As the cheering died away the voice of the leadsman made itself heard again.
‘No bottom! No bottom with this line!’
He was still doing the duty to which he had been assigned, and would continue to do it until he received orders to rest – a most vivid example of the discipline of the navy.
‘Have that man taken out of the chains at once, Mr Bush!’ snapped Hornblower, annoyed at the omission to relieve the man.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush, chagrined at having been for once remiss in his work.
The sun was dipping in purple and red into the mountains of Spain, in a wild debauch of colour that made Hornblower catch his breath as he looked at the extravagant beauty of it. He was mazed and stupid now, in reaction from his exalted quickness of thought of the preceding hours; too stupid as yet even to be conscious of any fatigue. Yet he must still wait to receive the surgeon’s report. Someone had been killed or wounded today – he remembered vividly the crash and the cry when the shot from the field guns hit the ship.
The gunroom steward had come up on the quarterdeck and touched his forehead to Gerard.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘But Tom Cribb’s been killed.’
‘What?’
‘Yes indeed, sir. Knocked ’is ’ead clean off. Dretful, ’e looks, laying there, sir.’
‘What’s this you say?’ interrupted Hornblower. He could remember no man on board of the name of Tom Cribb – which was the name of the heavyweight champion of England – nor any reason why the gunroom steward should report a casualty to a lieutenant.
‘Tom Cribb’s been killed, sir,’ explained the steward. ‘And Mrs Siddons, she’s got a splinter in ’er – in ’er backside, begging your pardon, sir. You could ’ave ’eard ’er squeak from ’ere, sir.’
‘I did,’ said Hornblower.
Tom Cribb and Mrs Siddons must be a pig and a sow belonging to the gunroom mess. It was a comfort to realise that.
‘She’s all right now, sir. The butcher clapped a ’andful o’ tar on the place.’
Here came Walsh the surgeon with his report that there had been no casualties in the action.
‘Excepting among the pigs in the manger, sir,’ added Walsh, with the deprecating deference of one who proffers a joke with his superior officer.
‘I’ve just heard about them,’ said Hornblower.
Gerard was addressing the gunroom steward.
‘Right!’ he was saying. ‘We’ll have his chitterlings fried. And you can roast the loin. See that you get the crackling crisp. If it’s leathery like the last time we killed a pig, I’ll have your grog stopped. There’s onions and there’s sage – yes, and there’s a few apples left. Sage and onions and apple sauce – and mark you this, Loughton, don’t put any doves in that sauce. No matter what the other officers say. I won’t have ’em. In an apple pie, yes, but not with roast pork. Get started on that at once. You can take a leg to the bos’n’s mess with my compliments, and roast the other one – it’ll serve cold for breakfast.’
Gerard was striking the fingers of one hand into the palm of the other to accentuate his points; the light of appetite was in his face – Hornblower fancied that when there were no women available Gerard gave all the thought he could spare from his guns to his belly. A man whose eyes could go moist with appetite at the thought of fried chitterlings and roast pork for dinner on a scorching July afternoon in the Mediterranean, and who could look forward with pleasure to cold leg of pork for breakfast next day should by right have been fat like a pig himself. But Gerard was lean and handsome and elegant. Hornblower thought of the developing paunch within his own waistband with momentary jealousy.
But Colonel Villena was wandering about the quarterdeck like a lost soul. Clearly he was simply living for the moment when he would be able to start talking again – and Hornblower was the only soul on board with enough Spanish to maintain a conversation. Moreover, as a colonel he ranked with a post captain, and could expect to share the hospitality of the captain’s cabin. Hornblower decided that he would rather be overfed with hot roast pork than have to endure Villena’s conversation.
‘You seemed to have planned a feast for tonight, Mr Gerard,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Would my presence be unwelcome in the gunroom to share it?’
‘Oh no, sir. Of course not, sir. We would be delighted if you would honour us, sir.’
Gerard’s face lit with genuine pleasure at the prospect of acting as host to his captain. It was such a sincere tribute that Hornblower’s heart was warmed, even while his conscience pricked him at the memory of why he had invited himself.
‘Thank you, Mr Gerard. Then Colonel Villena and myself will be guests of the gunroom tonight.’
With any luck, Villena would be seated far enough from him to save him from the necessity for Spanish conversation.
The marine sergeant drummer had brought out all that the ship could boast of a band – the four marine fifers and the four drummers. They were marching up and down the gangway to the thunder and the rumble of the drums while the fifes squealed away bravely at the illimitable horizon.
‘Hearts of oak are our ships.
Jolly tars are our men—’
The bald words and the trite sentiments seemed to please the crew, although every man-jack of it would have been infuriated if he had been called a ‘jolly tar’.
Up and down went the smart red coats, and the jaunty beat of the drums thrilled so that the crushing heat was forgotten. In the west the marvellous sky still flamed in glory, even while in the east the night was creeping up over the purple sea.
XV
‘Eight bells, sir,’ said Polwheal.
Hornblower woke with a start. It seemed to him as if he could not have been asleep more than five minutes, while actually it had been well over an hour. He lay on his cot in his nightshirt, for he had thrown off his coverings during the sweltering heat of the night; his head ached and his mouth had a foul taste. He had retired to bed at midnight, but – thanks to roast pork for supper – he had tossed and turned in the frightful heat for two or three hours before going to sleep, and now here he was awakened at four o’clock in the morning, simply because he had to prepare his report to Captain Bolton or to the admiral (if the latter had arrived) for delivery that morning at the rendezvous. He groaned miserably with fatigue, and his joints ached as he put his feet to the deck and sat up. His eyes were gummy and hard to open, and they felt sore when he rubbed them.
He would have groaned again except for the need to appear in Polwheal’s eyes superior to human weaknesses – at the thought of that he stood up abruptly and posed as somebody feeling perfectly wide awake. A bath under the washdeck pump, and a shave made the pose almost a reality, and then, with dawn creeping up over the misty horizon, he sat down at his desk and cut himself a new pen, licked its point meditatively before dipping it into ink, and began to write.
‘I have the honour to report that in accordance with the orders of Captain Bolton, on the 20th inst., I proceeded—’
Polwheal came in with his breakfast, and Hornblower turned to the steaming hot coffee for a spur to his already flagging energies. He flipped the pages of the ship’s log to refresh his memory – so much had happened latterly that he was actually vague already about the details of the capture of the Amelie. The report had to be written badly, avoiding Gibbonesque antitheses or high-flying sentiment, yet at the same time Hornblower disliked the use of the kind of phrasing which was customary in captains’ reports. When listing the prizes taken from beside the battery at Llanza he was careful to write ‘as named in the margin’ instead of the irritating phrase ‘as per margin’ which had become stereotyped in the Navy since its classic use by an unlettered captain nearly a hundred years before in the War of Jenkins’ Ear. He was compelled to use the word ‘proceed’ even though he hated it – in official reports the Navy never set sail, nor went, nor put to sea, nor journeyed, but always proceeded, just as in the s
ame way captains never suggested or advised or recommended, but always respectfully submitted. Hornblower had respectfully to submit that until the French battery was re-established at Llanza the coastal route from France to Spain was now most vulnerable between Port Vendres and Rosas Bay.
While he struggled with the wording of his description of the raid on the Etang de Thau near Cette he was interrupted by a knock on his door. Longley entered in response to his call.
‘Mr Gerard sent me, sir. The squadron’s in sight on the starboard bow.’
‘The flagship’s there, is she?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. My compliments to Mr Gerard, and will he please alter course to close her.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
His report would have to be addressed to the admiral, then, and not to Captain Bolton, and it would have to be finished within the next half hour. He dashed his pen into the ink and began to scribble feverishly, describing the harassing of the divisions of Pino and Lecchi on the coast road between Malgret and Arens de Mar. It came as a shock to him when he computed the casualties inflicted on the Italians – they must have numbered five or six hundred, exclusive of stragglers. He had to word that carefully, otherwise he would probably be suspected of gross exaggeration, a serious crime in the eyes of authority. Yesterday five or six hundred men were killed or mutilated who today would have been alive and well if he had not been an active and enterprising officer. The mental eyes with which Hornblower viewed his exploit saw a double image – on the one hand he saw corpses, widows and orphans, misery and pain, while on the other he saw white breeched figurines motionless on a hillside, tin soldiers knocked over, arithmetical digits recorded on paper. He cursed his analytical mind at the same time as he cursed the heat and the need for writing the report. He was even vaguely conscious of his own cross-grainedness, which always plunged him into depression after a success.
He dashed off his signature to the document, and shouted for Polwheal to bring a candle to melt the sealing wax while he peppered sand over the wet ink. Thanks to the heat his hands stuck clammily to the limp paper. When he came to address the report – ‘Rear Admiral Sir P. G. Leighton, K.B.’ – the ink spread and ran on the smeared surface as though on blotting paper. But at any rate the thing was done; he went on deck, where already the sunshine was oppressive. The brassiness of the sky, noticeable yesterday, was far more marked today, and Hornblower had noticed that the barometer in his cabin indicated a steady fall which had begun three days ago. There was a storm coming, without a doubt, and moreover a storm which had so long been foretold would be all the more violent when it did come. He turned to Gerard with orders to keep a sharp eye on the weather and to be ready to shorten sail at the first hint of trouble.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Gerard.
Over there rolled the two other ships of the squadron, the Pluto with her three tiers of ports, and the red ensign at the mizzen masthead indicating the presence on board of a rear-admiral of the red, and the Caligula astern of her.
‘Pass the word to Mr Marsh to salute the Admiral’s flag,’ said Hornblower.
While the salute was being returned a hoist of flags ran up the Pluto’s rigging.
‘Sutherland’s pendant,’ read off Vincent ‘Take station astern.’
‘Acknowledge.’
The hoist was succeeded by another.
‘Sutherland’s pendant,’ said Vincent again. ‘Flag to captain. Come on board and report.’
‘Acknowledge. Mr Gerard, clear away my barge. Where’s Colonel Villena?’
‘Not seen him yet this morning, sir.’
‘Here, Mr Savage, Mr Longley. Run down and get Colonel Villena out of bed. I want him ready as soon as my barge is cleared away.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
It took two and a half minutes before the captain’s barge was in the water with Hornblower seated in the stern, and at the very last second Villena made his appearance at the ship’s side. He looked as disagreeable as might be expected, at having been routed out of bed by two brusque midshipmen who could speak no word of his language and dressed with their clumsy and hurried aid. His busby was awry and his coat incorrectly hooked, and his sabre and pelisse still hung over his arm. He was hauled down into the boat by the impatient boat’s crew, who did not want to imperil their ship’s reputation for smartness by waiting for him after the admiral had signalled for them.
Villena lurched miserably to his thwart beside Hornblower. He was unshaven and bedraggled, and his eyes were as gummy as Hornblower’s had been on his awakening. He sat down, muttering and grumbling, still half asleep, trying in dazed fashion to complete his dressing, while the men bent to their oars and sent the barge skimming over the water. It was only as they neared the flagship that Villena was able to open his eyes fully and begin to talk, and for the short remaining period Hornblower felt no need for elaborate politeness. He was full of hope that the admiral would invite Villena to be his guest for the sake of any information he could give regarding conditions ashore.
Captain Elliott was at the ship’s side to greet him as they came on board.
‘Glad to see you, Hornblower,’ he said, and then in response to Hornblower’s introduction he mumbled incoherently to Villena eyeing the latter’s gaudy uniform and unshaven chin in blank astonishment. He was obviously relieved when the formality was over and he could address himself to Hornblower again. ‘The admiral’s in his cabin. This way, gentlemen please.’
The flag lieutenant in the admiral’s cabin along with the admiral was young Sylvester, whom Hornblower had heard of as a capable young officer even though he was – as might have been expected – a sprig of the nobility. Leighton himself was ponderous and slow of speech this morning; in the stifling heat the sweat was visible in little rivers running down the sides of his heavy chin. He and Sylvester made a brave attempt to welcome Villena. They both of them spoke French fairly well and Italian badly, and by amalgamating what they knew of those two languages with what remained of their schoolboy Latin they were able to make themselves understood, but it was heavy going. Obviously with relief Leighton turned to Hornblower.
‘I want to hear your report, Hornblower,’ he said.
‘I have it here in writing, sir.’
‘Thank you. But let us hear a little about your doings verbally. Captain Bolton tells me he spoke a prize you had taken. Where did you go?’
Hornblower began his account – he was glad that events had moved so fast that he was able to omit all reference to the circumstances in which he had parted company from the East India convoy. He told of his capture of the Amelie and of the little fleet of small vessels at Llanza. The admiral’s heavy face showed a gleam of extra animation when he heard that he was a thousand pounds the richer as a result of Hornblower’s activity, and he nodded sympathetically when Hornblower explained the necessity of burning the last prize he had taken – the coaster near Cette. Cautiously Hornblower put forward the suggestion that the squadron might be most profitably employed in watching between Port Vendres and Rosas, on which stretch, thanks to the destruction of the battery at Llanza, there was now no refuge for French shipping. A hint of a groove appeared between the admiral’s eyebrows at that, and Hornblower swerved away from the subject. Clearly Leighton was not the sort of admiral to welcome suggestions from his inferiors.
Hornblower hurriedly began to deal with the next day’s action to the south-westward.
‘One moment, Captain,’ said Leighton. ‘You mean you went southward the night before last?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You must have passed close to this rendezvous during the darkness?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You made no attempt to ascertain whether the flagship had arrived?’
‘I gave orders for a specially good lookout to be kept, sir.’
The groove between Leighton’s eyebrows was very noticeable now. Admirals were always plagued by the tendency of their captains, when on blockade service, to
make excuses to get away and act independently – if only because it increased their share of prize – money – and obviously Leighton was not merely determined to deal drastically with any such tendency but also he guessed that Hornblower had been careful to arrange his cruise so as to pass the rendezvous at night.
‘I am extremely annoyed, Captain Hornblower, that you should have acted in such a fashion. I have already admonished Captain Bolton for allowing you to go, and now that I find you were within ten miles of here two nights ago I find it difficult to express my displeasure. I reached the rendezvous that very morning, as it happened, and as a result of your behaviour two of His Majesty’s ships of the line have been kept idle here for nearly forty-eight hours until you should see fit to rejoin. Please understand, Captain Hornblower, that I am very annoyed indeed, and I shall have to report my annoyance to the admiral commanding in the Mediterranean, for him to take any action he thinks necessary.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hornblower. He tried to look as contrite as he could, but his judgment told him that it was not a court martial matter – he was covered by Bolton’s orders – and it was doubtful if Leighton would really carry out his threat of reporting to higher authority.
‘Please continue,’ said Leighton.
Hornblower began to describe the action against the Italian divisions. He could see by Leighton’s expression that he attached little importance to the moral effect achieved, and that his imagination was not powerful enough to allow him to gauge the effect on the Italians of an ignominious retreat before an invulnerable enemy. At Hornblower’s suggestion that they had lost five hundred men at least Leighton moved restlessly and exchanged glances with Sylvester – he clearly did not believe him. Hornblower decided discreetly not to put forward his estimate that the Italians had lost at least another five hundred men through straggling and desertion.
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