Lieutenant Hornblower h-2

by Cecil Scott Forester

  This morning Sankey had hardly left him before he returned with a visitor.

  “Captain Cogshill to inspect you,” he said. “Here he is, sir.”

  Cogshill looked down at Bush upon the bed.

  “Doctor Sankey gives me the good news that you are recovering rapidly,” he said.

  “I think I am, sir.”

  “The admiral has ordered a court of inquiry, and I am nominated a member of the court. Naturally your evidence will be required, Mr. Bush, and it is my duty to ascertain how soon you will be able to give it.”

  Bush felt a little wave of apprehension ripple over him. A court of inquiry was only a shade less terrifying than the courtmartial to which it might lead. Even with a conscience absolutely clear Bush would rather—far rather—handle a ship on a lee shore in a gale than face questions and have to give answers, submit his motives to analysis and misconstruction, and struggle against the entanglements of legal forms. But it was medicine that had to be swallowed, and the sensible thing was to hold his nose and gulp it down, however nauseating.

  “I’m ready at any time, sir.”

  “Tomorrow I shall take out the sutures, sir,” interposed Sankey. “You will observe that Mr. Bush is still weak. He was entirely exsanguinated by his wounds.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean he was drained of his blood. And the ordeal of taking out the sutures—”

  “The stitches, do you mean?”

  “The stitches, sir. The ordeal of removing them may momentarily retard Mr. Bush’s recovery of his strength. But if the court will indulge him with a chair when he gives his evidence—”

  “That can certainly be granted.”

  “Then in three days from now he can answer any necessary questions.”

  “Next Friday, then?”

  “Yes, sir. That is the earliest. I could wish it would be later.”

  “To assemble a court on this station,” explained Cogshill with his cold courtesy, “is not easy, when every ship is away on necessary duty so much of the time. Next Friday will be convenient.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sankey.

  It was some sort of gratification to Bush, who had endured so much of Sankey’s chatter, to see him almost subdued in his manner when addressing someone as eminent as a captain.

  “Very well, then,” said Cogshill. He bowed to Bush. “I wish you the quickest of recoveries.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bush.

  Even lying on his back he could not check the instinctive attempt to return the bow, but his wounds hurt him when he started to double up in the middle and prevented him from appearing ridiculous. With Cogshill gone Bush had time to worry about the future; the fear of it haunted him a little even while he ate his dinner, but the loblolly boy who came to take away the remains ushered in another visitor, the sight of whom drove away the black thoughts. It was Hornblower, standing at the door with a basket in his hand, and Bush’s face lit up at the sight of him.

  “How are you, sir?” asked Homblower.

  They shook hands, each reflecting the pleasure of the others greeting.

  “All the better for seeing you,” said Bush, and meant it.

  “This is my first chance of coming ashore,” said Hornblower. “You can guess that I’ve been kept busy.”

  Bush could guess easily enough; it was no trouble to him to visualise all the duties that had been heaped on Hornblower, the necessity to complete Renown again with powder and shot, food and water, to clean up the ship after the prisoners had been removed, to eradicate the traces of the recent fighting, to attend to the formalities connected with the disposal of the prizes, the wounded, the sick, and the effects of the dead. And Bush was eager to hear the details, as a housewife might be when illness had removed her from the supervision of her household. He plied Hornblower with questions, and the technical discussion that ensued prevented Hornblower for some time from indicating the basket he had brought.

  “Pawpaws,” he said. “Mangoes. A pineapple. That’s only the second pineapple I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you. Very kind of you,” said Bush. But it was utterly beyond possibility that he could give the least hint of the feeling that the gift evoked in him, that after lying lonely for these days in the hospital he should find that someone cared about him—that in any case someone should give him so much as a thought. The words he spoke were limping and quite inadequate, and only a sensitive and sympathetic mind could guess at the feelings which the words concealed rather than expressed. But he was saved from further embarrassment by Hornblower abruptly introducing a new subject.

  “The admiral’s taking the Gaditana into the navy,” he announced.

  “Is he, by George!”

  “Yes. Eighteen guns—sixpounders and nines. She’ll rate as a sloop of war.”

  “So he’ll have to promote a commander for her.”

  “Yes.”

  “By George!” said Bush again.

  Some lucky lieutenant would get that important step. It might have been Buckland—it still might be, if no weight were given to the consideration that he had been captured asleep in bed.

  “Lambert’s renaming her the Retribution,” said Hornblower.

  “Not a bad name, either.”

  “No.”

  There was silence for a moment; each of them was reliving, from his own point of view, those awful minutes while the Renown was being recaptured, while the Spaniards who tried to fight it out were slaughtered without mercy.

  “You know about the court of inquiry, I suppose?” asked Bush; it was a logical step from his last train of thought.

  “Yes. How did you know about it?”

  “Cogshill’s just been in here to warn me that I’ll have to give evidence.”

  “I see.”

  There followed silence more pregnant than the last as they thought about the ordeal ahead. Hornblower deliberately broke it.

  “I was going to tell you,” he said, “that I had to reeve new tiller lines in Renown. Both of them were frayed—there’s too much wear there. I think they’re led round too sharp an angle.”

  That provoked a technical discussion which Hornblower encouraged until it was time for him to leave.

  Chapter XVI

  The court of inquiry was not nearly as aweinspiring as a courtmartial. There was no gun fired, no courtmartial flag hoisted; the captains who constituted the board wore their everyday uniforms, and the witnesses were not required to give their evidence under oath; Bush had forgotten about this last fact until he was called into the court.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Bush,” said the president. “I understand you are still weak from your wounds.”

  Bush hobbled across to the chair indicated and was just able to reach it in time to sit down. The great cabin of the Renown–here, where Captain Sawyer had lain quivering and weeping with fear—was sweltering hot. The president had the logbook and journal in front of him, and he held in his hand what Bush recognised to be his own report regarding the attack on Samaná, which he had addressed to Buckland.

  “This report of yours does you credit, Mr. Bush,” said the president. “It appears that you stormed this fort with no more than six casualties, although it was constructed with a ditch, parapets, and ramparts in regular style, and defended by a garrison of seventy men, and armed with twentyfour-pounders.”

  “We took them by surprise, sir,” said Bush.

  “It is that which is to your credit.”

  The surprise of the garrison of Samaná could not have been greater than Bush’s own surprise at this reception; he was expecting something far more unpleasant and inquisitorial. A glance across at Buckland, who had been called in before him, was not quite so reassuring; Buckland was pale and unhappy. But there was something he must say before the thought of Buckland should distract him.

  “The credit should be given to Lieutenant Hornblower, sir,” he said. “It was his plan.”

  “So you very handsomely say in yo
ur report. I may as well say at once that it is the opinion of this court that all the circumstances regarding the attack on Samaná and the subsequent capitulation are in accordance with the best traditions of the service.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now we come to the next matter. The attempt of the prisoners to capture the Renown. You were by this time acting as first lieutenant of the ship, Mr. Bush?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Step by step Bush was taken through the events of that night. He was responsible under Buckland for the arrangements made for guarding and feeding the prisoners. There were fifty women, wives of the prisoners, under guard in the midshipmen’s berth. Yes, it was difficult to supervise them as closely as the men. Yes, he had gone his rounds after pipedown. Yes, he had heard a disturbance. And so on. “And you were found lying among the dead, unconscious from your wounds?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush.”

  A freshfaced young captain at the end of the table asked a question.

  “And all this time Captain Sawyer was confined to his cabin, until he was murdered?”

  The president interposed.

  “Captain Hibbert, Mr. Buckland has already enlightened us regarding Captain Sawyer’s indisposition.”

  There was annoyance in the glance that the president of the court turned upon Captain Hibbert, and light suddenly dawned upon Bush. Sawyer had a wife, children, friends, who would not desire that any attention should be called to the fact that he had died insane. The president of the court was probably acting under explicit orders to hush that part of the business up. He would welcome questions about it no more than Bush himself would, now that Sawyer was dead in his country’s cause. Buckland could not have been very closely examined about it either. His unhappy look must be due to having to describe his inglorious part in the attempt on the Renown.

  “I don’t expect any of you gentlemen wish to ask Mr. Bush any more questions?” asked the president of the court in such a way that questions could not possibly have been asked. “Call Lieutenant Hornblower.”

  Hornblower made his bow to the court; he was wearing that impassive expression which Bush knew by now to conceal an internal turbulence. He was asked as few questions on Samaná as Bush had been.

  “It has been suggested,” said the president, “that this attack on the fort, and the hoisting up of the gun to search the bay, were on your initiative?”

  “I can’t think why that suggestion was made, sir. Mr. Buckland bore the entire responsibility.”

  “I won’t press you further about that Mr. Hornblower, then. I think we all understand. Now, let us hear about your recapture of the Renown. What first attracted your attention?”

  It called for steady questioning to get the story out of Hornblower. He had heard a couple of musket shots, which had worried him, and then he saw the Renown come up into the wind, which made him certain something was seriously wrong. So he had collected his prize crews together and laid the Renown on board.

  “Were you not afraid of losing the prizes, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “Better to lose the prizes than the ship, sir. Besides—”

  “Besides what, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “I had every sheet and halliard cut in the prizes before we left them, sir. It took them some time to reeve new ones, so it was easy to recapture them.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. Hornblower,” said the president, and there was a buzz of approval through the court. “And you seem to have made a very prompt counterattack on the Renown. You did not wait to ascertain the extent of the danger? Yet for all you knew the attempt to take the ship might have already failed.”

  “In that case no harm was done except the disabling of the rigging of the prizes, sir. But if the ship had actually fallen into the hands of the prisoners it was essential that an attack should be directed on her before any defence could be organized.”

  “We understand. Thank you, Mr. Hornblower.”

  The inquiry was nearly over. Carberry was still too ill with his wounds to be able to give evidence; Whiting of the marines was dead. The court conferred only a moment before announcing its findings.

  “It is the opinion of this court,” announced the president, “that strict inquiry should be made among the Spanish prisoners to determine who it was that murdered Captain Sawyer, and that the murderer, if still alive, should be brought to justice. And as the result of our examination of the surviving officers of HMS Renown it is our opinion that no further action is necessary.”

  That meant there would be no courtmartial. Bush found himself grinning with relief as he sought to meet Hornblower’s eye, but when he succeeded his smile met with a cold reception. Bush tried to shut off his smile and look like a man of such clear conscience that it was no relief to be told that he would not be courtmartialled. And a glance at Buckland changed his elation to a feeling of pity. The man was desperately unhappy; his professional ambitions had come to an abrupt end. After the capitulation of Samaná he must have cherished hope, for with that considerable achievement to his credit, and his captain unfit for service, there was every possibility that he would receive the vital promotion to commander at least, possibly even to captain. The fact that he had been surprised in bed meant an end to all that. He would always be remembered for it, and the fact would remain in people’s minds when the circumstances were forgotten. He was doomed to remain an ageing lieutenant.

  Bush remembered guiltily that it was only by good fortune that he himself had awakened in time. His wounds might be painful, but they had served an invaluable purpose in diverting attention from his own responsibility; he had fought until he had fallen unconscious, and perhaps that was to his credit, but Buckland would have done the same had the opportunity been granted him. But Buckland was damned, while he himself had come through the ordeal at least no worse off than he had been before. Bush felt the illogicality of it all, although he would have been hard pressed if he had to put it into words. And in any case logical thinking on the subject of reputation and promotion was not easy, because during all these years Bush had become more and more imbued with the knowledge that the service was a hard and ungrateful one, in which fortune was even more capricious than in other walks of life. Good luck came and went in the navy as unpredictably as death chose its victims when a broadside swept a crowded deck. Bush was fatalistic and resigned about that, and it was not a state of mind conducive to penetrating thought.

  “Ah, Mr. Bush,” said Captain Cogshill, “it’s a pleasure to see you on your feet. I hope you will remain on board to dine with me. I hope to secure the presence of the other lieutenants.”

  “With much pleasure, sir,” said Bush. Every lieutenant said that in reply to his captain’s invitation.

  “In fifteen minutes’ time, then? Excellent.”

  The captains who had constituted the court of inquiry were leaving the ship, in strict order of seniority, and the calls of the bosun’s mates echoed along the deck as each one left, a careless hand to a hat brim in acknowledgment of the compliments bestowed. Down from the entry port went each in turn, gold lace, epaulettes, and all, these blessed individuals who had achieved the ultimate beatitude of post rank, and the smart gigs pulled away towards the anchored ships.

  “You’re dining on board, sir?” said Hornblower to Bush.

  “Yes.”

  On the deck of their own ship the ‘sir’ came quite naturally, as naturally as it had been dropped when Hornblower had been visiting his friend in the hospital ashore. Hornblower turned to touch his hat to Buckland.

  “May I leave the deck to Hart, sir? I’m invited to dine in the cabin.”

  “Very well, Mr. Hornblower.” Buckland forced a smile. “We’ll have two new lieutenants soon, and you’ll cease to be the junior.”

  “I shan’t be sorry, sir.”

  These men who had been through so much together were grasping eagerly at trivialities to keep the conversation going for fear lest more
serious matters should lift their ugly heads.

  “Time for us to go along,” said Buckland.

  Captain Cogshill was a courtly host. There were flowers in the great cabin now; they must have been kept hidden away in his sleeping cabin while the inquiry was being held so as not to detract from the formality of the proceedings. And the cabin windows were wide open, and a wind scoop brought into the cabin what little air was moving.

  “That is, a landcrab salad before you, Mr. Hornblower. Coconutfed land crab. Some prefer it to dairyfed pork. Perhaps you will serve it to those who would care for some?”

  The steward brought in a vast smoking joint which he put on the table.

  “A saddle of fresh lamb,” said the captain. “Sheep do badly in these islands and I fear this may not be fit to eat. But perhaps you will at least try it. Mr. Buckland, will you carve? You see, gentlemen, I still have some real potatoes left—one grows weary of yams. Mr. Hornblower, will you take wine?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “And Mr. Bush—to your speedy recovery, sir.”

  Bush drained his glass thirstily. Sankey had warned him, when he left the hospital, that over indulgence in spirituous liquors might result in inflammation of his wounds, but there was pleasure in pouring the wine down his throat and feeling the grateful warmth it brought to his stomach. The dinner proceeded.

  “You gentlemen who have served on this station before must be acquainted with this,” said the captain, contemplating a steaming dish that had been laid before him. “A West Indian pepper pot—not as good as one finds in Trinidad, I fear. Mr. Hornblower, will you make your first essay? Come in!”

  The last words were in response to a knock on the cabin door. A smartly dressed midshipman entered. His beautiful uniform, his elegant bearing, marked him as one of that class of naval officer in receipt of a comfortable allowance from home, or even of substantial means of his own. Some sprig of the nobility, doubtless, serving his legal time until favouritism and interest should whisk him up the ladder of promotion.

  “I’m sent by the admiral, sir,” he announced.