"Is there anything I can do?" he (Hornblower) asked, trying hard to keep the helplessness out of his voice. "Nothing, thank you, sir," whispered Bush. "Try and sleep," said Hornblower. Bush's hand which lay outside the blanket twitched and stirred and moved towards him; he took it and he felt a gentle pressure. For a few brief seconds, Bush's hand stroked his, feebly, caressing it as though it was a woman's. There was a glimmer of a smile on Bush's drawn face with it's closed eyes. During all the years they had served together it was the first sign of affection either had shown for the other. Bush's head turned on the pillow, and he lay quite still, while Hornblower sat not daring to move for fear of disturbing him.
Flying Colours C. S. Forester
