Hornblower and the Crisis

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I shall send for you very shortly’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower had shut the door before he experienced any qualm regarding using this purely naval expression towards a civilian, nor did it linger, with so much else for his weary brain to think about. He wanted food; he was desperately in need of sleep. He hardly cared about the unknown Miranda, this mysterious Claudius in Newgate Gaol. What he must do was to eat himself into a torpor, and then sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But also he must write to Maria.

  9

  Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to his mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.

  What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the post-chaise – he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the church-goers gathering round the post-chaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning – yesterday, hard to believe though that was – and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth – he had last seen Maria – on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there – it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.

  He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty – he had completely forgotten until now – the French captain’s blanket in which he had bundled the ship’s papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about – nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain’s head shattered like a cracked walnut.

  He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semi-consciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no farther than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Admiralty messenger.’

  Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.

  ‘Captain Hornblower?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.

  The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the

  Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio

  Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven

  o’clock a.m. today, Tuesday.

  ‘What’s the time now?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘Not long past eight, sir.’

  ‘Very well,’ Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. ‘Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?’

  ‘Only those over a mile, sir.’ The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.

  ‘Thank you. That will be all.’

  There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.

  He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha’pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.

  ‘That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,’ said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.

  ‘We’ll know more about it in a day or two,’ replied Hornblower mildly.

  ‘He caught ’em and let ’em go. Nelson wouldn’t ’a done that.’

  ‘There’s no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.’

  ‘Boney on our doorstep, an’ Villoun-noove at sea. That Calder! ’E ought to be ashamed. I’ve ’eard about Admiral Byng an’ ’ow they shot ’im. That’s what they ought to do with Calder.’

  That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen’s Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.

  ‘Let me see a newspaper,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Newspaper, sir? Yes, certainly, sir.’

  Here was the Gazette Extraordinary, in the place of honour on the front page, but it hardly merited the lofty title, for it consisted of no more than eight lines, and was only a resume of the first telegraphic dispatch; the full report from Calder, carried up to London by relays of couriers riding ten-mile stages at full speed, would only now be arriving at the Admiralty. It was the editorial comment which was significant, for the Morning Post clearly held the same views as the wherryman and the innkeeper. Calder had been stationed to intercept Villeneuve, and the interception had taken place, thanks to good planning by the Admiralty. But Calder had failed in his particular task, which was to destroy Villeneuve once the Admiralty had brought about the meeting.

  Villeneuve had arrived from the West Indies, evading Nelson who had followed him there, and had broken through the barrier England had endeavoured to interpose. Now he had reached Ferrol, where he would be able to land his sick, and renew his fresh water, ready to issue forth again to threaten the Channel. Viewed in this light it could be reckoned as a decided French success; Hornblower had no doubt that Bonaparte would represent it as a resounding victory.

  ‘Yes, sir. What do you think, sir?’ asked the innkeeper.

  ‘Look out of your door and tell me if Boney’s marching down the street,’ said Hornblower.

  It was indicative of the innkeeper’s state of mind that he actually made a move towards the door before realization came to him.

  ‘You are pleased to jest, sir.’

  There was really nothing to do except to jest. These discussions of naval strategy and tactics by ignorant civilians reminded Hornblower a little of the arguments of the citizens of Gibbon’s declining Rome regarding the nature of the Trinity. Yet it was popular clamour that had compelled the death sentence on Byng to be carried out. Calder might be in serious danger of his life.

  ‘The worst thing Boney’s done today is to keep me from my breakfast,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. This minute, sir.’

  It was as the innkeeper bustled away that Hornblower caught sight of another name on the front page of the Morning Post. It was a paragraph about Doctor Claudius, and as Hornblower read he remembered why the name had been vaguely familiar to him when Marsden mentioned it. There had been references to him in earlier newspapers, old
copies which he had seen even during the blockade of Brest. Claudius was a clergyman, a genuine Doctor of Divinity, and the centre of the most resounding scandal, both social and financial, in English history. He had entered into London society to gain a bishopric for himself, but, while achieving considerable popularity or notoriety, he had failed in his object. Despairing of preferment he had plunged into crime. He had built up an extensive organization specializing in the forging of bills of exchange. So perfect were his forgeries, and so cunning was his marketing of them, that he had long gone undetected.

  The world wide commerce of England was conducted largely by bills of exchange. Claudius had taken advantage of the long intervals necessary between drawing and presentation to insert his forgeries into the stream, and only an error by a confederate had exposed him. Bills drawn in Beyrout and in Madras, so perfect that the very victims found it hard to dishonour them, were still coming in, and the financial world was shaken to its foundations, and, judging by this paragraph, the world of high society which had accepted him was similarly rent. Now Claudius was lodged in Newgate Gaol and his trial was imminent. Was it significant that Marsden had expressed interest in this fellow? Hornblower found it hard to believe it.

  At that moment his attention was caught by the sight of his own name in another paragraph. It was headed ‘Plymouth’ and after mentions of the comings and goings of ships came ‘Captain Horatio Hornblower, late of HM Sloop Hotspur, landed this morning from the water-hoy Princess and immediately took post to London’.

  It was quite ridiculous that such a triviality should improve the flavour of the gammon and spinach and fried eggs that the innkeeper set before him, but it was indeed the case. It put him in a good humour as he walked towards Whitehall. Marsden must be ready to discuss with him his promotion to Captain and to find a ship for him – the sooner this vital business was settled the better. He had no friends in high places now that Cornwallis had hauled down his flag, and Cornwallis’ recommendation could easily be shelved or even forgotten in order to make room for a favourite.

  It was inconceivable in the clear light of day, after a good night’s rest and with a full stomach, that Marsden could have in mind to take any further action on the wild plan to send false orders to Villeneuve. And yet – It was not so inconceivable; nor was it such a wild plan. The forgery would have to be very good, the substitution undetected. As Ferrol was at least ten days by courier from Paris there would be no chance of Villeneuve referring back for confirmation. And because it was inconceivable that the British government should do such a thing its success would be all the more likely if it were attempted.

  Here was the Admiralty. This morning he could say with assurance to the doorkeeper, ‘I have an appointment with Mr Marsden,’ to the vast envy of a couple of suppliants who were seeking admission, and he could write ‘by appointment’ on the form on which he stated his business, and he was not left more than ten minutes in the waiting room, not more than three minutes after the clock had chimed eleven, before he was summoned into Marsden’s presence. Barrow was there as well and Dorsey too, and the sight of them warned Hornblower that the agenda of the meeting might include the inconceivable.

  But it was interesting to find that the First Secretary was human enough to spend a little time on preliminaries before plunging into business.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be flattered to hear, Captain, that His Lordship holds practically identical opinions regarding Ferrol as you do.’

  ‘I’m very flattered, sir,’ Lord Barham was not only First Lord, but he had been Comptroller of the Navy for many years and an Admiral commanding a fleet before that. He must have been responsible for the orders that had placed Calder across Villeneuve’s path.

  ‘His Lordship was both surprised and gratified at Mr Barrow’s familiarity with local conditions there,’ went on Marsden. ‘Naturally Mr Barrow did not see fit to tell him he had just finished discussing them with you.’

  ‘Naturally not, sir,’ agreed Hornblower. Then he braced himself; to speak called for resolution. ‘But perhaps in that case His Lordship would give favourable consideration to Admiral Cornwallis’ recommendation of me to post rank?’

  Now it was said. But not a flicker of expression was observable on the faces of the two Secretaries.

  ‘There is more urgent business at present,’ said Marsden. ‘We are keeping someone waiting. Dorsey, kindly bring in the parson.’

  Dorsey walked across and opened the door, and after a moment a short square figure came waddling in; Hornblower had a glimpse of a uniformed marine outside before the door closed. The newcomer wore a black clerical gown and a clerical wig; but his clerical clothing was at variance with his bristling unshaven cheeks which bore half an inch of black stubble. It called for a second glance to see that his wrists wore handcuffs, and that a chain ran from the handcuffs to his waist.

  ‘This is the Reverend Doctor Claudius,’ said Marsden. ‘Newly arrived from Newgate. His services have been lent to us by the courtesy of the Secretary of State for Home Affairs. Temporarily, at least.’

  Claudius looked round at them all with a varying expression which would offer an interesting study in psychology. He had bold black eyes, yet they were cunning and sly. There was fear in his pudgy face, yet there was defiance as well, and, besides, most interesting of all, there was curiosity, irrepressible even in the shadow of death. But Marsden wasted no time.

  ‘Claudius, you’ve been brought here to execute a forgery, if you can.’

  The pudgy face showed a sudden flash of understanding, and then instantly settled into an immobility which called forth Hornblower’s admiration.

  ‘Both politeness and convention,’ said Claudius, ‘suggest that you address me as “Doctor”. I have not yet been unfrocked, and I am still a Doctor of Divinity.’

  ‘Rubbish, Claudius,’ said Marsden.

  ‘I shouldn’t have expected politeness from underlings.’

  Claudius’ voice was an unpleasant one, harsh and grating, which might explain the ill success of his quest for a bishopric. But on the other hand Claudius had taken the offensive in this very first exchange – that letter from Bonaparte which Dorsey held recommended an unexpected counter-attack vigorously carried out even with an inferior force. But here in the Admiralty the enemy was commanded by a master of tactics.

  ‘Very well, Doctor,’ said Marsden. ‘The dignity of a Doctor of Divinity demands all the respect we can accord it. Mr Dorsey, hand that document to the Doctor with the compliments of Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and ask the Doctor if as a result of his vast experience he thinks himself capable of making anything similar.’

  Claudius took the thing in his manacled hands, and his black eyebrows came together as he studied it.

  ‘Of French origin. That is plain. Apart from the language it is in the standard handwriting in use by French clerks. I had plenty of examples pass through my hands during the late peace.’

  ‘And the signature?’

  ‘An interesting piece of work. Written with a turkey quill, I should say. It would call for at least an hour’s practice before I could reproduce it. Now these seals –’

  ‘I made moulds,’ said Dorsey.

  ‘I could see that. But they have been lifted from the paper with reasonable care. I must congratulate you on your acquirement of a difficult art. Now –’

  Claudius looked up from the paper and swept his audience with a searching glance.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have much more to say on this subject. But before I do so I need some assurance that my services will not go without recompense.’

  ‘You are having that already,’ said Marsden. ‘Your trial has been postponed for a week.’

  ‘A week? I used to preach sermons on how speedily time passes from Sunday to Sunday. No, gentlemen. I need my life. I have a mortal objection to hanging, and that is not spoken in jest.’

  The situation was tense with drama. Hornblower looked round at the four faces – Marsden displa
ying the faintest possible hint of cynical amusement, Barrow a little taken aback, Dorsey displaying the proper indifference of a subordinate, and Claudius looking warily from one to another, like a condemned criminal in the Roman arena watching the lions close in on him. Barrow spoke first, addressing Marsden.

  ‘I’ll call in the guard, sir, shall I? We don’t need him.’

  There was yet no slackening in the tension.

  ‘Call in the guard!’ said Claudius; there was a clank of iron as he waved his manacled hands. ‘Take me away, and hang me tomorrow! Tomorrow? A week hence? If it is coming, the sooner the better. You gentlemen may never know the truth of that statement. I still have charity enough to hope that you never will. But true it is. Hang me tomorrow.’

  Hornblower found it hard to decide whether Claudius was gambling or not, staking a week of life which might well be dear to him against the possibility of pardon. But in either case he could not help feeling a guilty twinge of admiration for the ugly little man, alone and helpless, fighting his last battle and refusing to lapse into a mere plea for mercy – especially when that, addressed to Marsden would have been the least effective plea of all. Then Marsden spoke.

  ‘You will not hang,’ he said.

  Ever since Claudius had been brought in the sky had been darkening. After a few days of sunny summer weather the inevitable thunderstorm of the Thames valley was building up and there was a low rumble of thunder following Marsden’s words. Hornblower was reminded of the thunder in the Iliad which confirmed the oath taken by Zeus.

  Claudius darted a piercing glance at Marsden.

  ‘Then we are agreed and I shall give you all the benefit of my experience,’ he said.

  Hornblower felt another spurt of admiration; the little man had been content with the four simple words spoken by Marsden – he had not gone through any ceremony of exacting a formal promise; as a gentleman he had instantly accepted a gentleman’s word. He may even have been encouraged by the peal of confirmatory thunder.