Bush paces the pavement outside the Admiralty. It is the closest he can come to pacing a quarterdeck, and it takes away a little of the unfamiliar stillness of the ground.
There is nothing that he is supposed to be doing, but he has a vague sense that Whitehall is where he should be doing it. He is not one of those half-pay lieutenants that haunt the Admiralty in hope of promotion or assignment. Yet he somehow feels that when he is on shore this building is his ship, and he does his duty by it.
It is raining, and he is irritated, but with himself rather than with the weather. He has stood watch in Channel blows with only a tarpaulin jacket and hat, but is holding an umbrella over his head to keep off the London drizzle. Perhaps a sailor too long away from the sea loses his resistance to the elements.
"Monsieur Bush!"
He turns before he can stop himself: he is too accustomed to answering reflexively for his mind to overrule his instinct. He only knows one person that would pronounce his name in that barbaric way.
Côtard bounds out of the Admiralty towards him. He still moves with the arrogance of one with conscious elegance even among those who mistrust him; though Bush thinks that he looks pleased to see him, and that is new.
"Major Côtard." He nods and resumes his pacing. He has never truly cared about promotion for its own sake; it does, of course, mean more pay and more authority. But right now the only one of the captain's rights that he wishes he had is that of the windward side of a quarterdeck, where he cannot be approached.
Côtard falls into step next to him, and they walk in stiff silence like soldiers on parade. It comes naturally to him, but not to Bush, who is not a soldier.
"Are you in London long, major?"
"Non. I leave for France on Thursday..." He hesitates. They both know the consequences of indiscretion. "...And you?"
"Hotspur's been paid off. I don't know how long it will be."
"How will you manage?"
"I have my half-pay, and perhaps another assignment before the war is over."
Côtard nods. "Ah, the war." They stop talking. Bush does not know how Côtard manages when he is not working, and does not ask.
The city's clocks strike the hour; the overlapping harmonies are more elaborate than the neat double taps of a ship's bell.
Bush knows why he hates London. Londoners do not know what they are about. Though the Navy spans the globe, it is the most compact of worlds: every man has his duty.
The army is a little like that as well, though it does not have the complete isolation of a ship at sea. Bush considers, for the first time, that perhaps Côtard also dislikes being ashore.
"Will you have supper with me?"
Côtard smiles, in profile. "I would like that."
Bush is numbly surprised that Côtard has agreed. Even if he does not have a prior engagement, their mutual antagonism should prevent him.
He starts towards the street where he is staying, and Côtard follows him, falling out of step. It starts to rain in earnest now, and Côtard looks up in affected concern, infiltrating the little territory under Bush's umbrella. Bush could walk faster, but does not; "Mincing Frenchman," he mutters under his breath. He is not sure if Côtard has heard him or not.
They turn into the side street. Côtard's arm insinuates itself around Bush's waist.
Bush finally realizes why he has asked Côtard to supper, and allowed him such license. It is because his company is familiar: something to hold on to when alone ashore.
They enter the inn where Bush lives in London. He carefully sets the umbrella down next to the door, then pulls Côtard closer by the front of his jacket and kisses him soundly.
The inn is not one of the most popular ones, and the landlady is more accustomed to officers bringing back other officers than to officers bringing back girls. She passes them with little interest.
