Captain Hornblower R. N.

by C. S. Forester

  “Mr. Jones’s respects, sir, and the wind is moderating a little, he thinks, sir.”

  “I’m coming,” said Hornblower, laying down his knife and fork.

  In a moderate breeze Atropos ought to be able to run Castilla topsails-under in an hour or two, and any reduction in the wind was to the advantage of Atropos as long as she spread all the canvas she could carry. But it would call for judgement to shake out the reefs at the right time, without imperilling spars on the one hand or losing distance on the other. When Hornblower arrived on deck a glance told him that it was time.

  “You are quite right, Mr. Jones,” he said—no harm in giving him a pat on the back—“we’ll shake out a reef.”

  The order sped along the deck.

  “Hands make sail!”

  Hornblower looked aft through his glass; as Atropos lifted her stern he could get the Castilla’s fore topsail right in the centre of the field. The most painstaking thought could not bring a decision as to whether or not it was any nearer. She must be exactly maintaining her distance. Then as the topsail hung dizzily in the lens he saw—he was nearly sure he saw—the oblong broaden into a square. He rested his eye and looked again. No doubt about it. Castilla had decided that was the moment to shake out a reef too.

  Hornblower looked up at the Atropos’ main topsail yard. The top-men, bent over the yard at that dizzy height, had completed the untying of the reef points. Now they came running in from the yard. Smiley had the starboard yardarm, and His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau the port. They were having their usual race, flinging themselves on to the backstays and sliding down without a thought for their necks. Hornblower was glad that boy had found his feet—of course he was wild with the excitement of the flight and pursuit; Hornblower was glad that Smiley had adopted that amused paternal attitude towards him.

  With the letting out of the reef Atropos increased her speed again; Hornblower could feel the renewed thrust of the sail upon the fabric of the ship under his feet; he could feel the more frantic leap of the vessel on the wave crests. He directed a wary glance aloft. This would not be the moment to have anything carry away, not with Castilla tearing along in pursuit. Jones was standing by the wheel. The wind was just over the starboard quarter, and the little ship was answering well to her rudder, but it was as important to keep an eye on the helmsman as it was to see that they did not split a topsail. It called for some little resolution to leave Jones in charge again and go below to try to finish his dinner.

  When the message came down again that the wind was moderating it was like that uncanny feeling which Hornblower had once or twice experienced of something happening again even though it had not happened before—the circumstances were so exactly similar.

  “Mr. Jones’s respects, sir, and the wind is moderating a little, he thinks, sir.”

  Hornblower had to compel himself to vary his reply.

  “My compliments to Mr. Jones, and I am coming on deck.”

  Just as before, he could feel that the ship was not giving her utmost. Just as before, he gave the order for a reef to be shaken out. Just as before, he swung round to train his glass on the Castilla’s topsail. And just as before he turned back as the men prepared to come in from the yard. But that was the moment when everything took a different course, when the desperate emergency arose that always at sea lies just over the horizon of the future.

  Excitement had stimulated the Prince into folly. Hornblower looked up to see the boy standing on the port yardarm, not merely standing but dancing, taking a clumsy step or two to dare Smiley at the starboard yardarm to imitate him, one hand on his hip, the other over his head. Hornblower was going to shout a reprimand; he opened his mouth and inflated his chest, but before he could utter a sound the Prince’s foot slipped. Hornblower saw him totter, strive to regain his balance, and then fall, heavily through the air, and turning a complete circle as he fell.

  Later on Hornblower, out of curiosity, made a calculation. The Prince fell from a height of a little over seventy feet, and without the resistance of the air and had he not bounced off the shrouds he would have reached the surface of the sea in something over two seconds. But the resistance of the air could have been by no means negligible—it must have got under his jacket and slowed his fall considerably, for the boy was not killed and was in fact only momentarily knocked unconscious by the impact. Probably it took as much as four seconds for the Prince to fall into the sea. Hornblower was led to make the calculation when brooding over the incident later, for he could remember clearly all the thoughts that passed through his mind during those four seconds. Momentary exasperation came first and then anxiety, and then followed a hasty summing up of the situation. If he hove-to to pick up the boy the Castilla would have all the time needed to overhaul them. If he went on the boy would drown. And if he went on he would have to report to Collingwood that he had left the King’s great-nephew without lifting a finger to help him. He had to choose quickly—quickly. He had no right to risk his ship to save one single life. But—but—if the boy had been killed in battle by a broadside sweeping the deck it would be different. To abandon him was another matter again. On the heels of that conclusion came another thought, the beginnings of another thought, sprouting from a seed that had been sown outside Cartagena. It did not have time to develop in those four seconds; it was as if Hornblower acted the moment the green shoot from the seed showed above ground, to reach its full growth later.

  By the time the boy had reached the sea Hornblower had torn the emergency lifebuoy from the taffrail; he flung it over the port quarter as the speed of the ship brought the boy nearly opposite him, and it smacked into the sea close beside him. At the same moment the air which Hornblower had drawn into his lungs to reprimand the Prince was expelled in a salvo of bellowed orders.

  “Mizzen braces! Back the mizzen topsail! Quarter boat away!”

  Maybe—Hornblower could not be sure later—everyone was shouting at once, but everyone at least responded to orders with the rapidity that was the result of months of drill. Atropos flew up into the wind, her way checked instantly. It was Smiley—Heaven only knew how he had made the descent from the starboard main topsail yardarm in that brief space—who got the jolly boat over the side, with four men at the oars, and dashed off to effect the rescue, the tiny boat soaring up and swooping down as the waves passed under her. And even before Atropos was hove-to Hornblower was putting the next part of the plan into action.

  “Mr. Horrocks! Signal ‘Enemy in sight to windward’.”

  Horrocks stood and gaped, and Hornblower was about to blare out with, “Blast you, do what I tell you,” but he restrained himself. Horrocks was not a man of the quickest thought in the world, and he had failed entirely to see any purpose in signalling to a vacant horizon. To swear at him now would simply paralyse him with nervousness and lead to a further delay.

  “Mr. Horrocks, kindly send up the signal as quickly as you can. ‘Enemy in sight to windward.’ Quickly, please.”

  The signal rating beside Horrocks was luckily quicker witted—he was one of the dozen men of the crew who could read and write, naturally—and was already at the halliards with the flag-locker open, and his example shook Horrocks out of his amazement. The flags went soaring up to the main topmast yardarm, flying out wildly in the wind. Hornblower made a mental note that that rating, even though he was no seaman as yet—lately a City apprentice who had come hurriedly aboard at Deptford to avoid something worse in civilian life—was deserving of promotion.

  “Now another signal, Mr. Horrocks. ‘Enemy is a frigate distant seven miles bearing west course east.’ ”

  It was the sensible thing to do to send up the very signals he would have hoisted if there really were help in sight—the Castilla might be able to read them or might make at least a fair guess at their meaning. If there had been a friendly ship in sight down to leeward (Hornblower remembered the suggestion he had been going to make to Collingwood) he would never have hove-to, of course, but woul
d have gone on tearing down to lure the Castilla as near as possible, but the captain of the Castilla was not to know that.

  “Keep that signal flying. Now send up an affirmative, Mr. Horrocks Very good. Haul it down again. Mr. Jones! Lay the ship on the starboard tack, a good full.”

  A powerful English ship down there to leeward would certainly order Atropos to close on Castilla as quickly as possible. He must act as if that were the case. It was only when Jones—almost as helpless with astonishment as Horrocks had been—had plunged into the business of getting Atropos under way again that Hornblower had time to use his telescope. He trained it on the distant topsail again; not so distant now. Coming up fast, and Hornblower felt a sick feeling of disappointment and apprehension. And then as he watched he saw the square of the topsail narrow into a vertical oblong, and two other oblongs appear beside it. At the same moment the masthead lookout gave a hail.

  “Deck there! The enemy’s hauled his wind, sir!”

  Of course he would do so—the disappointment and apprehension vanished instantly. A Spanish frigate captain once he had put his bowsprit outside the safety of a defended port would ever be a prey to fear. Always there would be the probability in his mind that just over the horizon lay a British squadron ready to pounce on him. He would chase a little sloop of war eagerly enough, but as soon as he saw that sloop sending up signals and swinging boldly round on a course that challenged action he would bethink him of the fact that he was already far to leeward of safety; he would imagine hostile ships only just out of sight cracking on all sail to cut him off from his base, and once his mind was made up he would not lose a single additional mile or minute before turning to beat back to safety. For two minutes the Spaniard had been a prey to indecision after Atropos hove-to, but the final bold move had made up his mind for him. If he had held on for a short time longer he might have caught sight of the jolly boat pulling over the waves and then would have guessed what Atropos was doing, but as it was, time was gained and the Spaniard, close-hauled, was clawing back to safety in flight from a non-existent enemy.

  “Masthead! What do you see of the boat?”

  “She’s still pulling, sir, right in the wind’s eye!”

  “Do you see anything of Mr. Prince?”

  “No, sir, can’t say as I do.”

  Not much chance in that tossing sea of seeing a floating man two miles away, not even from the masthead.

  “Mr. Jones, tack the ship.”

  It would be best to keep Atropos as nearly straight down wind from the boat as possible, allowing it an easy run to leeward when its mission was accomplished. Castilla would not be able to make anything of the manoeuvre.

  “Deck there! The boat’s stopped pulling, sir. I think they’re picking up Mr. Prince, sir.”

  Thank God for that. It was only now that Hornblower could realize what a bad ten minutes it had been.

  “Deck there! Yes, sir, they’re waving a shirt. They’re pulling back to us now.”

  “Heave-to, Mr. Jones, if you please. Doctor Eisenbeiss, have everything ready in case Mr. Prince needs treatment.”

  The Mediterranean at midsummer was warm enough; most likely the boy had taken no harm. The jolly boat came dancing back over the waves and turned under Atropos’ stern into the little lee afforded by her quarter as she rode with her starboard bow to the waves. Here came His Serene Highness, wet and bedraggled but not in the least hurt, meeting the concentrated gaze of all on deck with a smile half sheepish and half defiant. Eisenbeiss came forward fussily, talking voluble German, and then turned to Hornblower to explain.

  “I have a hot blanket ready for him, sir.”

  It was at that moment that the dam of Hornblower’s even temper burst.

  “A hot blanket! I know what’ll warm him quicker than that. Bos’n’s mate! My compliments to the bos’n, and ask him to be kind enough to lend you his cane for a few minutes. Shut your mouth, doctor, if you know what’s good for you. Now, young man—”

  Humanitarians had much to say against corporal punishment, but in their arguments, while pointing out the harm it might do to the one punished, they omitted to allow for the satisfaction other people derived from it. And it was some further training for the Blood Royal to display his acquired British imperturbability, to bite off the howl that a well-applied cane tended to draw forth, and to stand straight afterwards with hardly a skip to betray his discomfort, with hardly a rub at the smarting royal posterior, and with the tears blinked manfully back. Satisfaction or not, Hornblower was a little sorry afterwards.

  XX

  There was everything to be said in favour of keeping Castilla under observation for a while at least, and almost nothing to be said against it. The recent flight and pursuit had proved that Atropos had the heels of her even under reefed topsails, so that it could be taken for granted that she was safe from her in any lesser wind—and the wind was moderating. The Castilla was now a full thirty miles dead to leeward of Cartagena; it would be useful to know—Collingwood would certainly want to know—whether she intended to beat back there again or would fetch some easier Spanish port. Close-hauled she could make Alicante to the north or perhaps Almeria to the south; she was close-hauled on the starboard tack, heading south, at this moment. And there was the possibility to be borne in mind that she did not intend to return to Spain as yet, that her captain might decide to range through the Mediterranean for a while to see what prizes he could snap up. On her present course she could easily stretch over to the Barbary coast and pick up a victualler or two with grain and cattle intended for the Fleet.

  Hornblower’s orders were that he should rejoin Collingwood in Sicilian waters after looking into Malaga and Cartagena; he was not the bearer of urgent despatches, nor, Heaven knew, was Atropos likely to be an important addition to the strength of the Fleet; while on the other hand it was the duty of every English captain, having once made contact with a ship of the enemy in open water, to maintain that contact as long as was possible. Atropos could not hope to face Castilla in battle, but she could keep her under observation, she might warn merchant shipping of danger, and she might with good fortune meet some big British ship of war—in actual fact, not make-believe—to whom she could indicate the enemy.

  “Mr. Jones,” said Hornblower. “Lay her on the starboard tack again, if you please. Full and by.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Jones, of course, showed some surprise at the reversal of the roles, at the pursued becoming the pursuer, and that was one more proof that he was incapable of strategic thought. But he had to engage himself on carrying out his orders, and Atropos steadied on a southerly course, running parallel to Castilla’s, far to windward; Hornblower trained his glass on the topsails just visible over the horizon. He fixed the shape of them firmly in his memory; a slight alteration in the proportion of length to breadth would indicate any change of course on the part of the Castilla.

  “Masthead!” he hailed. “Keep your eye on the enemy. Report anything you see.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Atropos was like a terrier now, yapping at the heels of a bull in a field—not a very dignified role—and the bull might turn and charge at any moment. Eventually the captain of the Castilla would make up his mind that a trick had been played on him, that Atropos had been signalling to non-existent friends, and there was no guessing what he might decide to do then, when he grew certain that there was no help following Atropos up just beyond the horizon. Meanwhile the wind was still moderating, and Atropos could set more canvas. When beating to windward she behaved best under all the sail she could carry, and he might as well keep as close to the enemy as the wind allowed.

  “Try setting the mainsail, Mr. Jones, if you please.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The main course was a big sail, and the little Atropos seemed to take wings under the tremendous pressure of it when it was sheeted home, with the tack hauled forward to the chess-trees by the united strength of half a watch. Now she was thrusting
along bravely in the summer evening, lying over to the wind, and shouldering off the hungry waves with her starboard bow in great fountains of spray, through which the setting sun gleamed in fleeting rainbows of fiery beauty, and leaving behind her a seething wake dazzling white against the blue. It was a moment when it was good to be alive, driving hard to windward like this, and with all the potentiality of adventure at hand in the near unknown. War at sea was a dreary business usually, with boredom and discomfort to be endured day and night, watch and watch, but it had moments of high exaltation like this, just as it had its moments of black despair, of fear, of shame.

  “You may dismiss the watch below, Mr. Jones.”

  “Aye aye, sir,”

  Hornblower glanced round the deck. Still would have the watch.

  “Call me if there’s any change, Mr. Still. I want to set more sail if the wind moderates further.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  A moment of exaltation, come and gone. He had been on his feet nearly all day, since dawn, and his legs were weary, and if he stayed on deck they would grow wearier still. Down below there were the two books he had bought at Gibraltar for a badly needed guinea—Lord Hodge’s “Statement of the Present Political Condition of Italy”, and Barber’s “New Methods of Determining Longitude, with some Remarks on Discrepancies in Recent Charts”. He wanted to inform himself on both subjects, and it was better to do so now than to stay up on deck growing more and more weary while the hours passed.

  At sunset he emerged again; Castilla was still holding the same course, with Atropos head-reaching upon her very slightly. He looked at those distant topsails; he read the slate that recorded the day’s run, and he waited while the log was hove again. Surely if Castilla intended to put back into Cartagena she would have gone about by now. She had made a very long reach to the southward, and any backing of the wind round to the north—a very likely occurrence at this season—would nullify much of her progress so far. If she did not come about by the time darkness set in it would be a strong indication that she had something else in mind. He waited as the sunset faded from the western sky, and until the first stars began to appear overhead; that was when his aching eye, straining through the glass, could see no more of Castilla. But at the last sight of her she was still standing to the southward. All the more reason to keep her under observation.