The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  Buckland’s gesture indicated how much chance he thought he had of ever being posted captain now.

  Bush thought about the report Buckland would have to make: nine killed and twenty wounded; the Renown’s attack ignominiously beaten off; Samaná Bay as safe a refuge for privateers as ever. He was glad he was not Buckland, but at the same time he realized that there was grave danger of his being tarred with the same brush. He was first lieutenant now, he was one of the officers who had acquiesced, if nothing more, in the displacement of Sawyer from command, and it would take a victory to invest him with any virtue at all in the eyes of his superiors.

  “Damn it,” said Buckland in pathetic self-defence, “we did our best. Anyone could run aground in that channel. It wasn’t our fault that the helmsman was killed. Nothing could get up the bay under that crossfire.”

  “Hornblower was suggesting a landing on the seaward side. In Scotchman’s Bay, sir.” Bush was speaking as cautiously as he could.

  “Another of Hornblower’s suggestions?” said Buckland.

  “I think that’s what he had in mind from the start, sir. A landing and a surprise attack.”

  Probably it was because the attempt had failed, but Bush now could see the unreason of taking a wooden ship into a situation where red-hot cannon balls could be fired into her.

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, sir—”

  Bush was not sure enough about what he thought to be able to express himself with any clarity. But if they had failed once they might as well fail twice; as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Bush was a sturdy soul; it went against his grain to yield in face of difficulties, and he was irritated at the thought of a tame retreat after a single repulse. The difficulty was to devise an alternative plan of campaign. He tried to say all these things to Buckland, and was sufficiently carried away to be incautious.

  “I see,” said Buckland. In the light of the swaying lamps the play of the shadows on his face accentuated the struggle in his expression. He came to a sudden decision. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Smith has the watch. Hornblower has the middle—I expect he has turned in until he’s called.”

  Buckland was as weary as anyone in the ship—wearier than most, it seemed likely. The thought of Hornblower stretched at ease in his cot while his superiors sat up fretting wrought Buckland up to a pitch of decision that he might not otherwise have reached, determining him to act at once instead of waiting till the morrow.

  “Pass the word for him,” he ordered.

  Hornblower came into the cabin with commendable promptitude, his hair tousled and his clothes obviously hastily thrown on. He threw a nervous glance round the cabin as he entered; obviously he suffered from not unreasonable doubts as to why he had been summoned thus into the presence of his superiors.

  “What plan is this I’ve been hearing about?” asked Buckland. “You had some suggestion for storming the fort, I understand, Mr. Hornblower.”

  Hornblower did not answer immediately; he was marshalling his arguments and reconsidering his first plan in the light of the new situation—Bush could see that it was hardly fair that Hornblower should be called upon to state his plan now that the Renown had made one attempt and had failed after sacrificing the initial advantage of surprise. But Bush could see that he was reordering his ideas.

  “I thought a landing might have more chance, sir,” he said. “But that was before the Dons knew there was a ship of the line in the neighbourhood.”

  “And now you don’t think so?”

  Buckland’s tone was a mixture of relief and disappointment—relief that he might not have to reach any further decisions, and disappointment that some easy way of gaining success was not being put forward. But Hornblower had had time now to sort out his ideas, and to think about times and distances. That showed in his face.

  “I think something might well be tried, sir, as long as it was tried at once.”

  “At once?” This was night, the crew were weary, and Buckland’s tone showed surprise at the suggestion of immediate activity. “You don’t mean tonight?”

  “Tonight might be the best time, sir. The Dons have seen us driven off with our tail between our legs—excuse me, sir, but that’s how it’ll look to them, at least. The last they saw of us was beating out of Samaná Bay at sunset. They’ll be pleased with themselves. You know how they are, sir. An attack at dawn from another quarter, overland, would be the last thing they’d expect.”

  That sounded like sense to Bush, and he made a small approving noise, the most he would venture towards making a contribution to the debate.

  “How would you make this attack, Mr. Hornblower?” asked Buckland.

  Hornblower had his ideas in order now; the weariness disappeared and there was a glow of enthusiasm in his face.

  “The wind’s fair for Scotchman’s Bay, sir. We could be back there in less than two hours—before midnight. By the time we arrive we can have the landing party told off and prepared. A hundred seamen and the marines. There’s a good landing beach there—we saw it yesterday. The country inland must be marshy, before the hills of the peninsula start again, but we can land on the peninsula side of the marsh. I marked the place yesterday, sir.”

  “Well?”

  Hornblower swallowed the realization that it was possible for a man not to be able to continue from that point with a single leap of his imagination.

  “The landing party can make their way up to the crest without difficulty, sir. There’s no question of losing their way—the sea one side and Samaná Bay on the other. They can move forward along the crest. At dawn they can rush the fort. What with the marsh and the cliffs the Dons’ll keep a poor lookout on that side, I fancy, sir.”

  “You make it sound very easy, Mr. Hornblower. But—a hundred and eighty men?”

  “Enough, I think, sir.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “There were six guns firing at us from the fort, sir. Ninety men at most—sixty more likely. Ammunition party; men to heat the furnaces. A hundred and fifty men altogether; perhaps as few as a hundred.”

  “But why should that be all they had?”

  “The Dons have nothing to fear on that side of the island. They’re holding out against the blacks, and the French, maybe, and the English in Jamaica. There’s nothing to tempt the blacks to attack ’em across the marshes. It’s south of Samaná Bay that the danger lies. The Don’ll have every man that can carry a musket on that side. That’s where the cities are. That’s where this fellow Toussaint, or whatever his name is, will be threatening ’em, sir.”

  The last word of this long speech came as a fortunate afterthought; Hornblower clearly was restraining himself from pointing out the obvious too didactically to his superior officer. And Bush could see Buckland squirm in discomfort at this casual mention of blacks and French. Those secret orders—which Bush had not been allowed to read—must lay down some drastic instructions regarding the complicated political situation in Santo Domingo, where the revolted slaves, the French, and the Spaniards (nominal allies though these last might be, elsewhere in the world) all contended for the mastery.

  “We’ll leave the blacks and the French out of this,” said Buckland, confirming Bush’s suspicions.

  “Yes, sir. But the Dons won’t,” said Hornblower, not very abashed. “They’re more afraid of the blacks than of us at present.”

  “So you think this attack might succeed?” asked Buckland, desperately changing the subject.

  “I think it might, sir. But time’s getting on.”

  Buckland sat looking at his two juniors in painful indecision, and Bush felt full sympathy for him. A second bloody repulse—possibly something even worse, the cutting off and capitulation of the entire landing party—would be Buckland’s certain ruin.

  “With the fort in our hands, sir,” said Hornblower, “we can deal with the privateers up the bay. They could never use it as an anchorage again.”


  “That’s true,” agreed Buckland. It would be a neat and economical fulfilment of his orders; it would restore his credit.

  The timbers of the ship creaked rhythmically as the Renown rode over the waves. The trade wind came blowing into the cabin, relieving it of some of its stuffiness, breathing cooler air on Bush’s sweaty face.

  “Damn it,” said Buckland with sudden reckless decision, “let’s do it.”

  “Very good sir,” said Hornblower.

  Bush had to restrain himself from saying something that would express his pleasure; Hornblower had used a neutral tone—too obvious pushing of Buckland along the path of action might have a reverse effect and goad him into reversing his decision even now.

  And although this decision had been reached there was another one, almost equally important, which had to be reached at once.

  “Who will be in command?” asked Buckland. It could only be a rhetorical question; nobody except Buckland could possibly supply the answer, and to Bush and Hornblower this was obvious. They could only wait.

  “It’d be poor Roberts’ duty if he had lived,” said Buckland, and then he turned to look at Bush.

  “Mr. Bush, you will take command.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Bush got up from his chair and stood with his head bowed uneasily under the deck timbers above.

  “Who do you want to take with you?”

  Hornblower had been on his feet during the whole interview; now he shifted his weight self-consciously from one foot to the other.

  “Do you require me any more, sir?” he said to Buckland.

  Bush could not tell by looking at him what emotions were at work in him; he had the pose merely of a respectful, attentive officer. Bush thought about Smith, the remaining lieutenant in the ship. He thought about Whiting, the captain of marines, who would certainly have to take part in the landing. There were midshipmen and master’s mates to be used as subordinate officers. He was going to be responsible for a risky and desperate operation of war—now it was his own credit, as well as Buckland’s, that was at stake. Whom did he want at his side at this, one of the most important moments in his career? Another lieutenant, if he asked for one, would be second in command, might expect to have a voice in the decisions to be made.

  “Do we need Mr. Hornblower any more, Mr. Bush?” asked Buckland.

  Hornblower would be an active subordinate in command. A restless one, would be another way of expressing it. He would be apt to criticize, in thought at least. Bush did not think he cared to exercise command with Hornblower listening to his every order. This whole internal debate of Bush’s did not take definite shape, with formal arguments pro and con; it was rather a conflict of prejudices and instincts, the result of years of experience, which Bush could never have expressed in words. He decided he needed neither Hornblower nor Smith at the moment before he looked again at Hornblower’s face. Hornblower was trying to remain impassive; but Bush could see, with sympathetic insight, how desperately anxious he was to be invited to join in the expedition. Any officer would want to go, of course, would yearn to be given an opportunity to distinguish himself, but actuating Hornblower was some motive more urgent than this. Hornblower’s hands were at his sides, in the “attention” position, but Bush noticed how the long fingers tapped against his thighs, restrained themselves, and then tapped again uncontrollably. It was not cool judgment that finally brought Bush to his decision, but something quite otherwise. It might be called kindliness; it might be called affection. He had grown fond of this volatile, versatile young man, and he had no doubts now as to his physical courage.

  “I’d like Mr. Hornblower to come with me, sir,” he said: it seemed almost without his volition that the words came from his mouth; a softhearted elder brother might have said much the same thing, burdening himself with the presence of a much younger brother out of kindness of heart when contemplating some pleasant day’s activities.

  And as he spoke he received a glance in return from Hornblower that stifled at birth any regrets he may have felt at allowing his sentiments to influence his judgment. There was so much of relief, so much of gratitude, in the way Hornblower looked at him that Bush experienced a kindly glow of magnanimity; he felt a bigger and better man for what he had done. Naturally he did not for a moment see anything incongruous about Hornblower’s being grateful for a decision that would put him in peril of his life.

  “Very well, Mr. Bush,” said Buckland; typically, he wavered for a space after agreeing. “That will leave me with only one lieutenant.”

  “Carberry could take watch, sir,” replied Bush. “And there are several among the master’s mates who are good watch-keeping officers.”

  It was as natural for Bush to argue down opposition once he had committed himself as it might be for a fish to snap at a lure.

  “Very well,” said Buckland again, almost with a sigh. “And what is it that’s troubling you, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “There was something you wanted to say. Out with it.”

  “Nothing important, sir. It can wait. But I was wondering about altering course, sir. We can head for Scotchman’s Bay now and waste no time.”

  “I suppose we can.” Buckland knew as well as any officer in the navy that the whims of wind and weather were unpredictable, and that action upon any decision at sea should in consequence never be delayed, but he was likely to forget it unless he were prodded. “Oh, very well. We’d better get her before the wind, then. What’s the course?”

  After the bustle of wearing the ship round had died away Buckland led the way back to his cabin and threw himself wearily into his chair again. He put on a whimsical air to conceal the anxiety which was now consuming him afresh.

  “We’ve satisfied Mr. Hornblower for a moment,” he said. “Now let’s hear what you need, Mr. Bush.”

  The discussion regarding the proposed expedition proceeded along normal lines; the men to be employed, the equipment that was to be issued to them, the rendezvous that had to be arranged for next morning. Hornblower kept himself studiously in the background as these points were settled.

  “Any suggestions, Mr. Hornblower?” asked Bush at length. Politeness, if not policy as well, dictated the question.

  “Only one, sir. We might have with us some boat grapnels with lines attached. If we have to scale the walls they might be useful.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Bush. “Remember to see that they’re issued.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Do you need a messenger. Mr. Hornblower?” asked Buckland

  “It might be better if I had one, sir.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “I’d prefer to have Wellard, sir, if you’ve no objection. He’s cool-headed and thinks quickly.”

  “Very well.” Buckland looked hard at Hornblower at the mention of Wellard’s name, but said nothing more on the subject for the moment.

  “Anything else? No? Mr. Bush? All settled?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bush.

  Buckland drummed with his fingers on the table. The recent alteration of course had not been the decisive move; it did not commit him to anything. But the next order would. If the hands were roused out, arms issued to them, instructions given for a landing, he could hardly draw back. Another attempt; maybe another failure; maybe a disaster. It was not in his power to command success, while it was certainly in his power to obviate failure by simply not risking it. He looked up and met the gaze of his two subordinates turned on him remorselessly. No, it was too late now—he had been mistaken when he thought he could draw back. He could not.

  “Then it only remains to issue the orders,” he said. “Will you see to it, if you please?”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Bush.

  He and Hornblower were about to leave the cabin when Buckland asked the question he had wanted to ask for so long. It necessitated an abrupt change of subject, even though the curiosity that inspired the question had been re
awakened by Hornblower’s mention of Wellard. But Buckland, full of the virtuous glow of having reached a decision, felt emboldened to ask the question; it was a moment of exaltation in any case, and confidences were possible.

  “By the way, Mr. Hornblower,” he said, and Hornblower halted beside the door, “how did the captain come to fall down the hatchway?”

  Bush saw the expressionless mask take the place of the eager look on Hornblower’s face. The answer took a moment or two to come.

  “I think he must have overbalanced, sir,” said Hornblower, with the utmost respect and a complete absence of feeling in his voice. “The ship was lively that night, you remember, sir.”

  “I suppose she was,” said Buckland; disappointment and perplexity were audible in his tone. He stared at Hornblower, but there was nothing to be gleaned from that face. “Oh, very well then. Carry on.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  IX

  The sea breeze had died away with the cooling of the land, and it was that breathless time of night when air pressures over island and ocean were evenly balanced. Not many miles out at sea the trade winds could blow, as they blew eternally, but here on the beach a humid calm prevailed. The long swell of the Atlantic broke momentarily at the first hint of shallows far out, but lived on, like some once vigorous man now feeble after an illness, to burst rhythmically in foam on the beach to the westward; here, where the limestone cliffs of the Samaná peninsula began, there was a sheltered corner where a small watercourse had worn a wide gully in the cliff, at the most easterly end of the wide beach. And sea and surf and beach seemed to be afire; in the dark night the phosphorescence of the water was vividly bright, heaving up with the surf, running up the beach with the breakers, and lighting up the oar blades as the launches pulled to shore. The boats seemed to be floating on fire which derived new life from their passage; each launch left a wake of fire behind it, with a vivid streak on either side where the oar blades had bitten into the water.