The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Now what in the world have you been up to this time, Hornblower?’

  ‘I have my report here, sir.’

  ‘Give it to Collins. Now tell me.’

  Hornblower gave the facts as briefly as he could.

  ‘Moore was furious at your parting company, but I think he’ll excuse you when he hears about this. Medusa never acknowledged your signal?

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You did quite right in hanging on to Félicité. I’ll endorse your report to that effect. Moore ought to be glad that there was one ship fewer to share his prize money.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t give that a thought, sir.’

  ‘I expect you’re right. But you, Hornblower. You could have turned a blind eye to the Félicité – there’s a precedent in the Navy for turning a blind eye. Then you could have stayed with Moore and shared the prize money.’

  ‘If Félicité had escaped round Cape St Vincent there might not have been any prize money, sir.’

  ‘I see. I quite understand.’ The blue eyes had a twinkle. ‘I put you in the way of wealth and you disdain it.’

  ‘Hardly that, sir.’

  It was a sudden revelation to Hornblower that Cornwallis had deliberately selected him and Hotspur to accompany Moore and share the prize money. Every ship must have been eager to go; conceivably this was a reward for months of vigilance in the Goulet.

  Now Collins entered the conversation.

  ‘How are your stores?’

  ‘I’ve plenty, sir. Food and water for sixty more days on full rations.’

  ‘What about your powder and shot?’ Collins tapped his finger on Hornblower’s report, which he had been reading.

  ‘I’ve enough for another engagement, sir.’

  ‘And your ship?’

  ‘We’ve plugged the shot holes, sir. We can carry sail on the mainyard as long as it doesn’t blow too strong.’

  Cornwallis spoke again.

  ‘Would it break your heart if you went back to Plymouth?’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’

  ‘That’s as well, for I’m sending you in to refit.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. When shall I sail?’

  ‘You’re too restless even to stay to dinner?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Cornwallis laughed outright. ‘I wouldn’t like to put you to the test.’

  He glanced up at the tell-tale wind-vane in the deck beams above. Men who had spent their whole lives combating the vagaries of the wind all felt alike in that respect; when a fair wind blew it was sheer folly to waste even an hour on a frivolous pretext.

  ‘You’d better sail now,’ went on Cornwallis. ‘You know I’ve a new second in command? ’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Lord Gardner. Now that I have to fight the Dons as well as Boney I need a vice-admiral.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, sir.’

  ‘If you sail in this thick weather you won’t have to salute him. That will save the King some of his powder that you’re so anxious to burn. Collins, give Captain Hornblower his orders.’

  So he would be returning once more to Plymouth. Once more to Maria.

  XXIV

  ‘It really was a magnificent spectacle,’ said Maria.

  The Naval Chronicle, at which Hornblower was glancing while conversing with her, used those identical words ‘magnificent spectacle.’

  ‘I’m sure it must have been, dear.’

  Under his eyes was a description of the landing of the Spanish treasure at Plymouth from the frigates captured by Moore’s squadron. Military precautions had of course been necessary when millions of pounds in gold and silver had to be piled into wagons and dragged through the streets up to the Citadel, but the fanfare had exceeded military necessity. The Second Dragoon Guards had provided a mounted escort, the Seventy-First Foot had marched with the waggons, the local militia had lined the streets, and every military band for miles round had played patriotic airs. And when the treasure was moved on to London troops had marched with it and their bands had marched with them, so that every town through which the convoy passed had been treated to the same magnificent spectacle. Hornblower suspected that the government was not averse to calling the attention of as many people as possible to this increase in the wealth of the country, at a moment when Spain had been added to the list of England’s enemies.

  ‘They say the captains will receive hundreds of thousands of pounds each,’ said Maria. ‘I suppose it will never be our good fortune to win anything like that, dear?’

  ‘It is always possible,’ said Hornblower.

  It was astonishing, but most convenient, that Maria was quite unaware of any connection between Hotspur’s recent action with Félicité and Moore’s capture of the flota. Maria was shrewd and sharp, but she was content to leave naval details to her husband, and it never occurred to her to inquire how it had come about that Hotspur, although attached to the Channel Fleet off Ushant, had found herself off Cape St Vincent. Mrs Mason might have been more inquisitive, but she, thank God, had returned to Southsea.

  ‘What happened to that Doughty?’ asked Maria.

  ‘He deserted,’ answered Hornblower; luckily, again. Maria was not interested in the mechanics of desertion and did not inquire into the process.

  ‘I’m not sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I never liked him. But I’m afraid you miss him.’

  ‘I can manage well enough without him,’ said Hornblower. It was useless to buy capers and cayenne during this stay in Plymouth; Bailey would not know what to do with them.

  ‘Perhaps one of these days I’ll be able to look after you instead of these servants,’ said Maria.

  There was the tender note in her voice again, and she was drawing nearer.

  ‘No one could do that better than you, my darling,’ answered Hornblower. He had to say it. He could not hurt her. He had entered into this marriage voluntarily, and he had to go on playing the part. He put his arm round the waist that had come within reach.

  ‘You are the kindest husband, darling,’ said Maria. ‘I’ve been so happy with you.’

  ‘Not as happy as I am when you say that,’ said Hornblower. That was the base intriguer speaking again, the subtle villain – the man who had plotted Doughty’s escape from justice. No; he must remember that his conscience was clear now in that respect. That self-indulgence had been washed away by the blood that had poured over the decks of Félicité.

  ‘I often wonder why it should be,’ went on Maria, with a new note in her voice. ‘I wonder why you should be so kind to me, when I think about – you, darling – and me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Hornblower, as bluffly as he could manage. ‘You must always be sure of my feelings for you, dear. Never doubt me.’

  ‘My very dearest,’ said Maria, her voice changing again, the note of inquiry dying out and the tenderness returning. She melted into his arms. ‘I’m fortunate that you have been able to stay so long in Plymouth this time.’

  ‘That was my good fortune, dear.’

  Replacing the transoms which Bush had so blithely cut away in Hotspur’s stern for the fight with Félicité had proved to be a laborious piece of work – Hotspur’s stern had had to be almost rebuilt.

  ‘And the Little One has been sleeping like a lamb all the evening,’ went on Maria; Hornblower could only hope that this did not involve his crying all night.

  A knock at the door made Maria tear herself away from Hornblower’s embracing arm.

  ‘Gentleman to see you,’ said the landlady’s voice.

  It was Bush, in pea-jacket and scarf, standing hesitating on the threshold.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Your servant, ma’am. I hope I don’t intrude.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Hornblower, wondering what shift of wind or politics could possibly have brought Bush here, and very conscious that Bush’s manner was a little odd.

  ‘Come in, man. Come in. Let me take your coat – unless your news is urgent?’

  ‘Hardly urgent, sir,
’ said Bush rather ponderously, allowing himself, with embarrassment, to be relieved of his coat. ‘But I felt you would like to hear it.’

  He stood looking at them both, his eyes not quite in focus, yet sensitive to the possibility that Maria’s silence might be a sign that to her he was unwelcome; but Maria made amends.

  ‘Won’t you take this chair, Mr Bush?’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Seated, he looked from one to the other again; it was quite apparent to Hornblower by now that Bush was a little drunk.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ he asked.

  Bush’s face split into an ecstatic grin.

  ‘Droits of Admiralty, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Moore and the frigates – I mean Captain Moore, of course, begging your pardon, sir.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I was in the coffee-room of the Lord Hawke, sir – I often go there of an evening – and last Wednesday’s newspapers came down from London. And there it was, sir. Droits of Admiralty.’

  Wrecks; stranded whales; flotsam and jetsam; Droits of Admiralty dealt with things of this sort, appropriating them for the Crown, and, despite the name, they were of no concern to Their Lordships. Bush’s grin expanded into a laugh.

  ‘Serves ’em right, doesn’t it, sir?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll have to explain a little further.’

  ‘All that treasure they captured in the flota, sir. It’s not prize money at all. It goes to the Government as Droits of Admiralty. The frigates don’t get a penny. You see, sir, it was time of peace.’

  Now Hornblower understood. In the event of war breaking out with another country, the ships of that country which happened to be in British ports were seized by the Government as Droits of Admiralty; prize money came under a different category, for prizes taken at sea in time of war were Droits of the Crown, and were specifically granted to the captors by an order in Council which waived the rights of the Crown.

  The government was perfectly justified legally in its action. And however much that action would infuriate the ships’ companies of the frigates, it would make the rest of the navy laugh outright, just as it had made Bush laugh.

  ‘So we didn’t lose anything, sir, on account of your noble action. Noble – I’ve always wanted to tell you it was noble, sir.’

  ‘But how could you lose anything?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Don’t you know about that, ma’am?’ asked Bush, turning his wavering gaze upon her. Wavering or not, and whether he was drunk or not, Bush could still see that Maria had been left in ignorance of the opportunity that Hotspur had declined, and he still was sober enough to make the deduction that it would be inadvisable to enter into explanations.

  ‘What was it that Captain Hornblower did that was so noble?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Least said soonest mended, ma’am,’ said Bush. He thrust his hand into his side pocket and laboriously fished out a small bottle. ‘I took the liberty of bringing this with me, ma’am, so that we could drink to the health of Captain Moore an’ the Indefatigable an’ the Droits of Admiralty. It’s rum, ma’am. With hot water an’ lemon an’ sugar, ma’am, it makes a suitable drink for this time o’ day.’

  Hornblower caught Maria’s glance.

  ‘It’s too late tonight, Mr Bush,’ he said. ‘We’ll drink that health tomorrow. I’ll help you with your coat.’

  After Bush had left (being helped on with his coat by his captain flustered him sufficiently to make him almost wordless) Hornblower turned back to Maria.

  ‘He’ll find his way back to the ship all right,’ he said.

  ‘So you did something noble, darling,’ said Maria.

  ‘Bush was drunk,’ replied Hornblower. ‘He was talking nonsense.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Maria. Her eyes were shining. ‘I always think of you as noble, my darling.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Hornblower.

  Maria came forward to him, putting her hands up to his shoulders, coming close so that he could resume the interrupted embrace.

  ‘Of course you must have secrets from me,’ she said. ‘I understand. You’re a King’s officer, as well as my darling husband.’

  Now that she was in his arms she had to put her head far back to look up at him.

  ‘It’s no secret,’ she went on, ‘that I love you, my dear, noble love. More than life itself.’

  Hornblower knew it was true. He felt his tenderness towards her surging up within him. But she was still speaking.

  ‘And something else that isn’t a secret,’ went on Maria. ‘Perhaps you’ve guessed. I think you have.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Hornblower. ‘You make me very happy, my dear wife.’

  Maria smiled, her face quite transfigured. ‘Perhaps this time it will be a little daughter. A sweet little girl.’

  Hornblower had suspected it, as he said. He did not know if he was happy with his knowledge, although he said he was. It would only be a day or two before he took Hotspur to sea again, back to the blockade of Brest, back to the monotonous perils of the Goulet.

  XXV

  Hotspur lay in the Iroise, and the victualler was heaving-to close alongside, to begin again the toilsome labour of transferring stores. After sixty days of blockade duty there would be much to do, even though the pleasant sunshine of early summer would ease matters a little. The fend-offs were over the side and the first boat was on its way from the victualler bringing the officer charged with initiating the arrangements.

  ‘Here’s the post, sir,’ said the officer, handing Hornblower the small package of letters destined for the ship’s company. ‘But here’s a letter from the Commander-in-Chief, sir. They sent it across to me from the Hibernia as I passed through the Outer Squadron.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hornblower.

  He passed the packet to Bush to sort out. There would be letters from Maria in it, but a letter from the Commander-in-Chief took precedence. There was the formal address:

  Horatio Hornblower, Esq.

  Master and Commander

  HM Sloop Hotspur

  The letter was sealed with an informal wafer, instantly broken.

  ‘My dear Captain Hornblower,

  I hope you can find it convenient to visit me in Hibernia, as I have news for you that would best be communicated personally. To save withdrawing Hotspur from her station, and to save you a long journey by boat, you might find it convenient to come in the victualler that brings this letter. You are therefore authorised to leave your First Lieutenant in command, and I will find means for returning you to your ship when our business is completed. I look forward with pleasure to seeing you.

  Your ob’d’t servant,

  Wm. Cornwallis.’

  Two seconds of bewilderment, and then a moment of horrid doubt which made Hornblower snatch the other letters back from Bush and hurriedly search through them for those from Maria.

  ‘Best communicated personally’ – Hornblower had a sudden secret fear that something might have happened to Maria and that Cornwallis had assumed the responsibility of breaking the news to him. But here was a letter from Maria only eight days old, and all was well with her and with little Horatio and the child to be. Cornwallis could hardly have later news than that.

  Hornblower was reduced to re-reading the letter and weighing every word like a lover receiving his first love letter. The whole letter appeared cordial in tone, until Hornblower forced himself to admit that if it was summons to a reprimand it might be worded in exactly the same way. Except for the opening word ‘My’; that was a departure from official practice – yet it might be a mere slip. And the letter concerned itself with ‘news’ – but Cornwallis would call official information ‘news’ too. Hornblower took a turn up the deck and forced himself to laugh at himself. He really was behaving like a love-lorn youth. If after all these years of service he had not learned to wait patiently through a dull hour for an inevitable crisis the Navy had not taught him even his first lesson.


  The stores came slowly on board; there were the receipts to sign, and of course there were the final hurried questions hurled at him by people afraid of accepting responsibility.

  ‘Make up your own mind about that,’ snapped Hornblower, and, ‘Mr Bush’ll tell you want to do, and I hope he’ll put a flea in your ear.’

  Then at last he was on a strange deck, watching with vast curiosity the handling of a different ship as the victualler filled away and headed out of the Iroise. The victualler’s captain offered him the comfort of his cabin and suggested sampling the new consignment of rum, but Hornblower could not make himself accept either offer. He could only just manage to make himself stand still, aft by the taffrail, as they gradually left the coast behind, and picked their way through the Inshore Squadron and set a course for the distant topsails of the main body of the Channel Fleet.

  The huge bulk of the Hibernia loomed up before them, and Hornblower found himself going up the side and saluting the guard. Newton, the captain of the ship, and Collins, the Captain of the Fleet, both happened to be on deck and received him cordially enough; Hornblower hoped they did not notice his gulp of excitement as he returned their ‘Good afternoons.’ Collins prepared to show him to the Admiral’s quarters.

  ‘Please don’t trouble, sir. I can find my own way,’ protested Hornblower.

  ‘I’d better see you past all the Cerberuses that guard these nether regions,’ said Collins.

  Cornwallis was seated at one desk, and his flag-lieutenant at another, but they both rose at his entrance, and the flag-lieutenant slipped unobtrusively through a curtained door in the bulkhead while Cornwallis shook Hornblower’s hand – it could hardly be a reprimand that was coming, yet Hornblower found it difficult to sit on more than the edge of the chair that Cornwallis offered him. Cornwallis sat with more ease, yet bolt upright with his back quite flat as was his habit.

  ‘Well?’ said Cornwallis.

  Hornblower realised that Cornwallis was trying to conceal his mood, yet there was – or was there not? – a twinkle in the china blue eyes; all these years as Commander-in-Chief still had not forged the Admiral into the complete diplomat. Or perhaps they had. Hornblower could only wait; he could think of nothing to say in reply to that monosyllable.