‘My own darling,
So much pleasure in seeing you, but not a moment to spare yet. I will write to you at length.
Your devoted husband,
H.’
He used that initial in all his letters to her; he did not like his first name and he could not bring himself to sign ‘Horry.’ Damn it all, here was the half-finished letter, interrupted earlier that day and never completed. He thrust it aside and struggled to apply a wafer to the finished note. Seven months at sea had destroyed every vestige of gum and the wafer would not adhere. Doughty was hovering over him with sword and hat and cloak – Doughty was just as aware of the necessity for punctuality as he was. Hornblower gave the open note to Bush.
‘Seal this, if you please, Mr Bush. And send it by shore boat to Mrs Hornblower on the pier. Yes, she’s on the pier. By a shore boat, Mr Bush; no one from the ship’s to set foot on land.’
Down the side and into the boat. Hornblower could imagine the explanatory murmur through the crowd on the pier, as Maria would learn from better informed bystanders what was going on.
‘That’s the captain going down into the boat.’ She would feel a surge of excitement and happiness. The boat shoved off, the conditions of wind and current dictating that her bow was pointing right at the pier; that would be Maria’s moment of highest hope. Then the boat swung round while the hands hauled at the halliards and the balance-lug rose up the mast. Next moment she was flying towards the flagship, flying away from Maria without a word or a sign, and Hornblower felt a great welling of pity and remorse within his breast.
Hewitt responded to the flagship’s hail, turned the boat neatly into the wind, dropped the sail promptly, and with the last vestige of the boat’s way ran her close enough to the starboard main-chains for the bowman to hook on. Hornblower judged his moment and went up the ship’s side. As his head reached the level of the main-deck the pipes began to shrill in welcome. And through that noise Hornblower heard the three sharp double strokes of the ship’s bell. Six bells in the afternoon watch; three o’clock, the time stated in his invitation.
The great stern cabin in the Hibernia was furnished in a more subdued fashion than Pellew had affected in the Tonnant, more Spartan and less lavish, but comfortable enough. Somewhat to Hornblower’s surprise there were no other visitors; present in the cabin were only Cornwallis, and Collins, the sardonic Captain of the Fleet, and the flag lieutenant, whose name Hornblower vaguely heard as one of these new-fangled double barrelled names with a hyphen.
Hornblower was conscious of Cornwallis’s blue eyes fixed upon him, examining him closely in a considering, appraising way that might have unsettled him in other conditions. But he was still a little preoccupied with his thoughts about Maria, on the one hand, while on the other seven months at sea, seven weeks of continuous storms, provided all necessary excuse for his shabby coat and his seaman’s trousers. He could meet Cornwallis’s glance without shyness. Indeed, the effect of Cornwallis’s kindly but unsmiling expression was much modified because his wig was slightly awry; Cornwallis still affected a horsehair bobwig of the sort that was now being relegated by fashion to noblemen’s coachmen, and today it had a rakish cant that dissipated all appearance of dignity.
Yet, wig or no wig, there was something in the air, some restraint, some tension, even though Cornwallis was a perfect host who did the honours of his table with an easy grace. The quality of the atmosphere was such that Hornblower hardly noticed the food that covered the table, and he felt acutely that the polite conversation was guarded and cautious. They discussed the recent weather; Hibernia had been in Tor Bay for several days, having run for shelter just in time to escape the last hurricane.
‘How were your stores when you came in, Captain?’ asked Collins.
Now here was another sort of atmosphere, something artificial. There was an odd quality about Collins’s tone, accentuated by the formal ‘Captain’, particularly when addressed to a lowly Commander. Then Hornblower identified it. This was a stilted and prepared speech, exactly of the same nature as his recent speech to Bush regarding the admission of women to the ship. He could identify the tone, but he still could not account for it. But he had a commonplace answer, so commonplace that he made it in a commonplace way.
‘I still had plenty, sir. Beef and pork for a month at least.’
There was a pause a shade longer than natural, as if the information was being digested, before Cornwallis asked the next question in a single word.
‘Water?’
‘That was different, sir. I’d never been able to fill my casks completely from the hoys. We were pretty low when we got in. That was why we ran for it.’
‘How much did you have?’
‘Two days at half-rations, sir. We’d been on half-rations for a week, and two-thirds rations for four weeks before that.’
‘Oh,’ said Collins, and in that instant the atmosphere changed.
‘You left very little margin for error, Hornblower,’ said Cornwallis, and now he was smiling, and now Hornblower in his innocence realised what had been going on. He had been suspected of coming in unnecessarily early, of being one of those captains who wearied of combating tempests. Those were the captains Cornwallis was anxious to weed out from the Channel Fleet, and Hornblower had been under consideration for weeding out.
‘You should have come in at least four days earlier,’ said Cornwallis.
‘Well, sir—’ Hornblower could have covered himself by quoting the orders of Chambers of the Naiad, but he saw no reason to, and he changed what he was going to say. ‘It worked out all right in the end.’
‘You’ll be sending in your journals, of course, sir?’ asked the flag lieutenant.
‘Of course,’ said Hornblower.
The ship’s log would be documentary proof of his assertions, but the question was a tactless, almost an insulting, impugning of his veracity, and Cornwallis instantly displayed a hot-tempered impatience at this awkwardness on the part of his flag lieutenant.
‘Captain Hornblower can do that all in his own good time,’ he said. ‘Now, wine with you, sir?’
It was extraordinary how pleasant the meeting had become; the change in the atmosphere was as noticable as the change in the lighting at this moment when the stewards brought in candles. The four of them were laughing and joking when Newton, captain of the ship, came in to make his report and for Hornblower to be presented to him.
‘Wind’s steady at west nor’west, sir,’ said Newton.
‘Thank you, captain.’ Cornwallis rolled his blue eyes on Hornblower. ‘Are you ready for sea?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There could be no other reply.
‘The wind’s bound to come easterly soon,’ meditated Cornwallis. ‘The Downs, Spithead, Plymouth Sound – all of them jammed with ships outward bound and waiting for a fair wind. But one point’s all you need with Hotspur.’
‘I could fetch Ushant with two tacks now, sir,’ said Hornblower. There was Maria huddled in some lodging in Brixham at this moment, but he had to say it.
‘M’m,’ said Cornwallis, still in debate with himself. ‘I’m not comfortable without you watching the Goulet, Hornblower. But I can let you have one more day at anchor.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘That is if the wind doesn’t back any further.’ Cornwallis reached a decision. ‘Here are your orders. You sail at nightfall tomorrow. But if the wind backs one more point you hoist anchor instantly. That is, with the wind at nor’west by west.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Hornblower knew how he liked his own officers to respond to his orders, and he matched his deportment with that mental model. Cornwallis went on, his eye still considering him.
‘We took some reasonable claret out of a prize a month ago, I wonder if you would honour me by accepting a dozen, Hornblower?’
‘With the greatest of pleasure, sir.’
‘I’ll have it put in your boat.’
Cornwallis turned to give the order to hi
s steward, who apparently had something to say in return in a low voice; Hornblower heard Cornwallis reply, ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ before he turned back.
‘Perhaps your steward would pass the word for my boat at the same time, sir?’ said Hornblower, who was in no doubt that his visit had lasted long enough by Cornwallis’s standards.
It was quite dark when Hornblower went down the side into the boat, to find at his feet the case that held the wine, and by now the wind was almost moderate. The dark surface of Tor Bay was spangled with the lights of ships, and there were the lights of Torquay and of Paignton and Brixham visible as well. Maria was somewhere there, probably uncomfortable, for these little places were probably full of naval officers’ wives.
‘Call me the moment the wind comes nor’west by west,’ said Hornblower to Bush as soon as he reached the deck.
‘Nor’west by west. Aye aye, sir. The hands managed to get liquor on board, sir.’
‘Did you expect anything else?’
The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his earrings in exchange.
‘I had trouble with some of ’em, sir, especially after the beer issue.’
Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.
‘You dealt with ’em?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, Mr Bush.’
A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it open with a hand-spike.
‘The only place to put it, sir,’ explained Doughty, apologetically.
That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores, even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient, there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he had removed from the case.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he repeated the question more sharply still.
‘It’s just a parcel from the Admiral’s steward, sir.’
‘Show me.’
Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled goods.
‘It’s only cabin stores, sir.’
‘Show me.’
‘Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.’ Doughty examined the contents while exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what he would find. ‘This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here’s coffee – only half a pound, by the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And …’
‘How the devil did you get these?’
‘I wrote a note, sir, to the Admiral’s steward, and sent it by your coxs’n. It isn’t right that you shouldn’t have these things, sir. Now I can cook for you properly.’
‘Does the Admiral know?’
‘I’d be surprised if he did, sir.’
There was an assured superior expression on Doughty’s face as he said this, which suddenly revealed to Hornblower a world of which he had been ignorant until then. There might be Flag Officers and Captains, but under that glittering surface was an unseen circle of stewards, with its own secret rites and passwords, managing the private lives of their officers without reference to them.
‘Sir!’ This was Bush, entering the cabin with hurried step. ‘Wind’s nor’ west by west, sir. Looks as if it’ll back further still.’
It took a moment for Hornblower to re-orient his thoughts, to switch from stewards and dried herbs to ships and sailing orders. Then he was himself again, rapping his commands.
‘Call all hands. Sway the topmasts up. Get the yards crossed. I want to be under way in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The quiet of the ship was broken by the pipes and the curses of the petty officers, as they drove the hands to work. Heads bemused by beer and brandy cleared themselves with violent exercise and the fresh air of the chilly night breeze. Clumsy fingers clutched hoists and halliards. Men tripped and stumbled in the darkness and were kicked to their feet by petty officers goaded on by the master’s mates goaded on in turn by Bush and Prowse. The vast cumbersome sausages that were the sails were dragged out from where they had been laid away on the booms.
‘Ready to set sail, sir,’ reported Bush.
‘Very well. Send the hands to the capstan. Mr Foreman, what’s the night signal for “Am getting under way.” ’
‘One moment, sir.’ Foreman had not learned the night signal book as thoroughly as he should have done in seven months. ‘One blue light and one Bengal fire shown together, sir.’
‘Very well. Make that ready. Mr Prowse, a course from the Start to Ushant, if you please.’
That would let the hands know what fate awaited them, if they did not guess already. Maria would know nothing at all until she looked out at Tor Bay tomorrow to find Hotspur’s place empty. And all she had to comfort her was the curt note he had sent before dinner; cold comfort, that. He must not think of Maria, or of the child
The capstan was clanking as they hove the ship up towards the best bower. They would have to deal with the extra weight of the boat carronade that backed that anchor; the additional labour was the price to be paid for the security of the past days. It was a clumsy, as well as a laborious operation.
‘Shall I heave short on the small bower, sir?’
‘Yes, if you please, Mr Bush. And you can get under way as soon as is convenient to you.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Make that signal, Mr Foreman.’
The quarter-deck was suddenly illuminated, the sinister blue light blending with the equally sinister crimson of the Bengal fire. The last splutterings had hardly died away before the answer came from the flagship, a blue light that winked three times as it was momentarily screened.
‘Flagship acknowledges, sir!’
‘Very well.’
And this was the end of his stay in harbour, of his visit to England. He had seen the last of Maria for months to come; she would be a mother when he saw her next.
‘Sheet home!’
Hotspur was gathering way, turning on her heel with a fair wind to weather Berry Head. Hornblower’s mind played with a score of inconsequential thoughts as he struggled to put aside his overwhelming melancholy. He remembered the brief private conversation that he had witnessed between Cornwallis and the steward. He was quite sure that the latter had been telling his Admiral about the parcel prepared for transmission to Hotspur. Doughty was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. That conclusion called up a weak smile as Hotspur breasted the waters of the Channel, with Berry Head looming up on her starboard beam.
XV
Now it was cold, horribly cold; the days were short and the nights were very, very long. Along with the cold weather came easterly winds – the one involved the other – and a reversal of the tactical situation. For although with the wind in the east Hotspur was relieved of the anxiety of being on a lee shore her responsibilities were proportionately increased. There was nothing academic now about noting the direction of the wind each hour; it was no mere navigational routine. Should the wind blow from any one of ten points of the compass out of thirty-two it would be possible even for the lubberly French to make their exit down the Goulet and enter the Atlantic. Should they make the attempt it was Hotspur’s duty to pass an instant warning for the Channel Fleet to form line of battle if the French were rash enough to challenge action, and to cover every exit – by the Raz, by the Iroise, by the Four – if, as would be more likely, they attempted merely to escape.
Today the last of the flood did not make until two o’clo
ck in the afternoon, a most inconvenient time, for it was not until then that Hotspur could venture in to make her daily reconnaissance at closest range. To do so earlier would be to risk that a failure of the wind, leaving her at the mercy of the tide, would sweep her helplessly up, within range of the batteries on Petit Minou and the Capuchins – the Toulinguet battery; and more assuredly fatal than the batteries would be the reefs, Pollux and the Little Girls.
Hornblower came out on deck with the earliest light – not very early on this almost the shortest day of the year – to check the position of the ship while Prowse took the bearings of the Petit Minou and the Grand Gouin.
‘Merry Christmas, sir,’ said Bush. It was typical of a military service that Bush should have to touch his hat while saying those words.
‘Thank you. The same to you, Mr Bush.’
It was typical, also, that Hornblower should have been acutely aware that it was December 25th and yet should have forgotten that it was Christmas Day; tide tables made no reference to the festivals of the church.
‘Any news of your good lady, sir?’ asked Bush.
‘Not yet,’ answered Hornblower, with a smile that was only half-forced. ‘The letter I had yesterday was dated the eighteenth, but there’s nothing as yet.’
It was one more indication of the way the wind had been blowing, that he should have received a letter from Maria in six days; a victualler had brought it out with a fair wind. That also implied that it might be six weeks before his reply reached Maria, and in six weeks – in one week – everything would be changed, and the child would be born. A naval officer writing to his wife had to keep one eye on the wind-vane just as the Lords of the Admiralty had to do when drafting their orders for the movements of fleets. New Year’s Day was the date Maria and the midwife had decided upon; at that time Maria would be reading the letters he wrote a month ago. He wished he had written more sympathetically, but nothing he could do could recall, alter, or supplement those letters.
All he could do would be to spend some of this morning composing a letter that might belatedly compensate for the deficiencies of its predecessors (and Hornblower realised with a stab of conscience that this was not the first time he had reached that decision) while it would be even more difficult than usual because it would have to be composed with an eye to all eventualities. All eventualities; Hornblower felt in that moment the misgivings of every prospective father.
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