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'Yes； sir；' said Hornblower…that seemed more appropriate to the occasion than 'Aye aye； sir'； and a junior midshipman seemed to be expected to say one or the other on all occasions。
'You are…let me see…seventeen？' Captain Keene picked up the paper which apparently covered Hornblower's brief official career。
'Yes； sir。'
'July 4th； 1776；' mused Keene； reading Hornblower's date of birth to himself。 'Five years to the day before I was posted as captain。 I had been six years as lieutenant before you were born。'
'Yes； sir；' agreed Hornblower…it did not seem the occasion for any further ment。
'A doctor's son…you should have chosen a lord for your father if you wanted to make a career for yourself。'
'Yes； sir。'
'How far did your education go？'
'I was a Grecian at school； sir。'
'So you can construe Xenophon as well as Cicero？'
'Yes； sir。 But not very well； sir。'
'Better if you knew something about sines and cosines。 Better if you could foresee a squall in time to get t'gallants in。 We have no use for ablative absolutes in the Navy。'
'Yes； sir；' said Hornblower。
He had only just learned what a topgallant was； but he could have told his captain that his mathematical studies were far advanced。 He refrained nevertheless； his instincts bined with his recent experiences urged him not to volunteer unsolicited information。
'Well； obey orders； learn your duties； and no harm can e to you。 That will do。'
'Thank you； sir；' said Hornblower； retiring。
But the captain's last words to him seemed to be contradicted immediately。 Harm began to e to Hornblower from that day forth； despite his obedience to orders and diligent study of his duties； and it stemmed from the arrival in the midshipmen's berth of John Simpson as senior warrant officer。 Hornblower was sitting at mess with his colleagues when he first saw him…a brawny good…looking man in his thirties； who came in and stood looking at them just as Hornblower had stood a few days before。
'Hullo！' said somebody； not very cordially。
'Cleveland； my bold friend；' said the newer； 'e out from that seat。 I am going to resume my place at the head of the table。'
'But…'
'e out； I said；' snapped Simpson。
Cleveland moved along with some show of reluctance； and Simpson took his place； and glowered round the table in reply to the curious glances with which everyone regarded him。
'Yes； my sweet brother officers；' he said； 'I am back in the bosom of the family。 And I am not surprised that nobody is pleased。 You will all be less pleased by the time I am done with you； I may add。'
'But your mission…？' asked somebody； greatly daring。
'My mission？' Simpson leaned forward and tapped the table； staring down the inquisitive people on either side of it。 'I'll answer that question this once； and the man who asks it again will wish he had never been born。 A board of turnip…headed captains has refused me my mission。 It decided that my mathematical knowledge was insufficient to make me a reliable navigator。 And so Acting…Lieutenant Simpson is once again Mr Midshipman Simpson； at your service。 At your service。 And may the Lord have mercy on your souls。'
It did not seem； as the days went by； that the Lord had any mercy at all； for with Simpson's return life in the midshipmen's berth ceased to be one of passive unhappiness and became one of active misery。 Simpson had apparently always been an ingenious tyrant； but now； embittered and humiliated by his failure to pass his examination for his mission； he was a worse tyrant； and his ingenuity had multiplied itself。 He may have been weak in mathematics； but he was diabolically clever at making other people's lives a burden to them。 As senior officer in the mess he had wide official powers； as a man with a blistering tongue and a morbid sense of mischief he would have been powerful anyway； even if the Justinian had possessed an alert and masterful first lieutenant to keep him in check while Mr Clay was neither。 Twice midshipmen rebelled against Simpson's arbitrary authority； and each time Simpson thrashed the rebel； pounding him into insensibility with his huge fists； for Simpson would have made a successful prizefighter。 Each time Simpson was left unmarked； each time his opponent's blackened eyes and swollen lips called down the penalty of mast heading and extra duty from the indignant first lieutenant。 The mess seethed with impotent rage。 Even the toadies and lickspittles among the midshipmen…and naturally there were several…hated the tyrant。
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。 Early enough he had discovered Hornblower's most vulnerable points； as he had with everyone else。 He knew of Hornblower's shyness； at first it was amusing to pel Hornblower to recite verses from Gray's 'Elegy in a Country Churchyard' to the assembled mess。 The toadies could pel Hornblower to do it； Simpson would lay his dirk…scabbard on the table in front of him with a significant glance； and the toadies would close round Hornblower； who knew that any hesitation on his part would mean that he would be stretched across the table and the dirk…scabbard applied； the flat of the scabbard was painful； the edge of it was agonizing； but the pain was nothing to the utter humiliation of it all。 And the torment grew worse when Simpson instituted what he aptly celled 'The Proceedings of the Inquisition' when Hornblower was submitted to a slow 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 be