Mr. Midshipman Hornblower

Highlights

Page 5

Captain Keene—it was when he came aboard that Hornblower first saw the pomp and ceremony that surrounds the captain of a ship of the line—was a sick man, of a melancholy disposition. He had not the fame which enabled some captains to fill their ships with enthusiastic volunteers, and he was devoid of the personality which might have made enthusiasts out of the sullen pressed men whom the press gangs were bringing in from day to day to complete the ship’s complement.

Page 8

Significantly, it was not his ordinary exactions which roused the greatest resentment—his levying toll upon their sea chests for clean shirts for himself, his appropriation of the best cuts of the meat served, nor even his taking their coveted issues of spirits. These things could be excused as understandable, the sort of thing they would do themselves if they had the power. But he displayed a whimsical arbitrariness which reminded Hornblower, with his classical education, of the freaks of the Roman emperors. He forced Cleveland to shave the whiskers which were his inordinate pride; he imposed upon Hether the duty of waking up Mackenzie every half hour, day and night, so that neither of them was able to sleep—and there were toadies ready to tell him if Hether ever failed in his task.

Note: Interesting that they think those things are acceptable

Page 12

“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.

Note: I can see why daddy is a fan

Page 38

“Can’t see nothin’, sir” said Matthews. “Lower me over the side in a bowline and I’ll see what I can find, sir.” Hornblower was about to agree and then changed his mind. “I’ll go over the side myself” he said. He could not analyse the motives which impelled him to say that. Partly he wanted to see things with his own eyes; partly he was influenced by the doctrine that he should never give an order he was not prepared to carry out himself—but mostly it must have been the desire to impose a penance on himself for his negligence.

Page 115

The deep voice was intoning again; like marionettes all on the same string the company that had fired now reloaded, every man biting out his bullet at the same instant, every man ramming home his charge, every man spitting his bullet into his musket barrel with the same instantaneous inclination of the head.

Note: Odd phrase bite the bullet. No one has done it in a century at least

Page 155

“And you, my fire-breathing friend. May I offer you my thanks? You did well. Should I live beyond tomorrow, I shall see that authority is informed of your actions.” “Thank you, sir.” A question trembled on Hornblower’s lips. It called for a little resolution to thrust it out, “And my examination, sir? My certificate?” Foster shook his head. “That particular examining board will never reassemble, I fancy. You must wait your opportunity to go before another one.” “Aye aye, sir” said Hornblower, with despondency apparent in his tone. “Now lookee here, Mr. Hornblower” said Foster, turning upon him. “To the best of my recollection, you were flat aback, about to lose your spars and with Dover cliffs under your lee. In one more minute you would have been failed—it was the warning gun that saved you. Is not that so?” “I suppose it is, sir.” “Then be thankful for small mercies. And even more thankful for big ones.”

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