The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Sl-o-o-ope arrums,’ yelled the sergeant of marines.

  ‘All hands! Dismiss!’ yelled Bush, and then, reverting to his softer tone, ‘Quietly, there! Silence!’

  The hands were excited and prone to chatter with the order to dismiss – never in any of their lives, either, had they passed a French ship of war so close without guns firing. But Bush was determined to make the Frenchman believe that Hotspur was manned entirely by stoics. Wise with his rattan enforced the order, and the crew dispersed in an orderly mob, the good order only disturbed by a single quickly suppressed yelp as the rattan struck home on some rash posterior.

  ‘She’s the Loire, surely enough, sir,’ said Bush. They could see the name entwined in gilded letters amid the scrollwork of the frigate’s stern; Hornblower remembered that Bush still was in ignorance of his source of information. It was amusing to be thought omniscient, even without justification.

  ‘And you were right, sir, not to run away from them,’ went on Bush. Why was it so intolerable in this case to note the gleam of admiration in Bush’s eyes? Bush did not know of the quickening heartbeats and the sweaty palms.

  ‘It’s given our fellows a close look at a Frenchman,’ said Hornblower, uneasily.

  ‘It certainly did that, sir,’ agreed Bush. ‘I never expected in all my life to hear that tune from a French frigate!’

  ‘What tune?’ asked Hornblower unguardedly, and was instantly furious with himself for this revelation of his weakness.

  ‘God Save The King, sir,’ answered Bush, simply. Luckily it never occurred to him that anyone could possibly fail to recognise the national anthem. ‘If we’d had any music on board we’d have had to play their Marseillaise.’

  ‘So we would,’ said Hornblower; it was desperately necessary to change the subject. ‘Look! He’s getting in his topgallants. Quick! Time him! We’ll see what sort of seamen they are.’

  VI

  Now it was blowing a gale, a two-reef gale from the westward. The unbelievably fine weather of the past week had come to an end, and now the Atlantic was asserting itself in its usual fashion. Under her close-reefed topsails Hotspur was battling against it, close-hauled on the port-tack. She was presenting her port bow to the huge rollers that were advancing upon her, unimpeded in their passage over three thousand miles of water, from Canada to France. She would roll, lift, pitch, and then roll again. The tremendous pressure of the wind on her topsails steadied her to the extent that she hardly leaned over at all to windward; she would heel over to starboard, hang for a moment, and then come back to the vertical. But even with her roll restricted in this fashion, she was pitching extravagantly, and she was rising and falling bodily as each wave passed under her bottom, so that a man standing on her deck would feel the pressure of his feet on her planking increasing and diminishing as she ascended and dropped away again. The wind was shrieking in the rigging, and her fabric groaned as the varying strains worked on her, bending her lengthwise, upward in the centre first and then upward at the ends next. But that groaning was a reassuring sound; there were no sharp cracks or disorderly noises, and what could be heard was merely an indication that Hotspur was being flexible and sensible instead of being rigid and brittle.

  Hornblower came out on to the quarter-deck. He was pallid with sea-sickness because the change of motion had found him out, but the attack had not been as severe as he had experienced during the run down-channel. He was muffled in his coat, and he had to support himself against the roll, for his sea-legs had not yet learned this advanced lesson. Bush appeared from the waist, followed by the boatswain; he touched his hat and then turned, with Wise beside him, to survey the ship in searching fashion.

  ‘It’s not until the first gale that you know what can carry away, sir,’ said Bush.

  Gear that seemed perfectly well secured would begin to show alarming tendencies to come adrift when submitted to the unpredictable strains of continued heavy weather, and Bush and Wise had just completed a long tour of inspection.

  ‘Anything amiss?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘Only trifles, sir, except for the stream anchor. That’s secure again now.’

  Bush had a grin on his face and his eyes were dancing; obviously he enjoyed this change of climate, this bustling of the wind, and the activity it called for. He rubbed his hands and breathed deep of the gale. Hornblower could console himself with the memory that there had been times when he had enjoyed dirty weather, and even the hope that there would be more, but as he felt at present, he bitterly told himself, it was a hollow memory and an empty hope.

  Hornblower took his glass and looked about him. Momentarily the weather was fairly clear and the horizon at some distance. Far away on the starboard quarter the telescope picked up a flash of white; steadying himself as best he could he managed to catch it in the field again. That was the surf on Ar Men – curious Breton name, that – the most southerly and the most seaward of the rocks and reefs that littered the approaches to Brest. As he watched a fresh roller came in to catch the rock fully exposed. The surf burst upon it in a towering pillar of white water, reaching up as high as a first-rate’s main-topsails, before the wind hurled it into nothingness again. Then a fresh squall hurtled down upon the ship bringing with it driving rain, so that the horizon closed in around them, and Hotspur became the centre of a tiny area of tossing grey sea, with the lowering clouds hardly clear of the mastheads.

  She was as close in to that lee shore as Hornblower dared risk. A timid man would have gone out farther to sea at the first sign of bad weather, but then a timid man would be likely next to find himself with a shift of wind far away to leeward of the post he was supposed to be watching. Then whole days might pass before he could be back at his post – days when that wind would be fair for the French to do whatever they wanted, unobserved. It was as if there were a line drawn on the chart along with the parallels of longitude – rashness on the one side, boldness on the other, and Hornblower keeping to the very boundary of rashness. Now there was nothing further to do except – as always in the navy – to watch and wait. To battle with the gale with a wary eye noting every shift in the wind, to struggle northward on one tack and then to go about and struggle southward on the other, beating up and down outside Brest until he had a chance to risk a closer view again. So he had done all day yesterday, and so he would do for countless days to come should the threatening war break out. He went back into his cabin to conceal another flurry of sea-sickness.

  Some time after the misery had in part subsided he was summoned by a thundering at the door.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Lookout’s hailing from the masthead, sir. Mr Bush is calling him down.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  Hornblower emerged just in time to see the look-out transfer himself to the backstay and come sliding all the way down the deck.

  ‘Mr Cargill,’ said Bush. ‘Send another hand aloft to take his place.’

  Bush turned to Hornblower.

  ‘I couldn’t hear what this man was saying, sir, thanks to the wind, so I called him down. Well, what d’you have to say?’

  The look-out stood cap in hand, a little abashed at confronting the officers.

  ‘Don’t rightly know if it’s important, sir, But during that last clear spell I caught a glimpse of the French frigate.’

  ‘Where away?’ demanded Hornblower; at the last moment before he spoke he had managed to modify his originally intended brusqueness. There was nothing to be gained and something to be lost by bullying this man.

  ‘Two points on the lee bow, sir. She was hull-down but I could see her tops’ls, sir. I know ’em.’

  Since the incident of the passing honours Hotspur had frequently sighted the Loire at various points in the Iroise channel – it had been a little like a game of hide-and-seek.

  ‘What was her course?’

  ‘She was close-hauled, sir, under double-reefed tops’ls, on the starboard-tack, sir.’

  ‘You were quite right to report h
er. Get back to your post now. Keep that other man aloft with you.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The man turned away and Hornblower gazed out to sea. Thick weather had closed round them again, and the horizon was close in. Was there anything odd about the Loire’s coming out and braving the gale? She might well wish to drill her men in heavy weather. No; he had to be honest in his thinking, and that was a rather un-French notion. There was a very marked tendency in the French navy to conserve material in a miserly fashion.

  Hornblower became aware that Bush was standing beside him waiting for him to speak.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Bush?’

  ‘I expect she anchored last night in Berthon Bay, sir.’

  Bush was referring to Bertheaume Bay, just on the seaward side of the Goulet, where it was just possible to ride to a long cable with the wind anywhere to the north of west. And if she lay there she would be in touch with the shore. She could receive news and orders sent overland from Brest, ten miles away. She might have heard of a declaration of war. She might be hoping to take Hotspur by surprise, and he must act on that assumption. In that case the safest thing to do would be to put the ship about. Heading south on the starboard-tack he would have plenty of sea room, would be in no danger from a lee shore, and would be so far ahead of the Loire as to be able to laugh at pursuit. But – this was like Hamlet’s soliloquy, at the point where Hamlet says ‘There’s the rub’ – he would be far from his post when Cornwallis should arrive, absent perhaps for days. No, this was a case where he must risk his ship. Hotspur was only a trifle in the clash of two enormous navies. She was important to him personally, but the information she had gleaned was a hundred times more important than her fabric to Cornwallis.

  ‘We’ll hold our course, Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘She was two points on our lee bow, sir,’ said Bush. ‘We ought to be well to windward of her when we meet.’

  Hornblower had already made that calculation; if the result had been different he would have put Hotspur about five minutes ago and would have been racing for safety.

  ‘Clearing again a little, sir,’ commented Bush, looking about him, and at that very moment the masthead yelled again.

  ‘There she is, sir! One point before the starboard beam!’

  ‘Very well!’

  With the moderation of the squall it was just possible to carry on a conversation with the masthead from the deck.

  ‘She’s there all right, sir,’ said Bush, training his glass.

  As Hotspur lifted to a wave Hornblower saw her topsails, not very plainly. They were braced sharp round, presenting only their edge to his telescope. Hotspur was at least four miles to windward of her.

  ‘Look! She’s going about, sir!’

  The topsails were broadening into oblongs; they wavered for a moment, and then settled down; they were braced round now parallel to the Hotspur’s topsails; the two ships were now on the same tack.

  ‘She went about the moment she was sure who we were, sir. She’s still playing hide-and-seek with us.’

  ‘Hide-and-seek? Mr Bush, I believe we are at war.’

  It was hard to make that momentous statement in the quiet conversational tone that a man of iron nerve would employ; Hornblower did his best. Bush had no such inhibitions. He stared at Hornblower and whistled. But he could follow now the same lines of thought as Hornblower had already traced.

  ‘I think you’re right, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bush.’ Hornblower said that spitefully, to his instant regret. It was not fair to make Bush pay for the tensions his captain had been experiencing; nor was it in accord with Hornblower’s ideal of imperturbability to reveal that such tensions had existed. It was well that the next order to be given would most certainly distract Bush from any hurt he might feel.

  ‘I think you had better send the hands to quarters, Mr Bush. Clear for action, but don’t run out the guns.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  Bush’s grin revealed his instant excitement. Now he was bellowing his orders. The pipes were twittering through the ship. The marine drummer came scrambling up from below. He was a child of no more than twelve, and his equipment was all higgledy-piggledy. He made not only a slap-dash gesture of coming to attention on the quarter-deck, he quite omitted the formal drill of raising the drumsticks high before he began to beat the long roll, so anxious was he to begin.

  Prowse approached; as acting-master his station in battle was on the quarter-deck beside his captain.

  ‘She’s broad on the starboard beam now, sir,’ he said, looking over at the Loire. ‘She took a long time to go about. That’s what you’d expect.’

  One of the factors that had entered into Hornblower’s calculations was the fact that Hotspur would be quicker in stays than the Loire. Bush came up, touching his hat.

  ‘Ship cleared for action, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bush.’

  Now here was navy life epitomised in these few minutes. A moment of decision, of bustle, and excitement, and then – settle down to a long wait again. The two ships were thrashing along close-hauled, four miles apart. Hotspur almost dead to windward of the Loire. Those four miles, that direction of the wind, conferred immunity upon Hotspur. As long as she could preserve that distance she was safe. If she could not – if some accident occurred – then the Loire’s forty eighteen-pounders would make short work of her. She could fight for honour, but with no hope of victory. Clearing for action was hardly more than a gesture; men would die, men would be horribly mutilated, but the result would be the same as if Hotspur had tamely surrendered.

  ‘Who’s at the wheel?’ asked Prowse of nobody in particular, and he walked over to supervise the steering – perhaps his thoughts were running along those same lines.

  The boatswain came rolling aft; as the warrant officer charged with the general supervision of sails and rigging he had no particular station in action, and was justified in moving about. But he was being very formal at the moment. He took off his hat to Bush, instead of merely touching it, and stood holding it, his pigtail thumping his shoulders in the gale. He must be asking permission to speak.

  ‘Sir,’ said Bush. ‘Mr Wise is asking on behalf of the hands, sir. Are we at war?’

  Yes? Or no?

  ‘The Frogs know, and we don’t – yet, Mr Wise.’ There was no harm in a captain admitting ignorance when the reason for it should be perfectly clear as soon as the hands had time to consider the matter, as they would have. This might be the time to make a resplendent speech, but second thoughts assured Hornblower it was not. Yet Hornblower’s instinct told him that the situation demanded something more than his last bald sentence.

  ‘Any man in this ship who thinks there’s a different way of doing his duty in peacetime is likely to have his back scratched, Mr Wise. Say that to the hands.’

  That was sufficient for the occasion; Prowse was back again, squinting up at the rigging and gauging the behaviour of the ship.

  ‘Do you think she could carry the main-topmast stays’l, sir?’

  That was a question with many implications, but there was only one answer.

  ‘No,’ said Hornblower.

  That staysail might probably give Hotspur a little more speed through the water. But it would lay her over very considerably, which along the additional area exposed to the wind would increase her leeway by an appreciable proportion. Hornblower had seen Hotspur in dry dock, knew the lines of the turn of her bilge, and could estimate the maximum angle at which she could retain her grip on the water. Those two factors would balance out, and there was a third one to turn the scale – any increase in the amount of canvas exposed would increase the chances of something carrying away. A disaster, petty or great, from the parting of a line to the loss of a topmast, would thrust Hotspur helplessly within range of the enemy’s guns.

  ‘If the wind moderates that’s the first extra canvas I’ll set,’ went on Hornblower to modify the brusqueness of his refusal, and he added
, ‘Take note of how that ship bears from us.’

  ‘I’ve done that, sir,’ answered Prowse; a good mark to Prowse.

  ‘Mr Bush! You may dismiss the watch below.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  This chase – this race – might continue for hours, even for days, and there was no purpose in fatiguing all hands prematurely. The gale developed a new gust within itself, hurling rain and spray across the deck; the Loire faded from sight again as he looked at her, while the Hotspur plunged and tossed like a toy boat as she battled against wind and wave.

  ‘I wonder how many hands are sea-sick over there?’ said Hornblower. He uttered that distasteful word in the same way that a man might tease a sore tooth.

  ‘A good few, I dare say, sir,’ answered Bush in a completely neutral tone.

  ‘Call me when she’s in sight again,’ said Hornblower. ‘Call me in any case of need, of course.’

  He said these words with enormous dignity. Then it was an exhausting physical exercise to struggle aft again back into his cabin; his dizziness exaggerated the leaping of the deck under his feet, and the swing of his cot as he sank groaning across it. It was Bush himself who roused him later on.

  ‘Weather’s clearing, sir,’ came Bush’s voice through the cabin door, over the clamour of the storm.

  ‘Very well. I’ll come.’

  A shadowy shape was already visible to starboard when he came out, and soon the Loire was revealed sharply as the air cleared. There she was, lying steeply over, yards braced up, her gun ports plain enough to be counted when she rose level again, spray bursting in clouds over her weather bow, and then, as she lay over again, a momentary glimpse, pinky-brown, of her copper bottom. Hornblower’s eye told him something that Prowse and Bush put simultaneously into words.