The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  “Get the boat hoisted out,” he ordered, and then, remembering his humanitarian duty. “And you can let the prisoners up on deck.”

  They had been battened down below for the last forty-eight hours, because the fear of a recapture was the nightmare of every prizemaster. But here in the Bay with the Mediterranean fleet all round that danger was at an end. Two hands at the oars of the gig sent her skimming over the water, and in ten minutes Hornblower was reporting his arrival to the admiral.

  “You say she shows a fair turn of speed?” said the latter, looking over at the prize.

  “Yes, sir. And she’s handy enough,” said Hornblower.

  “I’ll purchase her into the service. Never enough despatch vessels,” mused the Admiral.

  Even with that hint it was a pleasant surprise to Hornblower when he received heavily sealed official orders and, opening them, read that “you are hereby requested and required” to take H.M. sloop Le Reve under his command and to proceed “with the utmost expedition” to Plymouth as soon as the despatches destined for England should be put in his charge. It was an independent command; it was a chance of seeing England again (it was three years since Hornblower had last set foot on the English shore) and it was a high professional compliment. But there was another letter, delivered at the same moment which Hornblower read with less elation.

  “Their Excellencies, Major-General Sir Hew and Lady Dalrymple, request the pleasure of Acting-Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower’s company at dinner today, at three o’clock, at Government House.”

  It might be a pleasure to dine with the Governor of Gibraltar and his lady, but it was only a mixed pleasure at best for an acting-lieutenant with a single sea chest, faced with the need to dress himself suitably for such a function. Yet it was hardly possible for a young man to walk up to Government House from the landing slip without a thrill of excitement, especially as his friend Mr. Midshipman Bracegirdle, who came from a wealthy family and had a handsome allowance, had lent him a pair of the finest white stockings of China silk—Bracegirdle’s calves were plump, and Hornblower’s were skinny, but that difficulty had been artistically circumvented. Two small pads of oakum, some strips of sticking plaster from the surgeon’s stores, and Hornblower now had a couple of legs of which no one need be ashamed. He could put his left leg forward to make his bow without any fear of wrinkles in his stockings, and sublimely conscious, as Bracegirdle said, of a leg of which any gentleman would be proud.

  At Government House the usual polished and languid aide-de-camp took charge of Hornblower and led him forward. He made his bow to Sir Hew, a red-faced and fussy old gentleman, and to Lady Dalrymple, a red-faced and fussy old lady.

  “Mr. Hornblower,” said the latter, “I must present you—Your Grace, this is Mr. Hornblower, the new captain of Le Reve. Her Grace the Duchess of Wharfedale.”

  A duchess, no less! Hornblower poked forward his padded leg, pointed his toe, laid his hand on his heart and bowed with all the depth the tightness of his breeches allowed—he had still been growing when he bought them on joining the Indefatigable. Bold blue eyes, and a once beautiful middle-aged face.

  “So this ’ere’s the feller in question?” said the duchess. “Matilda, my dear, are you going to hentrust me to a hinfant in harms?”

  The startling vulgarity of the accent took Hornblower’s breath away. He had been ready for almost anything except that a superbly dressed duchess should speak in the accent of Seven Dials. He raised his eyes to stare, while forgetting to straighten himself up, standing with his chin poked forward and his hand still on his heart.

  “You look like a gander on a green,” said the duchess. “I hexpects you to ’iss hany moment.”

  She struck her own chin out and swung from side to side with her hands on her knees in a perfect imitation of a belligerent goose, apparently with so close a resemblance to Hornblower as well as to excite a roar of laughter from the other guests. Hornblower stood in blushing confusion.

  “Don’t be ’ard on the young feller,” said the duchess, coming to his defence and patting him on the shoulder. “ ’E’s on’y young, an’ thet’s nothink to be ashamed of. Somethink to be prard of, for thet matter, to be trusted with a ship at thet hage.”

  It was lucky that the announcement of dinner came to save Hornblower from the further confusion into which this kindly remark had thrown him. Hornblower naturally found himself with the riff-raff, the ragtag and bobtail of the middle of the table along with the other junior officers—Sir Hew sat at one end with the duchess, while Lady Dalrymple sat with a commodore at the other. Moreover, there were not nearly as many women as men; that was only to be expected, as Gibraltar was, technically at least, a beleaguered fortress. So Hornblower had no woman on either side of him; at his right sat the young aide-de-camp who had first taken him in charge.

  “Your health, Your Grace,” said the commodore, looking down the length of the table and raising his glass.

  “Thank’ee,” replied the duchess. “Just in time to save my life. I was wonderin’ ’oo’d come to my rescue.”

  She raised her brimming glass to her lips and when she put it down again it was empty.

  “A jolly boon companion you are going to have,” said the aide-de-camp to Hornblower.

  “How is she going to be my companion?” asked Hornblower, quite bewildered.

  The aide-de-camp looked at him pityingly.

  “So you have not been informed?” he asked. “As always, the man most concerned is the last to know. When you sail with your despatches tomorrow you will have the honour of bearing Her Grace with you to England.”

  “God bless my soul,” said Hornblower.

  “Let’s hope He does,” said the aide-de-camp piously, nosing his wine. “Poor stuff this sweet Malaga is. Old Hare bought a job lot in ’95, and every governor since then seems to think it’s his duty to use it up.”

  “But who is she?” asked Hornblower.

  “Her Grace the Duchess of Wharfedale,” replied the aide-de-camp. “Did you not hear Lady Dalrymple’s introduction?”

  “But she doesn’t talk like a duchess,” protested Hornblower.

  “No. The old duke was in his dotage when he married her. She was the innkeeper’s widow, so her friends say. You can imagine, if you like, what her enemies say.”

  “But what is she doing here?” went on Hornblower.

  “She is on her way back to England. She was at Florence when the French marched in, I understand. She reached Leghorn, and bribed a coaster to bring her here. She asked Sir Hew to find her a passage, and Sir Hew asked the Admiral—Sir Hew would ask anyone for anything on behalf of a duchess, even one said by her friends to be an innkeeper’s widow.”

  “I see,” said Hornblower.

  There was a burst of merriment from the head of the table, and the duchess was prodding the governor’s scarlet-coated ribs with the handle of her knife, as if to make sure he saw the joke.

  “Maybe you will not lack for mirth on your homeward voyage,” said the aide-de-camp.

  Just then a smoking sirloin of beef was put down in front of Hornblower, and all his worries vanished before the necessity of carving it and remembering his manners. He took the carving knife and fork gingerly in his hands and glanced round at the company.

  “May I help you to some of this beef, Your Grace? Madam? Sir? Well done or underdone, sir? A little of the brown fat?”

  In the hot room the sweat ran down his face as he wrestled with the joint; he was fortunate that most of the guests desired helpings from the other removes so that he had little carving to do. He put a couple of haggled slices on his own plate as the simplest way of concealing the worst results of his own handiwork.

  “Beef from Tetuan,” sniffed the aide-de-camp. “Tough and stringy.”

  That was all very well for a governor’s aide-de-camp—he could not guess how delicious was this food to a young naval officer fresh from beating about at sea in an overcrowded frigate. Even the thought of having to act
as host to a duchess could not entirely spoil Hornblower’s appetite. And the final dishes, the meringues and macaroons, the custards and the fruits, were ecstasy for a young man whose last pudding had been currant duff last Sunday.

  “Those sweet things spoil a man’s palate,” said the aide-de-camp—much Hornblower cared.

  They were drinking formal toasts now. Hornblower stood for the King and the royal family, and raised his glass for the duchess.

  “And now for the enemy,” said Sir Hew, “may their treasure galleons try to cross the Atlantic.”

  “A supplement to that, Sir Hew,” said the commodore at the other end, “may the Dons make up their minds to leave Cadiz.”

  There was a growl almost like wild animals from round the table. Most of the naval officers present were from Jervis’ Mediterranean squadron which had beaten about in the Atlantic for the past several months hoping to catch the Spaniards should they come out. Jervis had to detach his ships to Gibraltar two at a time to replenish their stores, and these officers were from the two ships of the line present at the moment in Gibraltar.

  “Johnny Jervis would say amen to that,” said Sir Hew. “A bumper to the Dons then, gentlemen, and may they come out from Cadiz.”

  The ladies left them then, gathered together by Lady Dalrymple, and as soon as it was decently possible Hornblower made his excuses and slipped away, determined not to be heavy with wine the night before he sailed in independent command.

  Maybe the prospect of the coming on board of the duchess was a useful counter-irritant, and saved Hornblower from worrying too much about his first command. He was up before dawn—before even the brief Mediterranean twilight had begun—to see that his precious ship was in condition to face the sea, and the enemies who swarmed upon the sea. He had four popgun four-pounders to deal with those enemies, which meant that he was safe from no one; his was the weakest vessel at sea, for the smallest trading brig carried a more powerful armament. So that like all weak creatures his only safety lay in flight—Hornblower looked aloft in the half-light, where the sails would be set on which so much might depend. He went over the watch bill with his two watch-keeping officers, Midshipman Hunter and Master’s Mate Winyatt, to make sure that every man of his crew of eleven knew his duty. Then all that remained was to put on his smartest seagoing uniform, try to eat breakfast, and wait for the duchess.

  She came early, fortunately; Their Excellencies had had to rise at a most unpleasant hour to see her off. Mr. Hunter reported the approach of the governor’s launch with suppressed excitement.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter,” said Hornblower coldly—that was what the service demanded, even though not so many weeks before they had been playing follow-my-leader through the Indefatigable’s rigging together.

  The launch swirled alongside, and two neatly dressed seamen hooked on the ladder. Le Reve had such a small free-board that boarding her presented no problem even for ladies. The governor stepped on board to the twittering of the only two pipes Le Reve could muster, and Lady Dalrymple followed him. Then came the duchess, and the duchess’s companion; the latter was a younger woman, as beautiful as the duchess must once have been. A couple of aides-de-camp followed, and by that time the minute deck of Le Reve was positively crowded, so that there was no room left to bring up the duchess’s baggage.

  “Let us show you your quarters, Your Grace,” said the governor.

  Lady Dalrymple squawked her sympathy at sight of the minute cabin which the two cots almost filled, and everyone’s head, inevitably, bumped against the deck-beam above.

  “We shall live through it,” said the duchess stoically, “an’ that’s more than many a man makin’ a little trip to Tyburn could say.”

  One of the aides-de-camp produced a last minute packet of despatches and demanded Hornblower’s signature on the receipt; the last farewells were said, and Sir Hew and Lady Dalrymple went down the side again to the twittering of the pipes.

  “Man the windlass!” bellowed Hornblower the moment the launch’s crew bent to their oars.

  A few seconds’ lusty work brought Le Reve up to her anchor.

  “Anchor’s aweigh, sir,” reported Winyatt.

  “Jib halliards!” shouted Hornblower. “Mains’l halliards!”

  Le Reve came round before the wind as her sails were set and her rudder took a grip on the water. Everyone was so busy catting the anchor and setting sail that it was Hornblower himself who dipped his colours in salute as Le Reve crept out beyond the mole before the gentle south-easter, and dipped her nose to the first of the big Atlantic rollers coming in through the Gut. Through the skylight beside him he heard a clatter and a wail, as something fell in the cabin with that first roll, but he could spare no attention for the woman below. He had the glass to his eye now, training it first on Algeciras and then upon Tarifa—some well-manned privateer or ship of war might easily dash out to snap up such a defenceless prey as Le Reve. He could not relax while the forenoon watch wore on. They rounded Cape Marroqui and he set a course for St. Vincent, and then the mountains of Southern Spain began to sink below the horizon. Cape Trafalgar was just visible on the starboard bow when at last he shut the telescope and began to wonder about dinner; it was pleasant to be captain of his own ship and to be able to order dinner when he choose. His aching legs told him he had been on his feet too long—eleven continuous hours; if the future brought him many independent commands he would wear himself out by this sort of behaviour.

  Down below he relaxed gratefully on the locker, and sent the cook to knock at the duchess’s cabin door to ask with his compliments if all was well; he heard the duchess’s sharp voice saying that they needed nothing, not even dinner. Hornblower philosophically shrugged his shoulders and ate his dinner with a young man’s appetite. He went on deck again as night closed in upon them; Winyatt had the watch.

  “It’s coming up thick, sir,” he said.

  So it was. The sun was invisible on the horizon, engulfed in watery mist. It was the price he had to pay for a fair wind, he knew; in the winter months in these latitudes there was always likely to be fog where the cool land breeze reached the Atlantic.

  “It’ll be thicker still by morning,” he said gloomily, and revised his night orders, setting a course due west instead of west by north as he originally intended. He wanted to make certain of keeping clear of Cape St. Vincent in the event of fog.

  That was one of those minute trifles which may affect a man’s whole after life—Hornblower had plenty of time later to reflect on what might have happened had he not ordered that alteration of course. During the night he was often on deck, peering through the increasing mist, but at the time when the crisis came he was down below snatching a little sleep. What woke him was a seaman shaking his shoulder violently.

  “Please, sir. Please, sir. Mr. Hunter sent me. Please, sir, won’t you come on deck, he says, sir.”

  “I’ll come,” said Hornblower, blinking himself awake and rolling out of his cot.

  The faintest beginnings of dawn were imparting some slight luminosity to the mist which was close about them. Le Reve was lurching over an ugly sea with barely enough wind behind her to give her steerage way. Hunter was standing with his back to the wheel in an attitude of tense anxiety.

  “Listen!” he said, as Hornblower appeared.

  He half-whispered the word, and in his excitement he omitted the “sir” which was due to his captain—and in his excitement Hornblower did not notice the omission. Hornblower listened. He heard the shipboard noises he could expect—the clattering of the blocks as Le Reve lurched, the sound of the sea at her bows. Then he heard other shipboard noises. There were other blocks clattering; the sea was breaking beneath other bows.

  “There’s a ship close alongside,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hunter. “And after I sent below for you I heard an order given. And it was in Spanish—some foreign tongue, anyway.”

  The tenseness of fear was all about the little ship like the fog.


  “Call all hands. Quietly,” said Hornblower.

  But as he gave the order he wondered if it would be any use. He could send his men to their stations, he could man and load his four-pounders, but if that ship out there in the fog was of any force greater than a merchant ship he was in deadly peril. Then he tried to comfort himself—perhaps the ship was some fat Spanish galleon bulging with treasure, and were he to board her boldly she would become his prize and make him rich for life.

  “A ’appy Valentine’s day to you,” said a voice beside him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise. He had actually forgotten the presence of the duchess on board.

  “Stop that row!” he whispered furiously at her, and she pulled up abruptly in astonishment. She was bundled up in a cloak and hood against the damp air, and no further detail could be seen of her in the darkness and fog.

  “May I hask—” she began.

  “Shut up!” whispered Hornblower.

  A harsh voice could be heard through the fog, other voices repeating the order, whistles being blown, much noise and bustle.

  “That’s Spanish, sir, isn’t it?” whispered Hunter.

  “Spanish for certain. Calling the watch. Listen!”

  The two double-strokes of a ship’s bell came to them across the water. Four bells in the morning watch. And instantly from all round them a dozen other bells could be heard, as if echoing the first.

  “We’re in the middle of a fleet, by God!” whispered Hunter.

  “Big ships, too, sir,” supplemented Winyatt who had joined them with the calling of all hands. “I could hear half a dozen different pipes when they called the watch.”

  “The Dons are out, then,” said Hunter.