The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  That was very true, and pleasant to write. So was the next passage. ‘It is with much gratification that I can inform you that the battery is completely wrecked. The parapet is thrown down along with the guns, and the gun-carriages destroyed, as will be understood because not less than one ton of gunpowder was exploded in the battery.’ There were four thirty-two pounders in that battery. A single charge for one of these guns was ten pounds of powder, and the magazine, sunk deep below the parapets, must have contained charges for fifty rounds per gun as a minimum. A crater had been left where once the parapet stood.

  Not much more to write now. ‘The retreat was effected in good order. I append the list of killed, wounded, and missing.’ The rough list lay in front of him, and he proceeded to copy it out carefully; there were widows and bereaved parents who might derive consolation from the sight of those names in the Gazette. One seaman had been killed and several slightly wounded. He recorded their names and began a fresh paragraph. ‘Royal Marines. Killed. Captain Henry Jones. Privates—’ A thought struck him at this moment and he paused with his pen in the air. There was not only consolation in seeing a name in the Gazette; parents and widows could receive the back pay of the deceased and some small gratuity. He was still thinking when Bush came hurrying in the door.

  ‘Cap’n, sir. I’d like to show you something from the deck.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll come.’

  He paused for only a short while. There was a single name in the paragraph headed ‘Seamen killed’ – James Johnson, Ordinary Seaman. He added another name. ‘John Grimes, Captain’s Steward’ and then he put down the pen and came out on deck.

  ‘Look over there, sir,’ said Bush, pointing eagerly ashore and proffering his telescope.

  The landscape was still unfamiliar, with the semaphore gone and the battery – easily visible previously – replaced now by a mound of earth. But that was not what Bush was referring to. There was a considerable body of men on horseback riding along the slopes; through the telescope Hornblower could fancy he could detect plumes and gold lace.

  ‘Those must be generals, sir,’ said Bush excitedly, ‘come out to see the damage. The commandant, and the governor, an’ the chief engineer, an’ all the rest of ’em. We’re nearly in range now, sir. We could drop down without their noticing, run out the guns smartly, full elevation, and – we ought to hit a target that size with one shot in a broadside at least, sir.’

  ‘I think we could,’ agreed Hornblower. He looked up at the wind-vane and over at the shore. ‘We could wear ship and—’

  Bush waited for Hornblower to complete his speech, but the end never came.

  ‘Shall I give the order, sir?’

  There was another pause.

  ‘No,’ said Hornblower at last. ‘Better not.’

  Bush was too good a subordinate to protest, but his disappointment showed plainly enough, and it was necessary to soften the refusal with an explanation. They might kill a general, although the odds were that it would merely be an orderly dragoon. On the other hand they would be drawing most forcible attention to the present weakness of this portion of coast.

  ‘Then they’ll be bringing field batteries,’ went on Hornblower. ‘Only nine-pounders, but—’

  ‘Yes, sir. They might be a nuisance,’ said Bush in reluctant agreement. ‘Do you have anything in mind, sir?’

  ‘Not me. Him,’ said Hornblower. All operations of the Inshore Squadron were Pellew’s responsibility and should be to Pellew’s credit. He pointed towards the Inshore Squadron where Pellew’s broad pendant flew.

  But the broad pendant was to fly there no longer. The boat that took Hornblower’s report to the Tonnant returned not only with stores but with official despatches.

  ‘Sir,’ said Orrock, after handing them over, ‘the Commodore sent a man with me from the Tonnant who carries a letter for you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  He seemed a very ordinary sort of seaman, dressed in the standard clothes of the slop chest. His thick blond pigtail, as he stood hat in hand, indicated that he had long been a seaman. Hornblower took the letter and broke the seal.

  ‘My dear Hornblower,

  It is with infinite pain to myself that I have to confirm the news, conveyed to you in the official despatches, that your latest report will also be the last that I shall have the pleasure of reading. My flag has come, and I shall hoist it as Rear-Admiral commanding the squadron assembling for the blockade of Rochefort. Rear Admiral Wm. Parker will take over the command of the Inshore Squadron and I have recommended you to him in the strongest terms although your actions speak even more strongly for you. But Commanding officers are likely to have their favourites, men with whom they are personally acquainted. We can hardly quarrel on this score, seeing that I have indulged myself in a favourite whose initials are H. H.! Now let us leave this subject for another even more personal.

  I noted in your report that you have had the misfortune to lose your steward, and I take the liberty to send you James Doughty as a substitute. He was steward of the late Captain Stevens of the Magnificent, and he has been persuaded to volunteer for the Hotspur. I understand that he has had much practical experience in attending to gentlemen’s needs, and I hope you will find him suitable and that he will look after you for many years. If during that time you are reminded of me by his presence I shall be well satisfied.

  Your sincere friend,

  Ed. Pellew

  Even with all his quickness of mind it took Hornblower a little while to digest the manifold contents of his letter after reading it. It was all bad news; bad news about the change of command, and just as bad, although in a different way, that he was being saddled with a gentleman’s gentleman who would sneer at his domestic arrangements. Yet if there was anything that a naval career taught anybody, it was to be philosophic about drastic changes.

  ‘Doughty?’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Sir.’

  Doughty looked respectful, but there might be something quizzical in his glance.

  ‘You’re going to be my servant. Do your duty and you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’

  ‘You’ve brought your dunnage?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘The First Lieutenant will detail someone to show you where to sling your hammock. You’ll share a berth with my clerk.’

  The captain’s steward was the only ordinary seaman in the ship who did not have to sleep in the tiers.

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Then you can take up your duties.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  It was only a few minutes later that Hornblower, in his cabin, looked up to find a silent figure slipping in through the door; Doughty knew that as a personal servant he did not knock if the sentry told him the captain was alone.

  ‘Have you had your dinner, sir?’

  It took a moment to answer that question, at the end of a broken day following an entirely sleepless night. During that moment Doughty looked respectfully over Hornblower’s left shoulder. His eyes were a startling blue.

  ‘No, I haven’t. You’d better see about something for me,’ replied Hornblower.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The blue eyes looked round the cabin and found nothing.

  ‘No. There are no cabin stores. You’ll have to go to the galley. Mr Simmonds will find something for me.’ The ship’s cook, as a warrant officer, rated the ‘Mr’ in front of his name. ‘No. Wait. There are two lobsters somewhere in this ship. You’ll find ’em in a barrel of seawater somewhere on the booms. And that reminds me. Your predecessor has been dead for nearly twenty-four hours and that water hasn’t been changed. You must do that. Go to the officer of the watch with my compliments and ask him to put the wash-deck pump to work on it. That’ll keep one lobster alive while I have the other.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Or you could have this one hot tonight and the other one cold tomorrow if I boil them both now, sir.’

  ‘I could,’ agreed Hornblowe
r without committing himself.

  ‘Mayonnaise,’ said Doughty. ‘Are there any eggs in this ship, sir? Any salad oil?’

  ‘No there are not!’ rasped Hornblower. ‘There are no cabin stores whatever in this ship except those two damned lobsters.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Then I’ll serve this one with drawn butter and I’ll see what I can do tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Do whatever you damned well like and don’t trouble me,’ said Hornblower.

  He was working into a worse and worse temper. He not only had to storm batteries but he also had to remember about keeping lobsters alive. And Pellew was leaving the Brest fleet; the official orders he had just read gave details about salutes to the new flags tomorrow. And tomorrow this damned Doughty and his damned mayonnaise, whatever that was, would be pawing over his patched shirts.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Doughty, and disappeared as quietly as he had entered.

  Hornblower went out on deck to pace off his bad temper. The first breath of the delightful evening air helped to soothe him; so too, did the hurried movement of everyone on the quarter-deck over to the lee side so as to leave the weather side to him. For him there was as much space as heart could desire – five long strides forward and aft – but all the other officers had now to take the air under crowded conditions. Let ’em. He had to write out his report to Pellew three times, the original draft, the fair-copy, and the copy in his confidential letter book. Some captains gave that work to their clerks, but Hornblower would not do so. Captain’s clerks made a practice of exploiting their confidential position; there were officers in the ship who would be glad to hear what their captain said about them, and what the future plans might be. Martin would never have the chance. He could confine himself to muster-rolls and returns of stores and the other nuisances that plagued a captain’s life.

  Now Pellew was leaving them, and that was a disaster. Earlier today Hornblower had actually allowed his mind to dally with the notion that some day he might know the inexpressible joy of being ‘made Post’, of being promoted to Captain. That called for the strongest influence, in the Fleet and in the Admiralty. With Pellew’s transfer he had lost a friend in the Fleet. With Parry’s retirement he had lost a friend in the Admiralty – he did not know a single soul there. His promotion to Commander had been a fantastic stroke of luck. When Hotspur should be paid off there were three hundred ambitious young Commanders all with uncles and cousins and all anxious to take his place. He could find himself rotting on the beach on half-pay. With Maria. With Maria and the child. The reverse side of the penny was no more attractive than the front.

  This was not the way to work off the gloom that threatened to engulf him. He had written Maria a letter to be proud of, reassuring, cheerful, and as loving as he had found it possible to make it. Over there was Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating, refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained nervous condition allowed him to believe. It took a full hour of pacing to convince him fully of this. At the end of that time the comfortably monotonous exercise had slowed down his overactive mind. He was healthily tired now, and the moment he thought about it he knew he was ravenously hungry. He had seen Doughty flitting about the deck more than once, for however lost in distraction Hornblower might be he nevertheless took instant note, consciously or subconsciously, of everything that went on in the ship. He was growing desperately impatient, and night had entirely closed in, when his pacing was intercepted.

  ‘Your dinner’s ready, sir.’

  Doughty stood respectfully in front of him.

  ‘Very well. I’ll come.’

  Hornblower sat himself down at the chart-room table, Doughty standing at his chair in the cramped space.

  ‘One moment, sir, while I bring your dinner from the galley. May I pour you some cider, sir?’

  ‘Pour me some …?’

  But Doughty was already pouring from jug to cup, and then he vanished. Hornblower tasted gingerly. There was no doubt about it, it was excellent cider, rough and yet refined, fruity and yet in no way sweet. After water months in cask it was heavenly. He only took two preliminary sips before his head went back and the whole cupful shot delightfully down his throat. He had not begun to debate this curious phenomenon when Doughty slipped into the chart-room again.

  ‘The plate is hot, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What the devil’s this?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘Lobster cutlets, sir,’ said Doughty, pouring more cider, and then, with a gesture not quite imperceptible, he indicated the wooden saucer he had laid on the table at the same time. ‘Butter sauce, sir.’

  Extraordinary. There were neat brown cutlets on his plate that bore no outward resemblance to lobster, but when Hornblower cautiously added sauce and tasted, the result was excellent. Minced lobster. And when Doughty took the cover off the cracked vegetable dish there was a dream of delight revealed. New potatoes, golden and lovely. He helped himself hurriedly and very nearly burned his mouth on them. Nothing could be quite as nice as the first new potatoes of the year.

  ‘These came with the ship’s vegetables, sir,’ explained Doughty. ‘I was in time to save them.’

  Hornblower did not need to ask from what those new potatoes had been saved. He knew a good deal about Huffnell the purser, and he could guess at the appetite of the ward-room mess. Lobster cutlets and new potatoes and this pleasant butter sauce; he was enjoying his dinner, resolutely putting aside the knowledge that the ship’s biscuit in the bread barge was weevily. He was used to weevils, which always showed up after the first month at sea, or earlier if the biscuit had been long in store. He told himself as he took another mouthful of lobster cutlet that he would not allow a weevil in his biscuit to be a fly in his ointment.

  He took another pull at the cider before he remembered to ask where it came from.

  ‘I pledged your credit for it, sir,’ said Doughty. ‘I took the liberty of doing so, to the extent of a quarter of a pound of tobacco.’

  ‘Who had it?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Doughty, ‘I promised not to say.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Hornblower.

  There was only one source for cider – the Camilla, the lobster-boat he had seized last night. Of course the Breton fishermen who manned it would have a keg on board, and somebody had looted it; Martin, his clerk, most likely.

  ‘I hope you bought the whole keg,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Only some of it, I am afraid, sir. All that remained.’

  Out of a two-gallon keg of cider – Hornblower hoped it might be more – Martin could hardly have downed more than a gallon in twenty-four hours. And Doughty must have noted the presence of a keg in the berth he shared with Martin; Hornblower was quite sure that more pressure than the offer of a mere quarter of a pound of tobacco had been applied to make Martin part with the keg, but he did not care.

  ‘Cheese, sir,’ said Doughty; Hornblower had eaten everything else in sight.

  And the cheese – the ration cheese supplied for the ship’s company – was reasonably good, and the butter was fresh; a new firkin must have come in the boat and Doughty must somehow have got at it although the rancid previous assignment had not been used up. The cider jug was empty and Hornblower felt more comfortable than he had felt for days.

  ‘I’ll go to bed now,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Doughty opened the chart-room door and Hornblower passed into his cabin. The lamp swayed from the deck beam. The patched nightshirt was laid out on the cot. Perhaps it was because he was full of cider that Hornblower did not resent Doughty’s presence as he brushed his teeth and made ready for bed. Doughty was at hand to take his coat as he pulled it off; Doughty retrieved his trousers when he let them fall; Doughty hovered by as he dropped into bed and pulled the blankets over him.

  ‘I’ll brush this coat, sir. Here’s your bed gown if you’re called in the night, sir. Shall I put out the lamp, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

 
‘Good night, sir.’

  It was not until next morning that Hornblower remembered again that Grimes had hanged himself in this cabin. It was not until next morning that he remembered those minutes down in the magazine with the gunpowder. Doughty had already proved his worth.

  XII

  The salutes had been fired. Pellew’s flag had been hoisted and then the Tonnant had sailed away to initiate the blockade of Rochefort. The Dreadnought had hoisted Admiral Parker’s flag, and each flag had received thirteen guns from every ship. The French on their hillsides must have seen the smoke and heard the firing, and the naval officers among them must have deduced that one more rear-admiral had joined the Channel Fleet; and must have shaken their heads a little sadly at this further proof that the British Navy was increasing its lead over the French in the race to build up maritime strength.

  Hornblower, peering up the Goulet, over the black shapes of the Little Girls, could count the vessels of war swinging to their anchors in Brest Roads. Eighteen ships of the line now, and seven frigates, but with sub-minimum crews and incomplete stores; no match for the fifteen superb ships of the line under Cornwallis who waited for them outside, growing daily in efficiency and in moral ascendancy. Nelson off Toulon and now Pellew off Rochefort similarly challenged inferior French squadrons, and under their protection the merchant fleets of Britain sailed the seas unmolested except by privateers – and the merchant fleet themselves, bunched in vast convoys, received constant close cover from further British squadrons of a total strength even exceeding that of the blockading fleets. Cordage and hemp, timber and iron and copper, turpentine and salt, cotton and nitre, could all flow freely to the British Isles and be as freely distributed round them, maintaining the ship yards in constant activity, whilst the French yards were doomed to idleness, to the gangrene that follows the cutting off of the circulation.

  But the situation was nevertheless not without peril. Along the Channel Coast Bonaparte had two hundred thousand soldiers, the most formidable army in the world, and collecting in the Channel Ports, from St Malo to Ostend and beyond was a flotilla of seven thousand flat-bottomed boats. Admiral Keith with his frigates, backed by a few ships of the line, held the Channel secure against Bonaparte’s threat; there was no chance of invasion as long as England held naval command of the Channel.