Captain Hornblower R. N.

by C. S. Forester

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on, then, Mr. Turner, report in my cabin in fifteen minutes’ time, if you please. Messenger! My compliments to the doctor, and I’d like to see him in my cabin immediately.”

  Hornblower felt like a juggler at a fair, keeping half a dozen balls in the air at once. He wanted to hear from the doctor how McCullum was progressing after the operation; he wanted to discuss with Turner the question of what local authorities might be likely to be present in Marmorice to interfere with his work there; he wanted to make all preparations for the next morning; he wanted to be ready with his own plans for raising the treasure if McCullum was unable to give advice; and night orders for the care of the ship in this harbour of doubtful neutrality had to be written; it was only late in the evening that he remembered something else—something of which he was reminded only by a suddenly noticed feeling of emptiness inside him. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. He ate biscuit and cold meat, crunching the flinty fragments hurriedly at his cabin table before hurrying on deck again into the darkness.

  It was a chilly night, and the young moon had already set. No breath of air now ruffled the black surface of the water of the bay, smooth enough to bear faint reflections of the stars. Black and impenetrable was the water, beneath which lay a quarter of a million pounds sterling. It was as impenetrable as his future, he decided, leaning on the bulwark. An intelligent man, he decided, would go to bed and sleep, having done all that his forethought and ingenuity could devise, and an intelligent man would worry no further for the moment. But he had to be very firm with himself to drive himself to bed and allow his utter weariness of body and mind to sweep him away into unconsciousness.

  It was still dark when he was called, dark and cold, but he ordered coffee for himself and sipped it as he dressed. Last night when he had given the time for his being called he had allowed for a leisurely dressing before daylight, but he felt tense and anxious as he got out of bed, much as he had felt on other occasions when he had been roused in the night to take part in a cutting-out expedition or a dawn landing, and he had to restrain himself from putting on his clothes in haphazard fashion and hurrying on deck. He forced himself to shave, although that was an operation which had mostly to be carried out by touch because the hanging lamp gave almost no illumination to the mirror. The shirt he pulled on felt clammy against his ribs; he was struggling with his trousers when a knock at the door brought in Eisenbeiss, reporting in obedience to overnight orders.

  “The patient is sleeping well, sir,” he announced.

  “Is his condition good?”

  “I thought I should not disturb him, sir. He was sleeping quietly, so I could not tell if he had fever nor could I examine the wound. I can wake him if you wish, sir—”

  “No, don’t do that, of course. I suppose it’s a good symptom that he’s sleeping in any case?”

  “A very good one, sir.”

  “Then leave him alone, doctor. Report to me if there is any change.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower buttoned his trousers and thrust his feet into his shoes. His eagerness to be on deck overcame his self-restraint to the extent that he was still buttoning his coat as he went up the companion. On deck as well the atmosphere seemed to be charged with that feeling of impending attack at dawn. There were the dimly-seen figures of the officers, silhouetted against the sky. To the east there was the faintest illumination, a little light reaching half-way up to the zenith, so faint as almost to be unnoticed, and its colour, in its turn, was so faint a shade of pink as hardly to be called that.

  “Morning,” said Hornblower in response to the touched hats of his subordinates.

  In the waist he could hear orders being quietly given—just like manning the boats for a cutting-out expedition.

  “Longboat’s crew starboard side,” said Smiley’s voice.

  “Launch’s crew port side.” That was the Prince’s voice. He was acquiring a better accent than Eisenbeiss’s.

  “There’s some surface mist, sir,” reported Jones. “But it’s very patchy.”

  “So I see,” replied Hornblower.

  “Last night we were lying two cables’ lengths from the wreck as near as makes no matter, sir,” said Turner. “We’ve swung during the night, with the wind dropping, but little enough.”

  “Tell me when it’s light enough for you to get your bearings.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  In that short time the eastern sky had changed. One might almost have said it had darkened, but perhaps that was because with the tiny increase in the general illumination the contrast was not so marked.

  “You took a third bearing at the time when Speedwell went down, Mr. Turner?”

  “Yes, sir. It was—”

  “No matter.”

  Turner could be relied upon to manage a simple piece of business of that sort.

  “I don’t expect the wreck has moved an inch, sir,” said Turner. “There’s no tide here. No scour. The two rivers that run into the Bay don’t set up any current you can measure.”

  “And the bottom’s firm sand?”

  “Firm sand, sir.”

  That was something to be thankful for. In mud the wreck might have sunk beyond discovery.

  “How the devil did Speedwell come to capsize?” asked Hornblower.

  “Sheer bad luck, sir. She was an old ship and she’d been at sea a long time. The weeds and the barnacles were thick along her waterline—she wasn’t coppered high enough, sir. So they were heeling her, cleaning her port side, with the guns run out to starboard and all the weights they could shift over to starboard too. It was a still day, baking hot. Then, before you could say Jack Robinson, there came a gust out of the mountains. It caught her square on the port beam and laid her over before she could pay off. The gun ports were open and the water came up over the sills. That laid her over still more—at least, that’s what the court of inquiry found, sir—and with her hatchways open the water rose over the coamings and down she went.”

  “Did she right herself as she sank?”

  “No, sir. I looked over at her when I heard the shout, and I saw her keel. Bottom upwards she went. Her top-masts were snapped clean off. They came up soon enough, main and fore top-masts still anchored to the wreck by a shroud or two. That was a help when it came to taking the bearings.”

  “I see,” said Hornblower.

  Dawn was coming up fast. It actually seemed—an optical illusion, of course—as if great arms of colour were climbing up the sky from the eastern horizon at a pace perceptible to the eye.

  “It’s light enough now, sir,” said Turner.

  “Thank you. Mr. Jones! You can carry on.”

  Hornblower watched them go, Turner leading the way in the gig with his instruments and compass, Still following behind in the launch with Smiley in the longboat attached to the launch by the sweep. Hornblower became acutely aware that despite the cup of coffee he had drunk he wanted his breakfast. It seemed almost against his will that he lingered. This dead still calm at dawn was the ideal time for an operation of this sort; it enabled the gig to take up and maintain a position with the least possible effort. The ripples caused by the boat’s passage, slow though it was, spread far over the glassy surface of the Bay before dying out at last. He saw the gig stop, and clearly over the water came the sound of Turner’s voice as he spoke through his speaking trumpet to the other boats. They jockeyed round into position awkwardly, like two beetles tied together with a thread, and then they paid out the sweep between them, manoeuvred awkwardly again for a moment as they laid themselves exactly upon the correct bearing, and then the oars began to swing rhythmically, slowly, like the pendulum of Fate, as the boats began to sweep the area ahead of them. Hornblower’s heart beat faster despite himself, and he swallowed with excitement. Around him the ship was beginning her normal life. Amid the peculiar patter of bare feet on wooden planking—a sound unlike any other on earth—the watch below were bringing their hammocks to sto
w in the nettings. Swabs and holystones, buckets and pump; the hands not at work in the boats began the eternal daily routine of washing down the decks. Not for the first time on the voyage Hornblower found himself experiencing a momentary envy of the seamen at their work. Their problems were of the simplest, their doubts were minute. To holystone a portion of planking to the whiteness demanded by a petty officer, to swab it off, to swab it dry, working in amicable companionship with friends of long standing, dabbling their naked feet in the gush of clear water—that was all they had to do, as they had done for an infinity of mornings in the past and would do for an infinity of mornings in the future. He would be glad to exchange with them his loneliness, his responsibility, the complexity of his problems; so he felt for a moment before he laughed at himself, knowing perfectly well he would be horrified if some freak of Fate forced such an exchange on him. He turned away, changing the subject of his thoughts; a generous slice of fat pork, fried to a pale brown—there had been a leg in soak for him for the past two days, and the outside cut would be not too salty now. It would smell delicious—he could almost smell it at this very moment. Holy Jerusalem, unless it was still spluttering on his plate when it was put before him despite the journey from galley to cabin he’d make someone wish he had never been born. And he would have biscuit crumbs fried with it, and he would top it off with black treacle smeared on a biscuit, thick. That was a breakfast worth thinking about.

  XIII

  Hornblower stood with his purse in his hand, having taken it from his sea chest where it had lain in the inner compartment. He knew exactly how many guineas there were in it, and he was trying not to wish there were more. If he were a wealthy captain he would be generous towards his ship’s company, and to the wardroom and gunroom. But as it was—He shook his head. He did not want to appear miserly or mean, but he certainly did not want to be foolish. He walked along to the wardroom door and paused there; Still caught his eye.

  “Please come in, sir.”

  The other officers rose from their chairs; there was nowhere for them to sit unless they sat round the table in the tiny wardroom.

  “I was hoping,” said Hornblower to Carslake the purser, “that you would be kind enough to make some purchases for me.”

  “Of course, sir. Honoured, I’m sure,” said Carslake. He could say nothing else, in any case.

  “A few chickens—half a dozen, say, and some eggs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it the intention of the wardroom to buy fresh meat for itself?”

  “Well, sir—”

  That had been the subject under discussion at his entrance.

  “At this time of year there might be lambs to sell. I could have one—two young ones, if they’re cheap. But an ox—what am I to do with a whole ox?”

  Everyone in the wardroom had been up against this problem at some time or other.

  “If the wardroom decides to buy an ox I would be glad to pay a quarter of the price,” said Hornblower, and the wardroom cheered up perceptibly.

  A captain who bought a share in an animal would always get the best cuts—that was in the course of nature. And they had all known captains who would pay no more than their share. But with five wardroom officers Hornblower’s offer was generous.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” said Carslake. “I think I can sell a couple of joints to the gunroom.”

  “On advantageous terms, I trust?” said Hornblower, with a grin.

  He could remember well enough as a midshipman occasions when wardroom and gunroom had gone shares in an animal.

  “I expect so, sir,” said Carslake and then, changing the subject, “Mr. Turner says that it’ll be goat here, mainly. Do you care for goat, sir?”

  “Young kid, stewed with turnips and carrots!” said Jones. “You can do worse than that, sir.”

  Jones’s lantern-jawed face was alight with appetite. These grown men, continuously fed on preserved food, were like children at a gingerbread stall at a fair with the thought of fresh meat.

  “Do what you can,” said Hornblower. “I’ll eat kid or lamb, or I’ll share in an ox, as you find the market provides. You know what you’re buying for the crew?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Carslake.

  The penny-pinching clerks of a penurious government at home would scrutinize those expenditures in time. Nothing very generous could be bought for the hands.

  “I don’t know what vegetables we’ll find, sir, at this time of year,” went on Carslake, “winter cabbage, I suppose.”

  “Nothing wrong with winter cabbage,” interposed Jones.

  “Carrots and turnips out of winter store,” said Carslake. “They’ll be pretty stringy, sir.”

  “Better than nothing,” said Hornblower. “There won’t be enough in the market for all we need, nor will there be until the word goes round the countryside. So much the better. Then we’ll have an excuse to linger. You’re going to interpret, Mr. Turner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep your eyes open. And your ears.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Jones, you will attend to the water casks, if you please.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  That was the transition between the social visit and the official issuing of orders.

  “Carry on.”

  Hornblower went to the bedside where McCullum lay. Sailcloth pillows supported him in a position half on his side. It was a comfort to see how comparatively well he looked. The fever and its accompanying distortion of thought had left him.

  “Glad to see you looking so well, Mr. McCullum,” said Hornblower.

  “Well enough,” answered McCullum.

  He croaked a little, but his speech was almost normal.

  “A full night’s sleep,” said Eisenbeiss, hovering on the far side of the bed. He had already made his report to Hornblower—the wound showed every sign of healing, the sutures had not at least as yet caused undue inflammation, and the draining where the bristle kept the wound in the back open had been apparently satisfactory.

  “And we’ve started a full morning’s work,” said Hornblower. “You have heard that we have located the wreck?”

  “No. I had not heard that.”

  “It’s located and buoyed,” said Hornblower.

  “Are you sure it is the wreck?” croaked McCullum. “I’ve known some queer mistakes made.”

  “It is exactly where the bearings were taken when she sank,” said Hornblower. “It is the right size as far as the sweep can show. And no other obstructions were found by the sweep, either. The bottom here is firm sand, as I expect you know.”

  “It sounds plausible,” said McCullum grudgingly. “I could have wished I’d had the direction of the sweeping, nevertheless.”

  “You must trust me, Mr. McCullum,” said Hornblower patiently.

  “’Tis little that I know about you and your capabilities,” answered McCullum.

  Hornblower, swallowing his irritation at that remark, wondered how McCullum had managed to live so long without previously being shot in a duel. But McCullum was the irreplaceable expert, and even if he were not a sick man it would be both foolish and undignified to quarrel with him.

  “I presume the next thing to do is to send your divers down to report on the condition of the wreck,” he said, trying to be both firm and polite.

  “Undoubtedly that will be the first thing I do as soon as I am allowed out of this bed,” said McCullum.

  Hornblower thought of all that Eisenbeiss had told him about McCullum’s wound, about gangrene and suppuration and general blood-poisoning, and he knew there was a fair chance that McCullum would never rise from his bed.

  “Mr. McCullum,” he said, “this is an urgent matter. Once the Turks get wind of what we want to do, and can assemble sufficient force to stop us, we will never be allowed to conduct salvage operations here. It is of the first importance that we get to work as quickly as we can. I was hoping that you would instruct your divers in their duties so
that they could start now, immediately.”

  “So that is what you were thinking, is it?” said McCullum.

  It took some minutes of patient argument to wear McCullum down, and the grudging agreement that McCullum gave was tempered by an immediate pointing out of the difficulties.

  “That water’s mortal cold,” said McCullum.

  “I’m afraid so,” answered Hornblower, “But we have always expected that.”

  “The Eastern Mediterranean in March is nothing like the Bay of Bengal in summer. My men won’t stand it for long.”

  It was a great advance that McCullum should admit that they might stand it at all.

  “If they work for short intervals—?” suggested Hornblower.

  “Aye. Seventeen fathoms beside the wreck?”

  “Seventeen fathoms all round it,” said Hornblower.

  “They can’t work for long at that depth in any case. Five dives a day will be all. Then they bleed at the nose and ears. They’ll need lines and weights—nine-pounder shot will serve.”

  “I’ll have them got ready,” said Hornblower.

  Hornblower stood by while McCullum addressed his divers. He could guess at the point of some of the speeches. One of the divers was raising objections; it was clear, when he clasped his arms about his chest and shuddered dramatically with a rolling of his pathetic dark eyes, what he was saying. All three of them talked at once for a space in their twittering language. A sterner note came into McCullum’s voice when he replied, and he indicated Hornblower with a gesture, directing all eyes to him for a moment. All three clung to each other and shrank away from him like frightened children. McCullum went on speaking, energetically—Eisenbeiss leaned over him and restrained the left hand that gesticulated; the right was strapped into immobility against McCullum’s chest.

  “Do not move,” said Eisenbeiss. “We shall have an inflammation.”

  McCullum had winced more than once after an incautious movement, and his appearance of well-being changed quickly to one of fatigue.