The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  At four in the morning Hornblower was conscious of a shift in the wind, and for a precious hour he was able to order a change of course until a sudden veering of the wind forced them back on the original course again, but he had gained, so his calculations told him, considerably to the northward; there was so much satisfaction in that that he put his forehead down on his forearms on the chart-room table and was surprised into sleep for several valuable minutes before a more extravagant leaping of the ship banged his head upon his arms and awakened him to make his way wearily out upon the quarter-deck again.

  ‘Wish we could take a sounding, sir,’ shouted Prowse.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was no sense in wasting strength in voicing wishes.

  Yet now, even in the darkness, Hornblower could feel that the recent gain and the change in the character of the sea made it justifiable to heave to for a space. He could goad his mind to deal with the problem of drift and leeway; he could harden his heart to face the necessity of calling upon the exhausted topmen to make the effort to furl the goose-winged fore-topsail while he stood by, alert, to bring the ship to under the mizzen stay-sail; bring the helm over at the right moment so that she met the steep waves with her bow. Riding to the wind her motion was wilder and more extravagant than ever, but they managed to cast the deep sea lead, with the crew lined up round the ship, calling ‘Watch! Watch!’ as each man let his portion of line loose. Thirty-eight – thirty-seven – thirty-eight fathoms again; the three casts consumed an hour, with everyone wet to the skin and exhausted. It was a fragment more of the data necessary, while heaving-to eased the labour of the worn-out quartermasters and actually imposed so much less strain on the seams that the pumps steadily gained on the water below.

  At the first watery light of dawn they set the goose-winged fore-topsail again while Hornblower faced the problem of getting Hotspur round with the wind over her quarter without laying her over on her beam ends. Then they were thrashing along in the old way, decks continually under water, rolling until every timber groaned, with Orrock freezing at the fore-topmast-head with his glass. It was noon before he sighted the land; half an hour later Bush returned to the quarter-deck from the ascent he made to confirm Orrock’s findings. Bush was more weary than he would ever admit, his dirty hollow cheeks overgrown with a stubble of beard, but he could still show surprise and pleasure.

  ‘Bolt Head, sir!’ he yelled. ‘Fine on the port bow. And I could just make out the Start.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Even though it meant shouting, Bush wanted to express his feelings about this feat of navigation, but Hornblower had no time for that, nor the patience, nor, for that matter, the strength. There was the question of not being blown too far to leeward at this eleventh hour, of making preparations to come to an anchor in conditions that would certainly be difficult. There was the tide rip off the Start to be borne in mind, the necessity of rounding to as close under Berry Head as possible. There was the sudden inexpressible change in wind and sea as they came under the lee of the Start; the steep choppiness here seemed nothing compared with what Hotspur had been enduring five minutes before, and the land took the edge of the hurricane wind to reduce it to the mere force of a full gale that still kept Hotspur flying before it. There was the Newstone and the Blackstones – here as well as in the Iroise – and the final tricky moment of the approach to Berry Head.

  ‘Ships of war at anchor, sir,’ reported Bush, sweeping Tor Bay with his glass as they opened it up. ‘That’s Dreadnought. That’s Temeraire. It’s the Channel Fleet. My God! There’s one aground in Torquay Roads. Two-decker – she must have dragged her anchors.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll back the best bower anchor before we let go, Mr Bush. We’ll have to use the launch’s carronade. You’ve time to see about that.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Even in Tor Bay there was a full gale blowing; where a two-decker had dragged her anchors every precaution must be taken at whatever further cost in effort. The seven hundredweight of the boat carronade, attached to the anchor-cable fifty feet back from the one ton of the best bower, might just save that anchor from lifting and dragging. And so Hotspur came in under goose-winged fore-topsail and storm mizzen stay-sail, round Berry Head, under the eyes of the Channel Fleet, to claw her way in towards Brixham pier and to round-to with her weary men furling the fore-topsail and to drop her anchors while with a last effort they sent down the topmasts and Prowse and Hornblower took careful bearings to make sure she was not dragging. It was only then that there was leisure to spare to make her number to the flag-ship.

  ‘Flag acknowledges, sir,’ croaked Foreman.

  ‘Very well.’

  It was still possible to do something more without collapsing. ‘Mr Foreman, kindly make this signal. “Need drinking water.” ’

  XIV

  Tor Bay was a tossing expanse of white horses. The land lessened the effect of the wind to some extent; the Channel waves were hampered in their entry by Berry Head, but all the same the wind blew violently and the waves racing up the Channel managed to wheel leftwards, much weakened, but now running across the wind, and with the tide to confuse the issue Tor Bay boiled like a cauldron. For forty hours after Hotspur’s arrival the Hibernia, Cornwallis’s big three-decker, flew the signal 715 with a negative beside it, and 715 with a negative meant that boats were not to be employed.

  Not even the Brixham fishermen, renowned for their small boat work, could venture out into Tor Bay while it was in that mood, so that until the second morning at anchor the crew of the Hotspur supported an unhappy existence on two quarts of tainted water a day. And Hornblower was the unhappiest man on board, from causes both physical and mental. The little ship almost empty of stores was the plaything of wind and wave and tide; she surged about at her anchors like a restive horse. She swung and she snubbed herself steady with a jerk; she plunged and snubbed herself again. With her topmasts sent down she developed a shallow and rapid roll. It was a mixture of motions that would test the strongest stomach, and Hornblower’s stomach was by no means the strongest, while there was the depressing association in his memory of his very first day in a ship of war, when he had made himself a laughing stock by being seasick in the old Justinian at anchor in Spithead.

  He spent those forty hours vomiting his heart out, while to the black depression of sea-sickness was added the depression resulting from the knowledge that Maria was only thirty miles away in Plymouth, and by a good road. Cornwallis’s representations had caused the government to cut that road, over the tail end of Dartmoor, so that the Channel Fleet in its rendezvous could readily be supplied from the great naval base. Half a day on a good horse and Hornblower could be holding Maria in his arms, he could be hearing news first-hand about the progress of the child, on whom (to his surprise) his thoughts were beginning to dwell increasingly. The hands spent their free moments on the forecastle, round the knightheads, gazing at Brixham and Brixham Pier; even in that wind with its deluges of rain there were women to be seen occasionally, women in skirts, at whom the crew stared like so many Tantaluses. After one good night’s sleep, and with pumping only necessary now for half an hour in each watch, those men had time and energy so that their imaginations had free play. They could think about women, and they could think about liquor – most of them dreamed dreams of swilling themselves into swinish unconsciousness on Brixham’s smuggled brandy, while Hornblower could only vomit and fret.

  But he slept during the second half of the second night, when the wind not only moderated but backed two points northerly, altering the conditions in Tor Bay like magic, so that after he had assured himself at midnight that the anchors were still holding his fatigue took charge and he could sleep without moving for seven hours. He was still only half awake when Doughty came bursting in on him.

  ‘Signal from the Flag, sir.’

  There were strings of bunting flying from the halliards of the Hibernia; with the shift of wind they could be read easily enough from the quarter-
deck of the Hotspur.

  ‘There’s our number there, sir,’ said Foreman, glass at eye. ‘It comes first.’

  Cornwallis was giving orders for the victualling and re-watering of the fleet, establishing the order in which the ships were to be replenished and that signal gave Hotspur priority over all the rest.

  ‘We’re lucky, sir,’ commented Bush.

  ‘Possibly,’ agreed Hornblower. No doubt Cornwallis had been informed about Hotspur’s appeal for drinking water, but he might have further plans, too.

  ‘Look at that, sir,’ said Bush. ‘They waste no time.’

  Two lighters, each propelled by eight sweeps, and with a six-oared yawl standing by, were creeping out round the end of Brixham Pier.

  ‘I’ll see about the fend-offs, sir,’ said Bush, departing hastily.

  These were the water-lighters, marvels of construction, each of them containing a series of vast cast-iron tanks. Hornblower had heard about them; they were of fifty tons’ burthen each of them, and each of them carried ten thousand gallons of drinking water, while Hotspur, with every cask and hogshead brim full, could not quite store fifteen thousand.

  So now began an orgy of fresh water, clear springwater which had not lain in the cast-iron tanks for more than a few days. With the lighters chafing uneasily alongside, a party from Hotspur went down to work the beautiful modern pumps which the lighters carried, forcing the water up through four superb canvas hoses passed in through the ports and then down below. The deck scuttle butt, so long empty, was swilled out and filled, to be instantly emptied by the crew and filled again; just possibly at that moment the hands would rather have fresh water than brandy.

  It was glorious waste; down below the casks were swilled and scrubbed out with fresh water, and the swillings drained into the bilge whence the ship’s pumps would later have to force it overboard at some cost of labour. Every man drank his fill and more; Hornblower gulped down glass after glass until he was full, yet half an hour later found him drinking again. He could feel himself expanding like a desert plant after rain.

  ‘Look at this, sir,’ said Bush, telescope in hand and gesturing towards Brixham.

  The telescope revealed a busy crowd at work there, and there were cattle visible.

  ‘Slaughtering,’ said Bush. ‘Fresh meat.’

  Soon another lighter was creeping out to them; hanging from a frame down the midship line were sides of beef, carcasses of sheep and pigs.

  ‘I won’t mind a roast of mutton, sir,’ said Bush.

  Bullocks and sheep and swine had been driven over the moors to Brixham, and slaughtered and dressed on the waterfront immediately before shipping so that the meat would last fresh as long as possible.

  ‘Four days’ rations there, sir,’ said Bush making a practised estimate. ‘An’ there’s a live bullock an’ four sheep an’ four pigs. Excuse me, sir, and I’ll post a guard at the side.

  Most of the hands had money in their pockets and would spend it freely on liquor if they were given the chance, and the men in the victualling barges would sell to them unless the closest supervision were exercised. The water-lighters had finished their task and were casting off. It had been a brief orgy; from the moment that the hoses were taken in ship’s routine would be re-established. One gallon of water per man per day for all purposes from now on.

  The place of the watering barges was taken by the dry victualling barge, with bags of biscuit, sacks of dried peas, kegs of butter, cases of cheese, sacks of oatmeal, but conspicuous on top of all this were half a dozen nets full of fresh bread. Two hundred four-pound loaves – Hornblower could taste the crustiness of them in his watering mouth when he merely looked at them. A beneficent government, under the firm guidance of Cornwallis, was sending these luxuries aboard; the hardships of a life at sea were the result of natural circumstances quite as much as of ministerial ineptitude.

  There was never a quiet moment all through that day. Here was Bush touching his hat again with a final demand on his attention.

  ‘You’ve given no order about wives, sir.’

  ‘Wives?’

  ‘Wives, sir.’

  There was an interrogative lift in Hornblower’s voice as he said the word; there was a flat, complete absence of expression in Bush’s. It was usual in His Majesty’s Ship when they lay in harbour for women to be allowed on board, and one or two of them might well be wives. It was some small compensation for the system that forbade a man to set foot on shore lest he desert; but the women inevitably smuggled liquor on board, and the scenes of debauchery that ensued on the lower-deck were as shameless as in Nero’s court. Disease and indiscipline were the natural result; it took days or weeks to shake the crew down again into an efficient team. Hornblower did not want his fine ship ruined but if Hotspur were to stay long at anchor in Tor Bay he could not deny what was traditionally a reasonable request. He simply could not deny it.

  ‘I’ll give my orders later this morning,’ he said.

  It was not difficult, some minutes later, to intercept Bush at a moment when a dozen of the hands were within earshot.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bush!’ Hornblower hoped his voice did not sound as stilted and theatrical as he feared. ‘You’ve plenty of work to be done about the ship.’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s a good deal of standing rigging I’d like set up again. And there’s running rigging to be re-rove. And there’s the paint work—’

  ‘Very well, Mr Bush. When the ship’s complete in all respects we’ll allow the wives on board, but not until then. Not until then, Mr Bush. And if we have to sail before then it will be the fortune of war.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Next came the letters; word must have reached the post office in Plymouth of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay, and the letters had been sent across overland. Seven letters from Maria; Hornblower tore open the last first, to find that Maria was well and her pregnancy progressing favourably, and then he skimmed through the others, to find, as he expected, that she had rejoiced to read her Valiant Hero’s Gazette letter although she was perturbed by the risks run by her Maritime Alexander, and although she was consumed with sorrow because the Needs of the Service had denied from her eyes the light of his Countenance. Hornblower was half-way through writing a reply when a midshipman came escorted to his cabin door with a note …

  ‘HMS Hibernia

  Tor Bay

  Dear Captain Hornblower,

  If you can be tempted out of your ship at three o’clock this afternoon to dine in the flagship it would give great pleasure to

  Your ob’t servant,

  Wm. Cornwallis, Vice Ad.

  P.S.—An affirmative signal hung out in the Hotspur is all the acknowledgement necessary.’

  Hornblower went out on to the quarter-deck.

  ‘Mr Foreman. Signal “Hotspur to Flag. Affirmative.” ’

  ‘Just affirmative, sir?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  An invitation from the Commander-in-Chief was as much a royal command as if it had been signed George R. – even if the postscript did not dictate the reply.

  Then there was the powder to be put on board, with all the care and precautions that operation demanded; Hotspur had fired away one ton of the five tons of gunpowder that her magazine could hold. The operation was completed when Prowse brought up one of the hands who manned the powder-barge.

  ‘This fellow says he has a message for you, sir.’

  This was a swarthy gipsy-faced fellow who met Hornblower’s eye boldly with all the assurance to be expected of a man who carried in his pocket a protection against impressment.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Message for you from a lady, sir, and I was to have a shilling for delivering it to you.’

  Hornblower looked him over keenly. There was only one lady who could be sending a message.

  ‘Nonsense. That lady promised sixpence. Now didn’t she?’

  Hornblower knew that much about Maria despite his brief married life.

  �
��Well, yes, sir.’

  ‘Here’s the shilling. What’s the message?’

  ‘The lady said look for her on Brixham Pier, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Hornblower took the glass from its becket and walked forward. Busy though the ship was, there were nevertheless a few idlers round the knightheads who shrank away in panic at the remarkable sight of their captain here. He trained the glass; Brixham Pier, as might be expected, was crowded with people, and he searched for a long time without result, training the glass first on one woman and then on another. Was that Maria? She was the only woman wearing a bonnet and not a shawl. Of course it was Maria; momentarily he had forgotten that this was the end of the seventh month. She stood in the front row of the crowd; as Hornblower watched she raised an arm and fluttered a scarf. She could not see him, or at least she certainly could not recognise him at that distance without a telescope. She must have heard, along with the rest of Plymouth, of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay; presumably she had made her way here via Totnes in the carrier’s cart – a long and tedious journey.

  She fluttered her scarf again, in the pathetic hope that he was looking at her. In that part of his mind which never ceased attending to the ship Hornblower became conscious of the pipes of the bos’n’s mate – the pipes had been shrilling one call or another all day long.

  ‘Quarter-boat away-ay-ay!’

  Hornblower had never been so conscious of the slavery of the King’s service. Here he was due to leave the ship to dine with the Commander-in-Chief, and the Navy had a tradition of punctuality that he could not flout. And there was Foreman, breathless from his run forward.

  ‘Message from Mr Bush, sir. The boat’s waiting.’

  What was he to do? Ask Bush to write Maria a note and send it by a shore boat? No, he would have to risk being late – Maria could not bear to receive second-hand messages at this time of all times. A hurried scribble with the left-handed quill.