“Where’s Nelson?” demanded Hornblower.
“Hot on Villain-noove’s trail. If Nelson don’t catch him Calder will. Boney’s going to wait a long time before he sees French tops’ls in the Channel.”
“How do you know this?”
“Sloop came in from Nelson while I was waiting for a wind in Plymouth. The whole town knew in half an hour, bless you.”
This was the most vital and the most recent information imaginable, and yet it was common knowledge. Bonaparte at Boulogne had a quarter of a million men trained, equipped, and ready. Transporting them across the Channel might be difficult despite the thousands of flat bottomed boats that crowded the French Channel ports, but with twenty, thirty, possibly forty French and Spanish ships of the line to cover the crossing something might be achieved. In a month Bonaparte might well be eating frogs in Windsor Castle. The destiny of the world, the fate of civilization, depended on the concerted movements of the British fleets. If so much was known in Plymouth last week it would be known in Bonaparte’s headquarters today; detailed knowledge of the British movements was vital for the French in executing what appeared to be essentially a plan of evasion.
Baddlestone was watching him curiously; Hornblower must have allowed some of his emotions to show in his expression.
“No good ever came of worrying,” said Baddlestone, and now it was Hornblower’s turn to return the sharp gaze.
Until this conversation the pair of them had not exchanged twenty words during this two days of waiting for a wind. Baddlestone apparently cherished hard feelings towards naval officers; maybe Hornblower’s refusal to make any advances towards intimacy had softened them.
“Worry?” said Hornblower bravely. “Why should I worry? We’ll deal with Boney when the time comes.”
Already Baddlestone seemed to regret his voluntary loquacity. As every captain should while on deck, he had been darting repeated glances at the leech of the mainsail and now he rounded on the helmsman.
“Watch what you’re doing, blast you!” he roared, unexpectedly. “Keep her full and by! D’ye want us to end up in Spain? An empty waterhoy and a ham-fisted no-seaman at the wheel letting her box the compass.”
Hornblower drifted away during this tirade. His feelings were agitated by apprehensions additional to those Baddlestone had hinted at. Here was the crisis of the naval war approaching; there were battles to be fought, and he had no ship. All he had was a promise of one, a promise of being ‘made post’ when he could call upon the Admiralty to redeem that promise. He had endured two years of hardship and danger, monotony and strain, in the blockade of Brest, and now, at the very moment when the war was reaching a climax, he was unemployed. He would be falling between two stools — the battle might well be fought, the crisis over, before he could get to sea again. Calder might intercept Villeneuve within the week, or Bonaparte might be attempting his crossing within a fortnight. Better to be a mere Commander with a ship than an ungazetted Captain without one. It was enough to drive a man perfectly frantic — and for the last two days the wind had blown steadily from the northeast, keeping him a prisoner in this accursed hoy, while allowing every opportunity to Meadows in the Hotspur to distinguish himself. After ten years of experience Hornblower should have had more sense (and he knew it) than to fret himself into a fever over winds, the uncontrollable unpredictable winds that had governed his life since boyhood. But here he was fretting himself into a fever.
CHAPTER THREE
Hornblower was still in his hammock even though it was long after daybreak, even though it was full dawn. He had turned himself over without waking himself up too much — something he had had to relearn now that he was sleeping in a hammock again — and he was determined upon staying where he was, as somnolent as possible, for the longest possible time. In that way he would find the day shorter; his mind, clogged with sleep, would not be working at high tension for so long. Yesterday had been a bad day, when a favourable slant of wind at nightfall had endured just long enough to return the Princess to the heart of the blockading squadron before reversing itself maddeningly.
A certain amount of bustle and excitement became audible on the deck over his head, and there was a boat alongside. He snarled to himself and prepared to roll out of his hammock. It would be some trifle of no concern to him, and dull as well most likely, but it was sufficient to put an end to his resolution to stay in his hammock.
He had his feet on deck with his seat still supported by the hammock when the midshipman appeared. Hornblower glowered at him with bleared eyes, observing the trim white breeches and buckled shoes; this must be some pampered pet from a flagship, and he was offering him a letter. Hornblower was instantly fully awake. He broke the wafer that sealed the note.
You are hereby requested and required to attend as a witness, at your peril, upon the court martial to be held at nine in the forenoon of this twentieth day of May 1805 in the Cabin of HMS Hibernia to try Captain James Percival Meadows, the officers and ship’s company of HM’s late sloop Hotspur for the loss of the said vessel by stranding during the night of the eighteenth day of May 1805.
Henry Bowden, RA, Captain of the Fleet.
NB. A boat will be sent.
Here was something startling, astonishing; Hornblower gaped at the note while re-reading it, until he remembered the presence of the midshipman and the consequent need to appear imperturbable.
“Very well, thank you,” he snapped; the midshipman had hardly turned his back before Hornblower was dragging out his sea chest and trying to make up his mind as to how he could get the creases out of his threadbare fulldress coat.
“HM’s late sloop.” That could only mean that Hotspur was a total loss. But Meadows was alive, which implied that few, if any, lives had been lost. Certainly Meadows had wasted no time in putting Hotspur ashore. That would be the easiest thing in the world to do, as no one could say with more certainty than he who had never done it.
To shave he had to drag his sea chest under the hatchway and stand on it with his head protruding and his mirror propped up on the deck. He was not quite tall enough to dispense with the sea chest; it crossed his mind that Meadows must have been tall enough to see clear over the coaming without taking steps to add a cubit to his stature.
Baddlestone came up and actually volunteered information as Hornblower stood there balancing precariously; he was still sufficiently unaccustomed to the Princess‘s antics to make it difficult to use his second hand to pull his skin tight while wielding the razor with the other.
“So Hotspur‘s lost on the Black Rock,” said Baddlestone.
“I knew she was aground,” said Hornblower. “But I didn’t know where.”
“Do you call being at the bottom of the sea aground? She touched on a falling tide. Holed herself and filled and then rolled off on the flood.”
It was remarkable how the fleet auxiliaries picked up the news.
“Any loss of life?” asked Hornblower.
“None that I’ve heard of,” said Baddlestone.
He would certainly have heard if any officers had been drowned. So they were all safe, including Bush. Hornblower could devote special attention to the tricky area round the left corner of his mouth.
“Giving evidence, I hear?” asked Baddlestone.
“Yes.” Hornblower had no desire at all to add to Baddlestone’s store of gossip.
“If the wind backs westerly I’ll sail without you. I’ll put your chest ashore at Plymouth.”
“You are exceedingly kind,” said Hornblower, and then checked himself. There was nothing to be gained by a quarrel with a man of an inferior social order, and there were other considerations. Hornblower wiped off his face and his razor, pausing to meet Baddlestone’s eyes.
“Not many men would have given that answer,” said Baddlestone.
“Not many men need their breakfast as much as I do at present,” answered Hornblower.
At eight o’clock the boat was alongside, and Hornblower went down into
it, wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder that indicated he had not yet been confirmed in his promotion to captain, and at his side he wore the brass-hilted Langer which was all he could boast as a sword. But he was received with the appropriate ceremony as he went up Hibernia‘s side, following two glittering captains with epaulettes on both shoulders who were obviously going to be members of the Court. Over on the lee side of the quarterdeck he caught a glimpse of Meadows and Bush, pacing up and down deep in conversation. But the midshipman who was his guide led him away; that was proof (if any were needed) that he was being summoned as an expert witness at the request of the Court, and had to be kept away from the defendants to prevent all possibility of either collusion or prejudice.
It was twenty-five minutes after the firing of the gun that indicated the opening of the Court when Hornblower was called into the great cabin, where seven captains glittered at a table under the stern windows. Over at one side sat Meadows and Bush, and Prowse the sailing master and Wise the boatswain. It was distasteful, distressing, uncomfortable, to see the anxiety on those faces.
“The Court wishes to address a few questions to you, Captain Hornblower,” said the central figure at the table. “Later you may be asked by the defendants to explain your answers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hornblower.
“You handed over command of the sloop Hotspur in the forenoon of the seventeenth, I understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Her material condition was good?”
“Reasonably so, sir.” He had to speak the truth.
“By that do you mean in good condition or bad?”
“Good, sir.”
“The compass deviation card was accurate as far as you were aware?”
“Yes, sir.” He could not possibly admit to any carelessness on that subject.
“You have heard that HMS Hotspur went aground on the Black Rock with a falling tide. Have you any comments to make, Captain?”
Hornblower set his teeth.
“It would be an easy thing to do.”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to elaborate on that statement, Captain?”
There was plenty he could say, but he had to be careful how he said it. He must not appear to be a windbag. He must lay all necessary stress on the navigational difficulties and yet at the same time he must not rate himself over-highly for having so long evaded them. He must do all he could for the defendants but he must not overplay his hand. At least there were certain obvious points he could make which could be instantly confirmed by a glance at the ship’s logs. He talked about the steady westerly wind which had prevailed for some days earlier, and then about the brisk easterly wind which had sprung up that afternoon. In those conditions the ebbtide could be unpredictably fierce. There was likely at the same time to be a disturbing back eddy inside the rocks which could upset all calculations so that the current might reverse itself in a cable’s length. From the Black Rock extended a long reef to the southeastward where, except at the very tip, breakers were only visible at low water of spring tides and the lead gave no warning of this. It would be in no way remarkable for a ship keeping close up to the Goulet to be trapped here.
“Thank you, Captain,” said the President when Hornblower had finished, and he glanced over to the defendants, “Have you any questions?”
The President’s manner indicated that he thought none could be needed, but Meadows rose to his feet. He seemed to be wasted away; perhaps the borrowed clothes he was wearing contributed to the effect, but he was hollow-eyed and his cheeks seemed sunken, the left one twitching at intervals.
“Captain,” he asked. “The wind was northeasterly and brisk?”
“It was.”
“The best conditions for a sortie by the French?”
“Yes.”
“What was Hotspur‘s proper station in those conditions?”
“As close up to the Goulet as possible.”
It was a good point that had needed accentuation.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Meadows, sitting down, and Hornblower looked to the President for permission to retire.
But Meadows’ question had given rise to another.
“Would you kindly tell the Court, Captain,” asked the President, “how long you commanded the Hotspur on blockade service?”
“A little over two years, sir.” That was the literal answer that had to be given.
“And how much of that time were you close up to the Goulet? A rough estimate is all that is needed, Captain.”
“I suppose half the time — one third of the time.”
“Thank you, Captain.” It was a point tending very much to discount the one Meadows had made. “You may now retire, Captain Hornblower.”
He could glance over at Bush and the others, but it had to be a glance of complete indifference; he must not prejudice the Court by a display of sympathy. He made his bow and withdrew.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was less than half an hour after Hornblower returned to the Princess that Baddlestone got the news, passed from one auxiliary to another as they wallowed waiting for a wind.
“Guilty,” said Baddlestone, turning to Hornblower.
This was one of the moments when Hornblower was most in need of an appearance of stolidity while finding the greatest difficulty in attaining it.
“What about the sentence?” he asked. Tension gave his voice a grating sound which might be interpreted as harsh indifference.
“Reprimand,” said Baddlestone, and Hornblower felt the relief flooding into his vitals.
“What kind of a reprimand?”
“Just a reprimand.”
Not a severe reprimand, then. After a ‘guilty’ verdict it was the mildest sentence a court martial could pronounce, save for mere admonishment. But with Hotspur lost every officer and warrant officer in the ship would have to apply for re-employment, and the powers that were might still have a word to say. Unless they were vindictive, however, there could be little danger to any of them except possibly Meadows. It was only then that Baddlestone doled out another fragment of information which earlier would have saved Hornblower anxiety.
“They cleared the first lieutenant and the sailing master,” he said; Hornblower kept his mouth shut, determined to give no hint of his feelings.
Baddlestone had the telescope to his eye and Hornblower followed his gaze. A ship’s longboat under two balance-lugs was running before the wind in their general direction, it took no more than a glance for Hornblower to identify her as belonging to a ship of the line, and as far as he could judge from her fore-shortened length she was of the largest size, belonging to a three decker, likely enough.
“I’ll lay guineas to shillings,” said Baddlestone, the telescope still clamped to his eye, “more company.”
Hornblower’s fingers fluttered with the yearning to use the telescope.
“Yes,” went on Baddlestone, retaining it with a cruelty possibly unconscious. “It looks like it.”
He turned to bellow orders for the hanging of fendoffs on the starboard side, and to bring the hoy to the wind to provide a slight lee on that side. Then there was no need for the telescope; Hornblower with the naked eye could recognize Bush sitting bare-headed in the sternsheets, and then Meadows beside him. On the next thwart forward were the warrant officers of the late Hotspur, and forward beyond those was a jumble of figures he could not identify.
The longboat surged round into the-wind and came neatly alongside.
“Boat ahoy!” hailed Baddlestone.
“Party with warrants for passage,” came Bush’s voice in reply. “We’re coming aboard.”
Baddlestone gobbled inarticulately for a second or two at this absence of a ‘by your leave’, but already the longboat had hooked on. At once it became obvious how violently the hoy rolled; the longboat was stable by comparison. There was a moment’s delay before Meadows hauled himself on to the hoy’s deck, and a further delay before Bush appeared behind him. Hornblower
hurried forward to make them welcome; it was obvious that with the loss of the Hotspur her officers were being returned to England for other appointments, while presumably the crew had been distributed round the ships of the squadron.
It was only with an effort that Hornblower brought himself to address Meadows first.
“Glad to see you again, Captain Meadows,” he said. “And you too, Mr Bush.”
Bush had a half-smile for him; Meadows not as much; he was under the shadow of a reprimand. Baddlestone watched the encounter with as much cynical amusement as his bulging red face could convey.
“Perhaps you gentlemen will be good enough to show me your warrants,” he said.
Bush thrust his hand into his breast pocket and produced a sheaf of papers.
“Fourteen if you count them,” he replied. “And these are ratings I’m not responsible for.”
“You’ll be at pretty close quarters,” said Baddlestone. “Cabin food a guinea a day, or you can compound for three guineas for the passage.”
Meadows entered into the conversation not with a word, but with a gesture. He turned a bleak gaze and looked behind him. The warrant officers had begun to arrive on deck, Prowse the master, Cargill and the other mates, Huffnell the purser, the boatswain and sailmaker and carpenter and cooper and cook. They were followed by a number of ratings, one of them — who seemed likely to be Meadows’ coxswain — turning to help another on board, the need for this becoming apparent when it was seen that this man had lost a hand at the wrist, presumably in one of the numerous shipboard accidents that eroded the crews of the blockading fleet. Several more men succeeded him; the reason for their return to England was not immediately apparent. Most of them were likely to be ruptured so badly as to rate discharge; possibly one or two others may have been illegally impressed and fortunate enough to have friends at home with sufficient influence to win their freedom. Altogether it was a large and formidable body of men mustered on the deck of the hoy, crowding it, while the longboat cast off and, with her lugsails hauled as flat as boards, set off on the long beat back to the flagship.
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