“Easy now,” said Preston hastily. “Don’t dishearten the man.”
“I’m not disheartened,” said Hornblower, “I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“You’re cool enough about it, then,” marvelled Danvers.
Hornblower shrugged.
“Maybe I am. I hardly care. But I’ve thought that we might make the chances more even.”
“How?”
“We could make them exactly even,” said Hornblower, taking the plunge. “Have two pistols, one loaded and the other empty. Simpson and I would take our choice without knowing which was which. Then we stand within a yard of each other, and at the word we fire.”
“My God!” said Danvers.
“I don’t think that would be legal,” said Preston. “It would mean one of you would be killed for certain.”
“Killing is the object of duelling,” said Hornblower. “If the conditions aren’t unfair I don’t think any objection can be raised.”
“But would you carry it out to the end?” marvelled Danvers.
“Mr. Danvers—” began Hornblower; but Preston interfered.
“We don’t want another duel on our hands,” he said. “Danvers only meant he wouldn’t care to do it himself. We’ll discuss it with Cleveland and Hether, and see what they say.”
Within an hour the proposed conditions of the duel were known to everyone in the ship. Perhaps it was to Simpson’s disadvantage that he had no real friend in the ship, for Cleveland and Hether, his seconds, were not disposed to take too firm a stand regarding the conditions of the duel, and agreed to the terms with only a show of reluctance. The tyrant of the midshipmen’s berth was paying the penalty for his tyranny. There was some cynical amusement shown by some of the officers; some of both officers and men eyed Hornblower and Simpson with the curiosity that the prospect of death excites in some minds, as if the two destined opponents were men condemned to the gallows. At noon Lieutenant Masters sent for Hornblower.
“The captain has ordered me to make inquiry into this duel, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “I am instructed to use my best endeavours to compose the quarrel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why insist on this satisfaction, Mr. Hornblower? I understand there were a few hasty words over wine and cards.”
“Mr. Simpson accused me of cheating, sir, before witnesses who were not officers of this ship.”
That was the point. The witnesses were not members of the ship’s company. If Hornblower had chosen to disregard Simpson’s words as the ramblings of a drunken ill-tempered man, they might have passed unnoticed. But as he had taken the stand he did, there could be no hushing it up now, and Hornblower knew it.
“Even so, there can be satisfaction without a duel, Mr. Hornblower.”
“If Mr. Simpson will make me a full apology before the same gentlemen, I would be satisfied, sir.”
Simpson was no coward. He would die rather than submit to such a formal humiliation.
“I see. Now I understand you are insisting on rather unusual conditions for the duel?”
“There are precedents for it, sir. As the insulted party I can choose any conditions which are not unfair.”
“You sound like a sea lawyer to me, Mr. Hornblower.”
The hint was sufficient to tell Hornblower that he had verged upon being too glib, and he resolved in future to bridle his tongue. He stood silent and waited for Masters to resume the conversation.
“You are determined, then, Mr. Hornblower, to continue with this murderous business?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The captain has given me further orders to attend the duel in person, because of the strange conditions on which you insist. I must inform you that I shall request the seconds to arrange for that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good, then, Mr. Hornblower.”
Masters looked at Hornblower as he dismissed him even more keenly than he had done when Hornblower first came on board. He was looking for signs of weakness or wavering—indeed, he was looking for any signs of human feeling at all—but he could detect none. Hornblower had reached a decision, he had weighed all the pros and cons, and his logical mind told him that having decided in cold blood upon a course of action it would be folly to allow himself to be influenced subsequently by untrustworthy emotions. The conditions of the duel on which he was insisting were mathematically advantageous. If he had once considered with favour escaping from Simpson’s persecution by a voluntary death it was surely a gain to take an even chance of escaping from it without dying. Similarly, if Simpson were (as he almost certainly was) a better swordsman and a better pistol shot than him, the even chance was again mathematically advantageous. There was nothing to regret about his recent actions.
All very well; mathematically the conclusions were irrefutable, but Hornblower was surprised to find that mathematics were not everything. Repeatedly during that dreary afternoon and evening Hornblower found himself suddenly gulping with anxiety as the realization came to him afresh that tomorrow morning he would be risking his life on the spin of a coin. One chance out of two and he would be dead, his consciousness at an end, his flesh cold, and the world, almost unbelievably, would be going on without him. The thought sent a shiver through him despite himself. And he had plenty of time for these reflections, for the convention that forbade him from encountering his destined opponent before the moment of the duel kept him necessarily in isolation, as far as isolation could be found on the crowded decks of the Justinian. He slung his hammock that night in a depressed mood, feeling unnaturally tired; and he undressed in the clammy, stuffy dampness of the ’tweendecks feeling more than usually cold. He hugged the blankets round himself, yearning to relax in their warmth, but relaxation would not come. Time after time as he began to drift off to sleep he woke again tense and anxious, full of thoughts of the morrow. He turned over wearily a dozen times, hearing the ship’s bell ring out each half hour, feeling a growing contempt at his cowardice. He told himself in the end that it was as well that his fate tomorrow depended upon pure chance, for if he had to rely upon steadiness of hand and eye he would be dead for certain after a night like this.
That conclusion presumably helped him to go to sleep for the last hour or two of the night, for he awoke with a start to find Danvers shaking him.
“Five bells,” said Danvers. “Dawn in an hour. Rise and shine!”
Hornblower slid out of his hammock and stood in his shirt; the ’tweendecks was nearly dark and Danvers was almost invisible.
“Number One’s letting us have the second cutter,” said Danvers. “Masters and Simpson and that lot are going first in the launch. Here’s Preston.”
Another shadowy figure loomed up in the darkness.
“Hellish cold,” said Preston. “The devil of a morning to turn out. Nelson, where’s that tea?”
The mess attendant came with it as Hornblower was hauling on his trousers. It maddened Hornblower that he shivered enough in the cold for the cup to clatter in the saucer as he took it. But the tea was grateful, and Hornblower drank it eagerly.
“Give me another cup,” he said, and was proud of himself that he could think about tea at that moment.
It was still dark as they went down into the cutter.
“Shove off,” said the coxswain, and the boat pushed off from the ship’s side. There was a keen cold wind blowing which filled the dipping lug as the cutter headed for the twin lights that marked the jetty.
“I ordered a hackney coach at the George to be waiting for us,” said Danvers. “Let’s hope it is.”
It was there, with the driver sufficiently sober to control his horse moderately well despite his overnight potations. Danvers produced a pocket flask as they settled themselves in with their feet in the straw.
“Take a sip, Hornblower?” he asked, proffering it. “There’s no special need for a steady hand this morning.”
“No thank you,” said Hornblower. His empty stomach revolted at the idea of p
ouring spirits into it.
“The others will be there before us,” commented Preston. “I saw the quarter boat heading back just before we reached the jetty.”
The etiquette of the duel demanded that the two opponents should reach the ground separately; but only one boat would be necessary for the return.
“The sawbones is with them,” said Danvers. “Though God knows what use he thinks he’ll be today.”
He sniggered, and with overlate politeness tried to cut his snigger off short.
“How are you feeling, Hornblower?” asked Preston.
“Well enough,” said Hornblower, forbearing to add that he only felt well enough while this kind of conversation was not being carried on.
The hackney coach levelled itself off as it came over the crest of the hill, and stopped beside the common. Another coach stood there waiting, its single candle-lamp burning yellow in the growing dawn.
“There they are,” said Preston; the faint light revealed a shadowy group standing on frosty turf among the gorse bushes.
Hornblower, as they approached, caught a glimpse of Simpson’s face as he stood a little detached from the others. It was pale, and Hornblower noticed that at that moment he swallowed nervously, just as he himself was doing. Masters came towards them, shooting his usual keen inquisitive look at Hornblower as they came together.
“This is the moment,” he said, “for this quarrel to be composed. This country is at war. I hope, Mr. Hornblower, that you can be persuaded to save a life for the King’s service by not pressing this matter.”
Hornblower looked across at Simpson, while Danvers answered for him.
“Has Mr. Simpson offered the proper redress?” asked Danvers.
“Mr. Simpson is willing to acknowledge that he wishes the incident had never taken place.”
“That is an unsatisfactory form,” said Danvers. “It does not include an apology, and you must agree that an apology is necessary, sir.”
“What does your principal say?” persisted Masters.
“It is not for any principal to speak in these circumstances,” said Danvers, with a glance at Hornblower, who nodded. All this was as inevitable as the ride in the hangman’s cart, and as hideous. There could be no going back now; Hornblower had never thought for one moment that Simpson would apologize, and without an apology the affair must be carried to a bloody conclusion. An even chance that he did not have five minutes longer to live.
“You are determined, then, gentlemen,” said Masters. “I shall have to state that fact in my report.”
“We are determined,” said Preston.
“Then there is nothing for it but to allow this deplorable affair to proceed. I left the pistols in the charge of Doctor Hepplewhite.”
He turned and led them towards the other group—Simpson with Hether and Cleveland, and Doctor Hepplewhite standing with a pistol held by the muzzle in each hand. He was a bulky man with the red face of a persistent drinker; he was actually grinning a spirituous grin at that moment, rocking a little on his feet.
“Are the young fools set in their folly?” he asked; but everyone very properly ignored him as having no business to ask such a question at such a moment.
“Now,” said Masters. “Here are the pistols, both primed, as you see, but one loaded and the other unloaded, in accordance with the conditions. I have here a guinea which I propose to spin to decide the allocation of the weapons. Now, gentlemen, shall the spin give your principals one pistol each irrevocably—for instance, if the coin shows heads shall Mr. Simpson have this one—or shall the winner of the spin have choice of weapons? It is my design to eliminate all possibility of collusion as far as possible.”
Hether and Cleveland and Danvers and Preston exchanged dubious glances.
“Let the winner of the spin choose,” said Preston at length.
“Very well, gentlemen. Please call, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Tails!” said Hornblower as the gold piece spun in the air.
Masters caught it and clapped a hand over it.
“Tails it is,” said Masters, lifting his hand and revealing the coin to the grouped seconds. “Please make your choice.”
Hepplewhite held out the two pistols to him, death in one hand and life in the other. It was a grim moment. There was only pure chance to direct him; it called for a little effort to force his hand out.
“I’ll have this one,” he said; as he touched it the weapon seemed icy cold.
“Then now I have done what was required of me,” said Masters. “The rest is for you gentlemen to carry out.”
“Take this one, Simpson,” said Hepplewhite. “And be careful how you handle yours, Mr. Hornblower. You’re a public danger.”
The man was still grinning, gloating over the fact that someone else was in mortal danger while he himself was in none. Simpson took the pistol Hepplewhite offered him and settled it into his hand; once more his eyes met Hornblower’s, but there was neither recognition nor expression in them.
“There are no distances to step out,” Danvers was saying. “One spot’s as good as another. It’s level enough here.”
“Very good,” said Hether. “Will you stand here, Mr. Simpson?”
Preston beckoned to Hornblower, who walked over. It was not easy to appear brisk and unconcerned. Preston took him by the arm and stood him up in front of Simpson, almost breast to breast—close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.
“For the last time, gentlemen,” said Masters loudly. “Cannot you be reconciled?”
There was no answer from anybody, only deep silence, during which it seemed to Hornblower that the frantic beating of his heart must be clearly audible. The silence was broken by an exclamation from Hether.
“We haven’t settled who’s to give the word!” he said. “Who’s going to?”
“Let’s ask Mr. Masters to give it,” said Danvers.
Hornblower did not look round. He was looking steadfastly at the grey sky past Simpson’s right ear—somehow he could not look him in the face, and he had no idea where Simpson was looking. The end of the world as he knew it was close to him—soon there might be a bullet through his heart.
“I will do it if you are agreed, gentlemen,” he heard Masters say.
The grey sky was featureless; for this last look on the world he might as well have been blindfolded. Masters raised his voice again.
“I will say ‘one, two, three, fire’,” he announced, “with those intervals. At the last word, gentlemen, you can fire as you will. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” came Simpson’s voice, almost in Hornblower’s ear, it seemed.
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could hear the strain in his own voice.
“One,” said Masters, and Hornblower felt at that moment the muzzle of Simpson’s pistol against his left ribs, and he raised his own.
It was in that second that he decided he could not kill Simpson even if it were in his power, and he went on lifting his pistol, forcing himself to look to see that it was pressed against the point of Simpson’s shoulder. A slight wound would suffice.
“Two,” said Masters. “Three. Fire!”
Hornblower pulled his trigger. There was a click and a spurt of smoke from the lock of his pistol. The priming had gone off but no more—his was the unloaded weapon, and he knew what it was to die. A tenth of a second later there was a click and spurt of smoke from Simpson’s pistol against his heart. Stiff and still they both stood, slow to realize what had happened.
“A miss-fire, by God!” said Danvers.
The seconds crowded round them.
“Give me those pistols!” said Masters, taking them from the weak hands that held them. “The loaded one might be hanging fire, and we don’t want it to go off now.”
“Which was the loaded one?” asked Hether, consumed with curiosity.
“That is something it is better not to know,” answered Masters, changing the two pistols rapidly from hand to hand so as to confuse everyone.
; “What about a second shot?” asked Danvers, and Masters looked up straight and inflexibly at him.
“There will be no second shot,” he said. “Honour is completely satisfied. These two gentlemen have come through this ordeal extremely well. No one can now think little of Mr. Simpson if he expresses his regret for the occurrence, and no one can think little of Mr. Hornblower if he accepts that statement in reparation.”
Hepplewhite burst into a roar of laughter.
“Your faces!” he boomed, slapping his thigh. “You ought to see how you all look! Solemn as cows!”
“Mr. Hepplewhite,” said Masters, “your behaviour is indecorous. Gentlemen, our coaches are waiting on the road, the cutter is at the jetty. And I think all of us would be the better for some breakfast; including Mr. Hepplewhite.”
That should have been the end of the incident. The excited talk which had gone round the anchored squadron about the unusual duel died away in time, although everyone knew Hornblower’s name now, and not as the midshipman who was seasick in Spithead but as the man who was willing to take an even chance in cold blood. But in the Justinian herself there was other talk; whispers which were circulated forward and aft.
“Mr. Hornblower has requested permission to speak to you, sir,” said Mr. Clay, the first lieutenant, one morning while making his report to the captain.
“Oh, send him in when you go out,” said Keene, and sighed.
Ten minutes later a knock on his cabin door ushered in a very angry young man.
“Sir!” began Hornblower.
“I can guess what you’re going to say,” said Keene.
“Those pistols in the duel I fought with Simpson were not loaded!”
“Hepplewhite blabbed, I suppose,” said Keene.
“And it was by your orders, I understand, sir.”
“You are quite correct. I gave those orders to Mr. Masters.”
“It was an unwarrantable liberty, sir!”
That was what Hornblower meant to say, but he stumbled without dignity over the polysyllables.
“Possibly it was,” said Keene patiently, rearranging, as always, the papers on his desk.
The calmness of the admission disconcerted Hornblower, who could only splutter for the next few moments.
The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 3