The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  “You shore boat, there!” bellowed Hammond suddenly. “You shore boat! Come alongside! Come alongside, blast you!”

  His eye had been quick to sight the pair-oar rowing by.

  “Come alongside or I’ll fire into you!” supplemented Foster. “Sentry, there, make ready to give them a shot!”

  At the threat the wherry turned and glided towards the mizzen chains.

  “Here you are, gentlemen,” said Hammond.

  The three captains rushed to the mizzen chains and flung themselves down into the boat. Hornblower was at their heels. He knew there was small enough chance of a junior officer getting a boat to take him back to his ship, to which it was his bounden duty to go as soon as possible. After the captains had reached their destinations he could use this boat to reach the Indefatigable. He threw himself off into the sternsheets as she pushed off, knocking the breath out of Captain Harvey, his sword scabbard clattering on the gunwale. But the three captains accepted his uninvited presence there without comment.

  “Pull for the Dreadnought,” said Foster.

  “Dammit, I’m the senior!” said Hammond. “Pull for Calypso.”

  “Calypso it is,” said Harvey. He had his hand on the tiller, heading the boat across the dark water.

  “Pull! Oh, pull!” said Foster, in agony. There can be no mental torture like that of a captain whose ship is in peril and he not on board.

  “There’s one of them,” said Harvey.

  Just ahead, a small brig was bearing down on them under topsails; they could see the glow of the fire, and as they watched the fire suddenly burst into roaring fury, wrapping the whole vessel in flames in a moment, like a set piece in a fireworks display. Flames spouted out of the holes in her sides and roared up through her hatchways. The very water around her glowed vivid red. They saw her halt in her career and begin to swing slowly around.

  “She’s across Santa Barbara’s cable,” said Foster.

  “She’s nearly clear,” added Hammond. “God help ’em on board there. She’ll be alongside her in a minute.”

  Hornblower thought of two thousand Spanish and French prisoners battened down below decks in the hulk.

  “With a man at her wheel she could be steered clear,” said Foster. “We ought to do it!”

  Then things happened rapidly. Harvey put the tiller over. “Pull away!” he roared at the boatmen.

  The latter displayed an easily understood reluctance to row up to that fiery hull.

  “Pull!” said Harvey.

  He whipped out his sword from its scabbard, and the blade reflected the red fire as he thrust it menacingly at the stroke oar’s throat. With a kind of sob, stroke tugged at his oar and the boat leaped forward.

  “Lay us under her counter,” said Foster. “I’ll jump for it.”

  At last Hornblower found his tongue. “Let me go, sir. I’ll handle her.”

  “Come with me, if you like,” replied Foster. “It may need two of us.”

  His nickname of Dreadnought Foster may have had its origin in the name of his ship, but it was appropriate enough in all circumstances. Harvey swung the boat under the fire ship’s stern; she was before the wind again now, and just gathering way, just heading down upon the Santa Barbara.

  For a moment Hornblower was the nearest man in the boat to the brig and there was no time to be lost. He stood up on the thwart and jumped; his hands gripped something, and with a kick and a struggle he dragged his ungainly body up onto the deck. With the brig before the wind, the flames were blown forward; right aft here it was merely frightfully hot, but Hornblower’s ears were filled with the roar of the flames and the crackling and banging of the burning wood. He stepped forward to the wheel and seized the spokes, the wheel was lashed with a loop of line, and as he cast this off and took hold of the wheel again he could feel the rudder below him bite into the water. He flung his weight on the spoke and spun the wheel over. The brig was about to collide with the Santa Barbara, starboard bow to starboard bow, and the flames lit an anxious gesticulating crowd on the Santa Barbara’s forecastle.

  “Hard over!” roared Foster’s voice in Hornblower’s ear.

  “Hard over it is!” said Hornblower, and the brig answered her wheel at that moment, and her bow turned away, avoiding the collision.

  An immense fountain of flame poured out from the hatchway abaft the mainmast, setting mast and rigging ablaze, and at the same time a flaw of wind blew a wave of flame aft. Some instinct made Hornblower while holding the wheel with one hand snatch out his neckcloth with the other and bury his face in it. The flame whirled round him and was gone again. But the distraction had been dangerous; the brig had continued to turn under full helm, and now her stern was swinging in to bump against the Santa Barbara’s bow. Hornblower desperately spun the wheel over the other way. The flames had driven Foster aft to the taffrail, but now he returned.

  “Hard-a-lee!”

  The brig was already responding. Her starboard quarter bumped the Santa Barbara in the waist, and then bumped clear.

  “Midships!” shouted Foster.

  At a distance of only two or three yards the fire ship passed on down the Santa Barbara’s side; an anxious group ran along her gangways keeping up with her as she did so. On the quarterdeck another group stood by with a spar to boom the fire ship off; Hornblower saw them out of the tail of his eye as they went by. Now they were clear.

  “There’s the Dauntless on the port bow,” said Foster. “Keep her clear.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The din of the fire was tremendous; it could hardly be believed that on this little area of deck it was still possible to breathe and live. Hornblower felt the appalling heat on his hands and face. Both masts were immense pyramids of flame.

  “Starboard a point,” said Foster. “We’ll lay her aground on the shoal by the Neutral Ground.”

  “Starboard a point,” responded Hornblower.

  He was being borne along on a wave of the highest exaltation; the roar of the fire was intoxicating, and he knew not a moment’s fear. Then the whole deck only a yard or two forward of the wheel opened up in flame. Fire spouted out of the gaping seams and the heat was utterly unbearable, and the fire moved rapidly aft as the seams gaped progressively backward.

  Hornblower felt for the loopline to lash the wheel, but before he could do so the wheel spun idly under his hand, presumably as the tiller ropes below him were burned away, and at the same time the deck under his feet heaved and warped in the fire. He staggered back to the taffrail. Foster was there.

  “Tiller ropes burned away, sir,” reported Hornblower.

  Flames roared up beside them. His coat sleeve was smouldering.

  “Jump!” said Foster.

  Hornblower felt Foster shoving him—everything was insane. He heaved himself over, gasped with fright as he hung in the air, and then felt the breath knocked out of his body as he hit the water. The water closed over him, and he knew panic as he struggled back to the surface. It was cold—the Mediterranean in December is cold. For the moment the air in his clothes supported him, despite the weight of the sword at his side, but he could see nothing in the darkness, with his eyes still dazzled by the roaring flames. Somebody splashed beside him.

  “They were following us in the boat to take us off,” said Foster’s voice. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes, sir. Not very well.”

  “That might describe me,” said Foster; and then he lifted his voice to hail, “Ahoy! Ahoy! Hammond! Harvey! Ahoy!”

  He tried to raise himself as well as his voice, fell back with a splash, and splashed and splashed again, the water flowing into his mouth cutting short something he tried to say. Hornblower, beating the water with increasing feebleness, could still spare a thought—such were the vagaries of his wayward mind—for the interesting fact that even captains of much seniority were only mortal men after all. He tried to unbuckle his sword belt, failed, and sank deep with the effort, only just succeeding in struggling back to the surface.
He gasped for breath, but in another attempt he managed to draw his sword half out of its scabbard, and as he struggled it slid out the rest of the way by its own weight; yet he was not conscious of any noticeable relief.

  It was then that he heard the splashing and grinding of oars and loud voices, and he saw the dark shape of the approaching boat, and he uttered a spluttering cry. In a second or two the boat was up to them, and he was clutching the gunwale in panic.

  They were lifting Foster in over the stern, and Hornblower knew he must keep still and make no effort to climb in, but it called for all his resolution to make himself hang quietly onto the side of the boat and wait his turn. He was interested in this overmastering fear, while he despised himself for it. It called for a conscious and serious effort of willpower to make his hands alternately release their death-like grip on the gunwale, so that the men in the boat could pass him round to the stern. Then they dragged him in and he fell face downward in the bottom of the boat, on the verge of fainting. Then somebody spoke in the boat, and Hornblower felt a cold shiver pass over his skin, and his feeble muscles tensed themselves, for the words spoken were Spanish—at any rate an unknown tongue, and Spanish presumably.

  Somebody else answered in the same language. Hornblower tried to struggle up, and a restraining hand was laid on his shoulder. He rolled over, and with his eyes now accustomed to the darkness, he could see the three swarthy faces with the long black moustaches. These men were not Gibraltarians. On the instant he could guess who they were—the crew of one of the fire ships who had steered their craft in past the Mole, set fire to it, and made their escape in the boat. Foster was sitting doubled up, in the bottom of the boat, and now he lifted his face from his knees and stared round him.

  “Who are these fellows?” he asked feebly—his struggle in the water had left him as weak as Hornblower.

  “Spanish fire ship’s crew, I fancy sir,” said Hornblower. “We’re prisoners.”

  “Are we indeed!”

  The knowledge galvanized him into activity just as it had Hornblower. He tried to get to his feet, and the Spaniard at the tiller thrust him down with a hand on his shoulder. Foster tried to put his hand away, and raised his voice in a feeble cry, but the man at the tiller was standing no nonsense. He brought out, in a lightning gesture, a knife from his belt. The light from the fire ship, burning itself harmlessly out on the shoal in the distance, ran redly along the blade, and Foster ceased to struggle. Men might call him Dreadnought Foster, but he could recognize the need for discretion.

  “How are we heading?” he asked Hornblower, sufficiently quietly not to irritate their captors.

  “North, sir. Maybe they’re going to land on the Neutral Ground and make for the Line.”

  “That’s their best chance,” agreed Foster.

  He turned his neck uncomfortably to look back up the harbour.

  “Two other ships burning themselves out up there,” he said. “There were three fire ships came in, I fancy.”

  “I saw three, sir.”

  “Then there’s no damage done. But a bold endeavour. Whoever would have credited the Dons with making such an attempt?”

  “They have learned about fire ships from us, perhaps, sir,” suggested Hornblower.

  “We may have ‘nursed the pinion that impelled the steel’ you think?”

  “It is possible, sir.”

  Foster was a cool enough customer, quoting poetry and discussing the naval situation while being carried off into captivity by a Spaniard who guarded him with a drawn knife. Cool might be a too accurate adjective; Hornblower was shivering in his wet clothes as the chill night air blew over him, and he felt weak and feeble after all the excitement and exertions of the day.

  “Boat ahoy!” came a hail across the water; there was a dark nucleus in the night over there. The Spaniard in the sternsheets instantly dragged the tiller over, heading the boat directly away from it, while the two at the oars redoubled their exertions.

  “Guard boat—” said Foster, but cut his explanation short at a further threat from the knife.

  Of course there would be a boat rowing guard at this northern end of the anchorage; they might have thought of it.

  “Boat ahoy!” came the hail again. “Lay on your oars or I’ll fire upon you!”

  The Spaniard made no reply, and a second later came the flash and report of a musket shot. They heard nothing of the bullet, but the shot would put the fleet—towards which they were heading again—on the alert. But the Spaniards were going to play the game out to the end. They rowed doggedly on.

  “Boat ahoy!”

  This was another hail, from a boat right ahead, of them. The Spaniards at the oars ceased their efforts in dismay, but a roar from the steersman set them instantly to work again. Hornblower could see the new boat almost directly ahead of them, and heard another hail from it as it rested on its oars. The Spaniard at the tiller shouted an order, and the stroke oar backed water and the boat turned sharply; another order, and both rowers tugged ahead again and the boat surged forward to ram. Should they succeed in overturning the intercepting boat they might make their escape even now, while the pursuing boat stopped to pick up their friends.

  Everything happened at once, with everyone shouting at the full pitch of his lungs, seemingly. There was the crash of the collision, both boats heeling wildly as the bow of the Spanish boat rode up over the British boat but failed to overturn it. Someone fired a pistol, and the next moment the pursuing guard boat came dashing alongside, its crew leaping madly aboard them. Somebody flung himself on top of Horn-blower, crushing the breath out of him and threatening to keep it out permanently with a hand on his throat. Hornblower heard Foster bellowing in protest, and a moment later his assailant released him, so that he could hear the midshipman of the guard boat apologizing for this rough treatment of a post captain of the Royal Navy. Someone unmasked the guard boat’s lantern, and by its light Foster revealed himself, bedraggled and battered. The light shone on their sullen prisoners.

  “Boats ahoy!” came another hail, and yet another boat emerged from the darkness and pulled towards them.

  “Cap’n Hammond, I believe!” hailed Foster, with an ominous rasp in his voice.

  “Thank God!” they heard Hammond say, and the boat pulled into the faint circle of light.

  “But no thanks to you,” said Foster bitterly.

  “After your fire ship cleared the Santa Barbara a puff of wind took you on faster than we could keep up with you,” explained Harvey.

  “We followed as fast as we could get these rock scorpions to row,” added Hammond.

  “And yet it called for Spaniards to save us from drowning,” sneered Foster. The memory of his struggle in the water rankled, apparently. “I thought I could rely on two brother captains.”

  “What are you implying, sir?” snapped Hammond.

  “I make no implications, but others may read implications into a simple statement of fact.”

  “I consider that an offensive remark, sir,” said Harvey, “addressed to me equally with Captain Hammond.”

  “I congratulate you on your perspicacity, sir,” replied Foster.

  “I understand,” said Harvey. “This is not a discussion we can pursue with these men present. I shall send a friend to wait on you.”

  “He will be welcome.”

  “Then I wish you a very good night, sir.”

  “And I, too, sir,” said Hammond. “Give way there.”

  The boat pulled out of the circle of light, leaving an audience openmouthed at this strange freak of human behaviour, that a man saved first from death and then from captivity should wantonly thrust himself into peril again. Foster looked after the boat for some seconds before speaking; perhaps he was already regretting his rather hysterical outburst.

  “I shall have much to do before morning,” he said, more to himself than to anyone near him, and then addressed himself to the midshipman of the guard boat, “You, sir, will take charge of these prisoners an
d convey me to my ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Is there anyone here who can speak their lingo? I would have it explained to them that I shall send them back to Cartagena under cartel, free without exchange. They saved our lives, and that is the least we can do in return.” The final explanatory sentence was addressed to Hornblower.

  “I think that is just, sir.”

  “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.”

  NOAH’S ARK

  Acting-Lieutenant Hornblower sat in the sternsheets of the longboat beside Mr. Tapling of the diplomatic service, with his feet among bags of gold. About him rose the steep shores of the Gulf of Oran, and ahead of him lay the city, white in the sunshine, like a mass of blocks of marble dumped by a careless hand upon the hillsides where they rose from the water. The oar blades, as the boat’s crew pulled away rhythmically over the gentle swell, were biting into the clearest emerald green, and it was only a moment since they had left behind the bluest the Mediterranean could show.