Captain Hornblower R. N.

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Anything to report, Mr Gerard?’ he said, as he reached the quarterdeck.

  ‘No, sir. I had to reef down for an hour at two bells, it blew so hard. But it’s dropping fast now, sir, and backing sou’easterly.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Hornblower.

  The faintest hint of light was beginning to tinge the gloomy sky, but nothing could be seen yet more than a cable’s length away. A south-easterly wind would be nearly foul for the French on their course to Barcelona; it would be dead foul for the Pluto and Caligula.

  ‘Thought I felt the loom o’ the land, sir, before the light came,’ said Gerard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower. Their course during the night would bring them close into Cape Creux of hated memory; he picked up the slate beside the binnacle, and, calculating from the hourly readings of the log, he made their position to be some fifteen miles off the cape. If the French had held the same course during the night they would soon have Rosas Bay and comparative security under their lee – of course, if they had not, if they had evaded him in the darkness, the consequence to him did not bear thinking about.

  The light was broadening fast. Eastwards the watery clouds seemed to be thinning; just above the horizon. Undoubtedly they were thinning; for a second they parted, and a speck of gold could be seen through them, just where the white-flecked sea met the sky, and a long beam of sunlight shone level over the sea.

  ‘Land-ho!’ yelled the masthead lookout, and westward they could see a bluish smudge on the horizon where the mountains of Spain loomed faintly over the curve of the world.

  And Gerard glanced anxiously at his captain, took a turn or two up and down the deck, gnawed at his knuckles, and then could restrain his impatience no longer.

  ‘Masthead, there! What do you see of the enemy?’

  The pause that followed seemed ages long before the reply came.

  ‘Northin’, sir. Northin’ in sight barrin’ the land to looard.’

  Gerard renewed his anxious glance at his captain, but Hornblower, during that pause, had set his face sternly so that his expression was unmoved. Bush was coming on to the quarterdeck now; anyone could see that he was wild with anxiety. If four French ships of the line had evaded action it would mean half pay for Hornblower for life, if nothing worse. Hornblower retained his stony expression; he was proud of being able to do so.

  ‘Put the ship about, Mr Gerard, if you please, and lay her on the starboard tack.’

  The French might perhaps have altered course in the darkness, and might now be lost in the centre of the Western Mediterranean, but Hornblower still did not think it likely. His officers had made insufficient allowance for the lubberliness of the unpractised French. If Gerard had had to reef topsails in the night they might well have had to heave to; and both Bush and Gerard were over-eager-during the night the Sutherland might have gained twenty miles on the French. By retracting his course he was confident that he would sight them again.

  Confident as far as the whist-playing part of his mind was concerned, that is to say. He could not control the sick despair in his breast, nor the acceleration of his heart beats; he could only conceal them, keeping his face a mask and forcing himself to stand still instead of pacing about in his anxiety. Then he thought of an activity which would help to occupy his mind and yet not betray his nervousness.

  ‘Pass the word for my steward,’ he said.

  His hands were just steady enough to permit him to shave, and a chill bath under the washdeck pump gave him new vigour. He put on clean clothes and parted his lessening hair with elaborate exactitude, for under the washdeck pump he had told himself that they would sight the French again before he had completed his toilet. It was with a sense of acute disappointment that he laid down the comb when he had no more smallest excuse to continue its use, and turned to put on his coat, with no news of the French. And then, with his foot on the companion, there came a wild yell from Midshipman Parker at the masthead.

  ‘Sail in sight! Two – three of ’em, sir. Four! It’s the enemy!’

  Hornblower continued his progress up the companion without faltering in his step, and he hoped people noticed it. Bush was half way up the rigging with his glass, and Gerard was pacing – almost prancing – about the quarterdeck in his delight. Observing them, Hornblower was glad he had had no childish doubts about the correctness of his actions.

  ‘Wear the ship, if you please, Mr Bush. Lay her on the port tack.’

  A talkative captain might supplement the order with a brief explanation of the necessity for keeping the ship between the French and Spain, but Hornblower bit off the explanation as it rose to his lips. No unnecessary words would escape him.

  ‘The wind’s still working round southerly, sir,’ said Gerard.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  And it would drop a good deal, too, as the day progressed, he decided. The sun was fast breaking through the clouds, with every prospect of a warm day – a Mediterranean autumn day, with a rising barometer and only the faintest of breezes. The hammocks had been piled in the netting, and the watch not at their stations were clattering on to the deck with buckets and holystones. The routine of the navy had to be maintained, even though there was every chance that the decks they were swabbing would be running with blood before the day was over. The men were skylarking and joking – Hornblower felt a little thrill of pride as he looked at them and remembered the sullen despondent crowd with which he had sailed. Consciousness of real achievement was some compensation for the thankless service which employed him; and it helped him to forget, too, the uneasy feeling that today or tomorrow – soon, anyway – he would know again, as the whirl of battle eddied round him, the physical fear of which he was so intolerably ashamed.

  As the sun climbed up the sky the wind dropped steadily, moving round even more southerly, and the mountains of Spain came nearer and nearer and grew more and more defined as their course brought them closer to the land. Hornblower held on as long as he could, bracing up his yards as the wind veered, and then finally heaving to while the French squadron crept up over the horizon. The shift in the wind had deprived them of the windward position; if they moved down to attack him he could escape northwards so that if they pursued him they would be running towards the Pluto and Caligula, but he had no hope that they would. French ships of the line who had evaded the blockading squadron would race to accomplish their mission first, and would only fight afterwards, however tempting the bait dangled before them. If the wind shifted no farther round they could just hold their course for Barcelona, and he had not the least doubt that they would do so if not prevented. He would hang on to them and try to attack some isolated ship during the night if no help arrived.

  ‘They’re signalling a lot, sir,’ said Bush, his glass to his eye. They had been signalling all day, for that matter – the first flurry of bunting, Hornblower shrewdly surmised, had been occasioned by their catching sight of the Sutherland, unaware that she had been keeping company with them for fifteen hours. Frenchmen retained their talkative habits at sea, and no French captain was happy without messages passing back and forth along the squadron.

  The Sutherland was clear of the Cape Creux peninsula now, and Rosas Bay was opening out on her beam. It was in these very waters, but in very different weather conditions, that the Pluto had lost her masts and had been towed to safety by the Sutherland; over there, on those green-grey slopes, had occurred the fiasco of the attack on Rosas; through his glass Hornblower thought he could discern the precipitous face of the mesa up which Colonel Claros had led his fugitive Catalans. If the wind came farther round now, the French had a refuge open to them under the guns of Rosas, where they would be safe until the British could bring up fireships and explosion vessels to drive them out again; actually it would be a more secure refuge for them than the anchorage at Barcelona.

  He looked up at the pendant flapping at the masthead – the wind was certainly more southerly. It was growing doubtful whether the French would weather Palam
os Point on their present tack, while he would certainly have to go about soon and stand out into the Frenchmen’s wake, with all his advantages of position lost by the inconstancy of the weather. And the wind was beginning to come in irregular puffs now – a sure sign of its diminishing force. He turned his glass on the French squadron again to see how they were behaving. There was a fresh series of signals fluttering at their yardarms.

  ‘Deck, there!’ yelled Savage from the masthead.

  Then there was a pause. Savage was not too sure of what he could see.

  ‘What is it, Mr Savage?’

  ‘I think – I’m not quite sure, sir – there’s another sail, right on the horizon, sir, abaft the enemy’s beam.’

  Another sail! It might be a stray merchant ship. Otherwise it could only be Leighton’s ships or the Cassandra.

  ‘Keep your eye on her, Mr Savage.’

  It was impossible to wait for news. Hornblower swung himself up into the shrouds and climbed upwards. At Savage’s side he trained his glass in the direction indicated. For a second the French squadron danced in the object glass, disregarded, as he searched.

  ‘A bit farther round, sir. About there, I think, sir.’

  It was the tiniest flash of white, too permanent for a wave crest, of a different shade from the few clouds against the blue. Hornblower nearly spoke, but succeeded in limiting himself to ‘Ha – h’m.’

  ‘It’s nearer now, sir,’ said Savage, telescope to eye. ‘I should say, sir, it’s a ship’s fore-royal.’

  There could be no doubt about it. Some ship under full sail was out there beyond the Frenchmen, and standing in to cross their wake.

  ‘Ha – h’m,’ said Hornblower. He said no more, but snapped his telescope shut and addressed himself to the descent.

  Bush dropped to the deck to meet him from the shrouds he had ascended; Gerard, Crystal, they were all on the quarterdeck eyeing him anxiously.

  ‘The Cassandra,’ said Hornblower, ‘standing in towards us.’

  By saying that, he was risking his dignity to demonstrate his good sight. No one could guess the new arrival to be the Cassandra from just that glimpse of her royals. But it could only be the Cassandra who would be on that course, unless his judgment were sadly at fault. Should she be revealed not to be, he would appear ridiculous – but the temptation to appear to recognise her when Savage was not even sure whether she was a ship or a cloud was too strong.

  All the implications of the Cassandra’s appearance were evident to the officers’ minds at once.

  ‘Where’s the flagship and Caligula?’ demanded Bush, of no one in particular.

  ‘May be coming up, too,’ said Gerard.

  ‘The Frogs are cut off if they are,’ said Crystal.

  With the Pluto and Caligula to seaward of them, and the Sutherland to landward, Palamos Point to windward, and a fluky wind veering foul, it would be only by good fortune they could escape a battle. Every eye turned towards the French squadron; they were nearly hull-up now, heading south-by-west closehauled, a three-decker in the van followed by three two-deckers, admiral’s flags flying at the foremasts of the first and third ships. The broad white stripes which decorated their sides stood out sharp and clear in the pure air. If the Pluto and Caligula were far astern of the Cassandra the Frenchmen would still be as much in ignorance of their proximity as was the Sutherland, which would explain why they were still holding their course.

  ‘Deck there!’ hailed Savage. ‘The strange sail’s Cassandra. I can see her tops’l now, sir.’

  Bush and Gerard and Crystal looked at Hornblower with a strange respect for his penetrating vision; it had been well worth risking his dignity for that.

  The sails suddenly flapped loudly; a puff of wind had followed a comparative lull, and from a more southerly point than before. Bush turned to shout orders for the trimming of the sails, and the others turned instantly to watch the French reaction.

  ‘They’re going about!’ said Gerard, loudly.

  Undoubtedly they were doing so; on the new tack they would weather Palamos Point but would be standing out to sea nearer to the British squadron – if the British were there.

  ‘Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower. ‘Put the ship about, if you please.’

  ‘Cassandra’s signalling, sir,’ yelled Savage.

  ‘Up with you!’ snapped Hornblower to Vincent and Longley. Telescope and signal book in hand, they raced for the masthead; everyone on the quarterdeck watched their progress anxiously.

  ‘Cassandra’s signalling to the flagship, sir!’ yelled Vincent.

  So Leighton was out there over the horizon – over the Frenchmen’s horizon, too, judging from their actions. Bonaparte might send out four French ships to fight three English ones, but no French admiral safely at sea and knowing the capacity of his crews far better than his emperor, would obey those orders if he could help it.

  ‘What’s she saying, boy?’ hailed Hornblower.

  ‘She’s too far off to be sure, sir, but I think she’s reporting the enemy’s new course.’

  Let the Frenchmen hold that course for an hour, and they were lost, cut off from Rosas and certain to be overhauled before they reached Barcelona.

  ‘They’re going about again, by God!’ said Gerard, suddenly.

  Wordless, they watched the four French ships come up into the wind, and come over on to the other tack. Then they came round, farther and farther still, until in all four ships their three masts were in line; every one of them was heading straight for the Sutherland.

  ‘Ha – h’m,’ said Hornblower, watching his fate bearing down upon him: and again, ‘Ha – h’m.’

  The French lookouts must have glimpsed Leighton’s mastheads. With Rosas Bay six miles under his lee and Barcelona a hundred miles almost to the windward the French admiral could have taken little time to reach a decision in face of those strange sails on the horizon. He was dashing instantly for shelter; the single ship of the line which lay directly in his path must be destroyed if she could not be evaded.

  The sick wave of excitement and apprehension which Hornblower experienced did not prevent calculations pouring into his mind. The French had six miles to go with a fair wind. He still did not know whereabouts on the circumference of the possible circle whose centre was the French flagship Leighton was on at the moment. But he would have twenty miles, perhaps a little more, to sail for certain, and with the wind – such wind as there was – abeam, if he were in the most advantageous position, and on his port bow if he were far astern. And shifting as it was, it would be dead foul for him in two hours. Twenty to one, Hornblower estimated the odds against the admiral being able to catch the French before they reached the protection of the guns of Rosas. Only unheard-of flukes of wind would do it, and only then if the Sutherland were able to knock away a good many spars before she was beaten into helplessness. So keenly had Hornblower been calculating that it was only then that he remembered, with a gulp of excitement, that the Sutherland was his ship, and the responsibility his, as well.

  Longley came sliding down the backstay, the whole height from topmast head to the deck, his face white with excitement.

  ‘Vincent sent me, sir. Cassandra’s signalling, and he thinks it’s “Flag to Sutherland, no. 21”. Twenty-one’s “Engage the enemy”, sir. But it’s hard to read the flags.’

  ‘Very good. Acknowledge.’

  So Leighton at least had the moral courage to assume the responsibility for sending one ship against four. In that respect he was worthy of being Barbara’s husband.

  ‘Mr Bush,’ he said. ‘We’ve a quarter of an hour. See that the men get a bite to eat in that time.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  He looked again at the four ships all steering slowly down upon him. He could not hope to turn them back, but he could only hope to accompany them in their race to Rosas Bay. Any ship that he could totally dismast would fall a prey to Leighton; the others he must damage so sorely that they could not repair themselves in Rosas, which h
ad the smallest dockyard facilities. Then they would stay there until fireships, or a large scale cutting out expedition, or a properly organised attack by land on the fortress, should result in their destruction. He thought he ought to succeed in that, but he could not bring himself to visualise what would happen to the Sutherland meanwhile. He swallowed hard, and set himself to plan the manoeuvres of the first encounter. The leading French ship mounted eighty guns – they were run out and grinning at him through her open ports, while each of the Frenchmen had, as though in bravado, at least four tricolour flags floating in the rigging. He looked up at the battered red ensign hanging from the peak against the blue of the sky, and then he plunged into realities.

  ‘Hands to the braces, Mr Bush. I want the ship handled like lightning when the time comes. Mr Gerard! I’ll have every gun captain flogged tomorrow who fires before his gun bears.’

  The men at the guns grinned; they would give of their best for him without any threat of flogging, and they knew he knew it.

  Bow to bow the Sutherland was approaching the eighty-gun ship, unwavering; if both captains held their courses steadily there would be a collision which might sink both ships. Hornblower kept his eye on the Frenchman to detect the first signs of irresolution; the Sutherland was lying as near to the wind as she could, with her sails on the point of flapping. If the French captain had the sense to bring his ship to the wind the Sutherland could do nothing decisive against her, but the chances were he would leave his decision to the last moment and then instinctively put his ship before the wind as the easiest course with an unhandy crew. At half a mile smoke suddenly eddied round the Frenchman’s bows, and a shot came humming overhead. She was firing her bow chasers, but there was no need to warn Gerard not to reply – he knew the value of that first unhurried broadside too well. With the distance halved two holes appeared in the Sutherland’s main topsail; Hornblower did not hear the passing of the shot, so intent was he on noting the Frenchman’s actions.

  ‘Which way will he go?’ said Bush, beating one hand with the other. ‘Which way? He’s holding on farther than I thought.’