　'Mr　Hornblower　…　Lieutenant　Chalk；'　introduced　Simpson。　'Mr　Hornblower　is　distinguished　as　the　midshipman　who　was　seasick　in　Spithead。'
　Hornblower　tried　not　to　writhe　as　Simpson　tied　that　label　on　him。　He　imagined　that　Chalk　was　merely　being　polite　when　he　changed　the　subject。
　'Hey；　potman！　Will　you　gentlemen　join　me　in　a　glass？　We　have　a　long　wait　before　us；　I　fear。　Your　men　are　all　properly　posted；　Mr　Simpson　？'
　'Yes；　sir。'
　Chalk　was　an　active　man。　He　paced　about　the　room；　stared　out　of　the　window　at　the　rain；　presented　his　midshipman…Caldwell…to　the　other　two　when　the　drinks　arrived；　and　obviously　fretted　at　his　enforced　inactivity。
　'A　game　of　cards　to　pass　the　time？'　he　suggested。　'Excellent！　Hey；　potman！　Cards　and　a　table　and　another　light。'
　The　table　was　set　before　the　fire；　the　chairs　arranged；　the　cards　brought　in。
　'What　game　shall　it　be？'　asked　Chalk；　looking　round。
　He　was　a　lieutenant　among　three　midshipmen；　and　any　suggestion　of　his　was　likely　to　carry　a　good　deal　of　weight；　the　other　three　naturally　waited　to　hear　what　he　had　to　say。
　'Vingt…et…un？　That　is　a　game　for　the　half…witted。　Loo？　That　is　a　game　for　the　wealthier　half…witted。　But　whist；　now？　That　would　give　us　all　scope　for　the　exercise　of　our　poor　talents。　Caldwell；　there；　is　acquainted　with　the　rudiments　of　the　game；　I　know。　Mr　Simpson？'
　A　man　like　Simpson；　with　a　blind　mathematical　spot；　was　not　likely　to　be　a　good　whist　player；　but　he　was　not　likely　to　know　he　was　a　bad　one。
　'As　you　wish；　sir；'　said　Simpson。　He　enjoyed　gambling；　and　one　game　was　as　good　as　another　for　that　purpose　to　his　mind。
　'Mr　Hornblower？'
　'With　pleasure；　sir。'
　That　was　more　nearly　true　than　most　conventional　replies。　Hornblower　had　learned　his　whist　in　a　good　school；　ever　since　the　death　of　his　mother　he　had　made　a　fourth　with　his　father　and　the　parson　and　the　parson's　wife。　The　game　was　already　something　of　a　passion　with　him。　He　revelled　in　the　nice　calculation　of　chances；　in　the　varying　demands　it　made　upon　his　boldness　or　caution。　There　was　even　enough　warmth　in　his　acceptance　to　attract　a　second　glance　from　Chalk；　who…a　good　card　player　himself…at　once　detected　a　fellow　spirit。
　'Excellent！'　he　said　again。　'Then　we　may　as　well　cut　at　once　for　places　and　partners。　What　shall　be　the　stakes；　gentlemen？　A　shilling　a　trick　and　a　guinea　on　the　rub；　or　is　that　too　great？　No？　Then　we　are　agreed。'
　For　some　time　the　game　proceeded　quietly。　Hornblower　cut　first　Simpson　and　then　Caldwell　as　his　partner。　Only　a　couple　of　hands　were　necessary　to　show　up　Simpson　as　a　hopeless　whist　player；　the　kind　who　would　always　lead　an　ace　when　he　had　one；　or　a　singleton　when　he　had　four　trumps；　but　he　and　Hornblower　won　the　first　rubber　thanks　to　overwhelming　card　strength。　But　Simpson　lost　the　next　in　partnership　with　Chalk；　cut　Chalk　again　as　partner；　and　lost　again。　He　gloated　over　good　hands　and　sighed　over　poor　ones；　clearly　he　was　one　of　those　unenlightened　people　who　looked　upon　whist　as　a　social　function；　or　as　a　mere　crude　means；　like　throwing　dice；　of　arbitrarily　transferring　money。　He　never　thought　of　the　game　either　as　a　sacred　rite　or　as　an　intellectual　exercise。　Moreover；　as　his　losses　grew；　and　as　the　potman　came　and　went　with　liquor；　he　grew　restless；　and　his　face　was　flushed　with　more　than　the　heat　of　the　f