Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  They obeyed him again.

  ‘We got two more up while you was away, sir,’ volunteered one of the men.

  Hornblower peered down the hatchway at the litter-covered water. Another idea came up into his mind, and he turned to the steward again.

  ‘Her ladyship sent a chest of food on board,’ he said. ‘Food in tin boxes. It was put aft here somewhere. Do you know where?’

  ‘It was right aft, sir. Under the tiller ropes.’

  ‘M’m,’ said Hornblower.

  As he thought about it a sudden motion of the ship tossed the water below up in a fountain through the hatchway. But it ought to be possible to reach that chest, break it open, and bring up its contents. A strong man, able to stay submerged for long periods, could do it, if he did not mind being flung about by the send of the water below.

  ‘We’d have something better to eat than coconut jelly if we got those boxes up,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll have a go, sir,’ said a young seaman, and Hornblower was inexpressibly relieved. He did not want to go down there himself.

  ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Put a line round yourself before you go down. Then we can haul you out if we have to.’

  They were setting about their preparations when Hornblower checked them.

  ‘Wait. Look for’rard!’ he said.

  There was a rain-squall a mile away. They could see it, a vast pillar of water to windward streaming down from the sky, well defined; the cloud was lower whence it fell, and the surface of the sea which received it was a different grey from the rest. It was moving down towards them – no, not quite. The centre was heading for a point some distance on their beam, as everyone could see after a moment’s study. There was an explosion of blasphemy from the grouped hands as they watched.

  ‘We’ll get the tail of it, by God!’ said the mate.

  ‘Make the most of it when it comes,’ said Hornblower.

  For three long minutes they watched it approach. A cable’s length away it seemed to stand still, even though they could feel the freshening breeze around them. Hornblower had run to Barbara’s side.

  ‘Rain,’ he said.

  Barbara turned her face to the mast, and bent down and rumbled under her skirt. A moment’s struggle brought down a petticoat, and she stepped out of it and did her best to wring the salt damp out of it as they waited. Then came a few drops, and then the full deluge. Precious rain; ten shirts and a petticoat were extended to it, wrung out, re-extended, wrung out again, until the wringings tasted fresh. Everyone could drink, madly, with the rain roaring about them. After two minutes of it Hornblower was shouting to the crew to fill the empty coconut shells, and a few men had sense and public spirit enough to wring their shirts into them before returning to the ecstasy of drinking again – no one wanted to waste a single second of this precious rain. But it passed as quickly as it came; they could see the squall going away over the quarter, as far out of their reach as if it were raining in the Sahara Desert. But the young hands of the crew were laughing and joking now; there was an end to their care and their apathy. There was not one man on board except Hornblower who spared a thought for the possibility, the probability, that this might be the only rain-squall to touch the ship for the next week. There was urgent need for action, even though every joint and muscle in his body ached, even though his mind was clouded with weariness. He made himself think; he made himself rally his strength. He cut short the silly laughter, and turned on the man who had volunteered to venture down into the steerage.

  ‘Put two men to tend your line. The steward had better be one of ’em,’ he said. ‘Mr Mate, come for’rard with me. We want to get sail on this ship as soon as may be.’

  That was the beginning of a voyage which was destined to become legendary, just as did the hurricane which had just passed – it was called Hornblower’s Hurricane, singled out not only because Hornblower was involved in it but also because its unexpected arrival caused widespread damage. Hornblower never thought that the voyage itself was particularly notable, even though it was made in a waterlogged hulk precariously balanced upon bales of coir. It was only a matter of getting the hulk before the wind; a spare jib-boom (the only spare spar surviving the storm) made a jury mast when fished to the stump of the foremast, and the sacking from coir bales provided sails. Spread on the jury foremast these enabled them to get the Pretty Jane before the trade wind, to creep along at a mile an hour while they set to work on extemporising after-sails that doubled her speed.

  There were no navigating instruments – even the compass had been dashed from its gimbals during the storm – and on the first two days they had no idea where they were, except that somewhere to leeward lay the chain of the Antilles, but the third day proved fine and clear, and dawn had hardly broken before a hand at the mainmast-head saw the faintest, tiniest dark streak on the horizon far ahead. It was land; it might be the high mountains of San Domingo far off, or the low mountains of Puerto Rico somewhat nearer; there was no knowing at present, and even when the sun had set they were still ignorant – and they were thirsty, with small appetite for the meagre ration of corned beef that Hornblower doled out to them from the recovered stores.

  And despite fatigue they could sleep that night on their coir mattresses on the deck that an occasional small wave still swept. Next morning the land was nearer still, a low profile that seemed to indicate it might be Puerto Rico, and it was in the afternoon that they saw the fishing boat. It headed for them, puzzled at the strange vessel bearing down on them, and it was not long before it was alongside, the mulatto fishermen staring at the group of strange figures waving to them. Hornblower had to urge his dazed mind, stupid with lack of sleep and fatigue and hunger, to remember his Spanish as he hailed them. They had a breaker of water on board, and they had a jar of cold garbanzos as well; there was a can of corned beef to add to the feast. Barbara caught, even though she spoke no Spanish, two words of the excited conversation that went on.

  ‘Puerto Rico?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Hornblower. ‘Not very surprising – and much more convenient for us than San Domingo. I wish I could remember the name of the Captain-General there – I had dealings with him in the affair of the Estrella del Sur. He was a marquis. The Marques de – de – Dearest, why don’t you lie down and close your eyes? You’re worn out.’

  He was shocked anew at her pallor and look of distress.

  ‘I’m well enough, thank you, dear,’ replied Barbara, even though the strained tone of her voice denied her words. It was one more proof of her indomitable spirit.

  It was when they were discussing what to do next that the second mate showed the first sign of any spirit. They could all desert the waterlogged hulk and sail into Puerto Rico in the fishing boat, but he stoutly refused to do so. He knew the law about salvage, and there might be some value still in the poor hull, and certainly in its cargo. He would work the Pretty Jane in tomorrow himself, and he insisted on staying on board with the hands.

  Hornblower faced a decision of a sort he had never yet encountered in a varied career. To leave the ship now savoured of desertion, but there was Barbara to think of. And his first reaction, that he would not dream of deserting his men, was promptly ended by his reminding himself that they were not ‘his men’ at all.

  ‘You’re only a passenger, My Lord,’ said the mate – it was odd how ‘My Lord’ seemed to come naturally again now that they were in touch with civilisation.

  ‘That’s so,’ agreed Hornblower. Nor could he possibly condemn Barbara to another night on the deck of this waterlogged hulk.

  So they came sailing into San Juan de Puerto Rico, two years after Hornblower had last visited the place in very different circumstances. Not unnaturally their arrival set the whole place in an uproar. Messengers sped to the Fortaleza, and it was only a few minutes later that a figure appeared on the quay which Hornblower’s swimming eyes contrived to recognise, tall and thin, with a thin moustache.

  ‘Mendez-Castillo,’ he
said, saving Hornblower any further trouble about remembering his name. ‘It grieves me greatly to see Your Excellencies in such distress, even while I have much pleasure in welcoming Your Excellency again to Puerto Rico.’

  Some sort of formalities had to be observed, even in these conditions.

  ‘Barbara, my dear, allow me to present señor – Major – Mendez-Castillo, aide-de-camp to His Excellency the Captain-General.’ Then he continued in Spanish. ‘My wife, la Baronesa Hornblower.’

  Mendez-Castillo bowed deeply, his eyes still busy estimating the extent of the weakness of the new arrivals. Then he reached the very important decision.

  ‘If Your Excellencies are agreeable, I would suggest that your formal welcome by His Excellency should be postponed until Your Excellencies are better prepared for it.’

  ‘We are agreeable,’ said Hornblower. In his exasperation he was about to burst out violently regarding Barbara’s need for rest and care, but Mendez-Castillo, now that the point of etiquette was settled, was all consideration.

  ‘Then if Your Excellencies will give yourselves the trouble of stepping down into my boat I shall have the pleasure of escorting you to make your informal entrance into the Palace of Santa Catalina. Their Excellencies will receive you, but formal etiquette need not be observed, and Your Excellencies will be able to recover from the dreadful experiences I fear Your Excellencies have undergone. Would Your Excellencies be so kind as to come this way?’

  ‘One moment, first, if you please, señor. The men out there in the ship. They need food and water. They may need help.’

  ‘I will give an order for the port authorities to send out to them what they need.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  So they went down into the boat for the brief trip across the harbour; despite his mortal fatigue Hornblower was able to note that every fishing boat and coasting craft there was hurriedly getting to sea, presumably to examine the chances of salvaging or plundering the Pretty Jane; the second mate had been perfectly right in refusing to leave her. But he did not care, now. He put his arm about Barbara as she drooped beside him. Then up through the water-gate of the Palace, with attentive servants awaiting them. Here were His Excellency and a dark, beautiful woman, his wife: she took Barbara under her protection instantly. Here were cool, dark rooms, and more servants scurrying about in obedience to the orders His Excellency volleyed out. Valets and maids and body servants.

  ‘This is Manuel, my principal valet, Your Excellency. Any orders Your Excellency may give him will be obeyed as if they came from me. My physician has been sent for and will be here at any moment. So now my wife and I will withdraw and leave Your Excellencies to rest, assuring Your Excellencies that our sincerest hope is for your rapid recovery.’

  The crowd thinned away. For one more moment Hornblower had to keep his faculties alert, for the doctor came bustling in, to feel pulses and to look at tongues. He produced a case of lancets and was making preparations to draw blood from Barbara and it was only with difficulty that Hornblower stopped him, and with further difficulty prevented him from substituting leeches for venesection. He could not believe that bleeding would hasten the cure of the lacerations Barbara bore on her body. He thanked the doctor and saw him out of the room again with a sigh of relief and mental reservations regarding the medicines he promised to send in. The maids were waiting to relieve Barbara of the few rags she wore.

  ‘Do you think you will sleep, darling? Is there anything more I can ask for?’

  ‘I shall sleep, dearest.’ Then the smile on Barbara’s weary face was replaced by something more like a grin, perfectly unladylike. ‘And as nobody else but us here can speak English I am free to tell you that I love you, dearest. I love you, I love you, more than any words that I know can tell you.’

  Servants or no servants, he kissed her then before he left her to go into the adjoining room where the valets awaited him. His body was criss-crossed with angry welts still raw where, during the storm, the force of the waves had flung him against the ropes that held him to the mast. They were horribly painful as he was sponged with warm water. He knew that Barbara’s sweet, tender body must be marked in the same fashion. But Barbara was safe; she would soon be well, and she had said that she loved him. – And – and she had said more than that. What she had told him in that deck-house had drawn out all the pain from a mental wound far, far, deeper than the physical hurts he now bore. He was a happy man as he lay down in the silk nightshirt with the elaborate heraldic embroidery which the valet had ready for him His sleep was at first deep and untroubled, but conscience awoke him before dawn, and he went out on to the balcony in the first light, to see the Pretty Jane creeping into the harbour, escorted by a dozen small craft. It irked him that he was not on board, until he thought again of the wife sleeping in the next room.

  There were happy hours still to come. That balcony was deep and shaded, looking out over harbour and sea, and there he sat in his dressing-gown an hour later, rocking idly in his chair, with Barbara opposite him, drinking sweet chocolate and eating sweet rolls.

  ‘It is good to be alive,’ said Hornblower; there was a potency, an inner meaning, about those words now – it was no hackneyed turn of speech.

  ‘It is good to be with you,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Pretty Jane came in this morning safely,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘I peeped out at her through my window,’ said Barbara.

  Mendez-Castillo was announced, presumably having been warned that His Excellency’s guests were awake and breakfasting. He made enquiries on behalf of His Excellency, to receive every assurance of a rapid recovery, and he announced that news of the recent events would be despatched at once to Jamaica.

  ‘Most kind of His Excellency,’ said Hornblower. ‘Now, as regards the crew of the Pretty Jane. Are they being looked after?’

  ‘They have been received into the military hospital. The port authorities have stationed a guard on board the vessel.’

  ‘That is very well indeed,’ said Hornblower, telling himself that now he need feel no more responsibility.

  The morning could be an idle one now, only broken by a visit from the doctor, to be dismissed, after a new feeling of pulses and looking at tongues, with grateful thanks for his untasted medicines. There was dinner at two o’clock, a vast meal served ceremoniously but only sampled. A siesta, and then supper eaten with more appetite, and a peaceful night.

  Next morning was busier, for there was now the question of domes to be dealt with. Dressmakers were sent in to Barbara by Her Excellency, so that Hornblower found all the mental exercise he needed in acting as interpreter over matters demanding a vocabulary he did not possess, and shirt-makers and tailors sent in to him by His Excellency. The tailor was somewhat disappointed on being told that Hornblower did not wish him to make a complete uniform for a British Rear-Admiral, gold lace and all. As a half-pay officer, with no appointment, Hornblower did not need anything of the sort.

  After the tailor came a deputation, the mate and two members of the crew of Pretty Jane.

  ‘We’ve come to enquire after Your Lordship’s health, and Her Ladyship’s,’ said the mate.

  ‘Thank you. You can see Her Ladyship and I are quite recovered,’ said Hornblower. ‘And you? Are you being well looked after?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘You’re master of the Pretty Jane now,’ commented Hornblower.

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  It was a strange first command for a man to have.

  ‘What are you going to do with her?’

  ‘I’m having her hauled out today, My Lord. Maybe she can be patched up. But she’ll have lost all her copper.’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘I expect I’ll have to sell her for what she’ll fetch, hull and cargo,’ said the mate, with a note of bitterness in his voice – that was to be expected in a man who had received his first command only to face losing it instantly.

  ‘I hope you’re lucky,’ said Hornblowe
r.

  ‘Thank you, My Lord.’ There was a moment’s hesitation before the next words came. ‘And I have to thank Your Lordship for all you did.’

  ‘The little I did I did for my own sake and Her Ladyship’s,’ said Hornblower.

  He could smile as he said it; already, in these blissful surroundings, the memory of the howl of the hurricane and the crash of the waves sweeping Pretty Jane’s deck was losing its painful acuteness. And the two seamen could grin back at him. Here in a viceregal palace it was hard to remember how he had stood, with bared teeth and drawn knife, disputing with them possession of a single green coconut. It was pleasant that the interview could end with smiles and goodwill, so that Hornblower could lapse back into delightful idleness with Barbara beside him.

  Seamstresses and tailors must have worked hard and long, for next day some of the results of their efforts were ready to be tried on.

  ‘My Spanish grandee!’ said Barbara, eyeing her husband dressed in coat and breeches of Puerto Rican cut.

  ‘My lovely señora,’ answered Hornblower with a bow. Barbara was wearing comb and mantilla.

  ‘The señoras of Puerto Rico wear no stays, fortunately,’ said Barbara. ‘I could bear nothing of the sort at present.’

  That was one of the few allusions Barbara made regarding the lacerations and bruises that she bore all over her body. She was of a Spartan breed, trained in a school which scorned to admit physical weakness. Even in making her mock-formal curtsey to him as she spoke she was careful to betray none of the pain the movement cost her; Hornblower could hardly guess at it.

  ‘What am I to tell Mendez-Castillo today when he comes to make his enquiries?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘I think, dear, that now we can safely be received by Their Excellencies,’ said Barbara.

  Here in little Puerto Rico was to be found all the magnificence and ceremonial of the court of Spain. The Captain-General was the representative of a king in whose veins ran the blood of Bourbons and Habsburgs, of Ferdinand and Isabella, and his person had to be surrounded by the same ritual and etiquette, lest the mystic sanctity of his master should be called into question. Even Hornblower did not come to realise, until he began to discuss the arrangements with Mendez-Castillo, the enormous condescension, the extreme strain put upon palace etiquette, involved in the back-stairs visit Their Excellencies had paid to the battered castaways who had claimed their hospitality. Now that was all to be forgotten in their formal reception.