The Commodore h-10

by Cecil Scott Forester

  The growing daylight revealed it all through Hornblower’s glass. At random cannon-shot lay the yellow and green headland on which Pillau was set; the twin church steeples were clearly visible. The line of the boom showed up, lying across the entrance, marked by breaking waves and occasionally a glimpse of dark timber. Those dark mounds above the water’s edge must be the batteries thrown up there to defend the entrance. On the other side lay the long line of the Nehrung, a yellowish green line of sandhills, rising and falling with minute variations of altitude as far as the eye could see, and beyond. But through the entrance there was nothing to see at all, nothing except grey water, flecked here and there with white where the shoals dotted the lagoon. The opposite shore of the Haff was too distant to be visible from the deck.

  “Captain Bush,” ordered Hornblower, “would you please be good enough to send an officer with good eyes to the masthead with a glass?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower watched the young lieutenant dashing up the rigging, moving as fast as he could with his Commodore’s eye on him, hanging back downward as he scaled the futtock-shrouds, going hand over hand up the topgallant-shrouds, Hornblower knew that in his present condition he could not do that without resting in the maintop for a space, and he also knew that his eyes were not as good as they were—not as good as the lieutenant’s. He watched the lieutenant settle himself at the topgallant mast-head, adjust his glass, and sweep the horizon, and he waited impatiently for a report. Unable to wait longer he grabbed his speaking-trumpet.

  “Mast-head, there! What do you see of the shore inside?”

  “Nothing, sir. It’s too hazy to see plain. But I can see no sails, sir.”

  Maybe the garrison was laughing up their sleeves at him. Maybe the boats had fallen straight into their hands, and now they were amusing themselves watching the squadron beginning an endless wait for any further sight of the lost boats and seamen. Hornblower refused to allow himself to be pessimistic. He set himself to picture the state of affairs in the batteries and in the town, when the dawn revealed a British squadron lying-to just out of range. How the drums would beat and trumpets peal, as the troops were hurriedly turned out to guard against a possible landing. That was what must be going on at this very moment. The garrison, the French governor, must be still unaware as yet that wolves had slipped into their sheep-fold, that British boat crews had penetrated into the waters of the Haff where no enemy had been seen since Danzig fell to the French five years back. Hornblower tried to comfort himself with thought of all the additional bustle that would develop as soon as the situation disclosed itself to the enemy; the messengers that would gallop with warnings, the gunboats that would be hastily warned, the coasters and barges which would seek the shelter of the nearest batteries—if batteries there were; Hornblower was willing to bet that there was none between Elbing and Königsberg, for none had been necessary so far.

  “Mast-head! Can’t you see anything inshore?”

  “No, sir—yes, sir. There’s gunboats putting out from the town.”

  Hornblower could see those himself, a flotilla of small two-masted vessels, rigged with the sprit-mainsails usual to small Baltic craft, putting out from Elbing. They were a little like Norfolk wherries. Presumably they each carried one heavy gun, a twenty-four-pounder possibly, mounted right up in the eyes of the boat. They anchored at intervals in the shoal water, obviously as a further protection to the boom in case of an attempt upon it. Four of them moved right across and anchored to guard the shallows between the boom and the Nehrung—not exactly locking the stable door after the horse had been stolen, decided Hornblower, rejecting the simile after it came to his mind; they were locking the stable door to prevent the thief getting out, if they knew as yet (which was highly doubtful) that there was a thief inside. The haziness was fast clearing; overhead the sky was almost blue and a watery sun was showing through.

  “Deck, there! If you please, sir, there’s a bit of smoke in sight now, right up the bay. Can’t see more than that, sir, but it’s black smoke and might be from a burning ship.”

  Bush, measuring with his eye the dwindling distance between the ship and the boom, was giving orders to brace up and work a trifle farther out to sea again, and the two sloops conformed to the Nonsuch’s movements. Hornblower wondered whether or not he had put too much trust in young Mound with the bomb-ketches. Mound had an important rendezvous for next morning; with the Moth and the Harvey he was out of sight below the horizon. So far the garrison of Elbing had seen only the three British ships, and did not know of the existence of the ketches. That was well—as long as Mound carried out his orders correctly. Or a gale might blow up, or a shift of the wind might raise too much of a surf for the project Hornblower had in mind. Hornblower felt anxiety surge upon him. He had to force himself to relax, to appear composed. He permitted himself to walk the deck, but slowed down his nervous strides to a casual saunter.

  “Deck, there! There’s more smoke inshore, sir. I can see two lots of it, as if there were two ships on fire now.”

  Bush had just given orders to back the main-topsail again, and as the ship hove-to he came across to Hornblower.

  “It looks as if Vickery had caught something, doesn’t it, sir?” he said, smiling.

  “Let’s hope so,” answered Hornblower.

  There was no sign of any anxiety in Bush’s expression; his craggy face denoted nothing more than fierce satisfaction at the thought of Vickery loose amid the coasting trade. His sublime confidence began to reassure Hornblower until the latter suddenly realized that Bush was not really paying consideration to circumstances. Bush knew that Hornblower had planned this attack, and that was enough for him. In that case he could imagine no possibility of failure, and Hornblower found it profoundly irritating that this should be the case.

  “Deck, there! There’s two small sail heading across the bay close-hauled for the town. And I can’t be sure yet, sir, but I think the second one is our cutter.”

  “Our cutter it is, sir!” yelled another voice. Every idle hand in the ship was perched by now at the mast-heads.

  “That’ll be Montgomery,” said Bush. He had fitted the toe of his wooden leg into the ring-bolt of the aftermost carronade tackle so that he could stand without effort on the gently heaving deck.

  “She’s caught her, sir!” yelled the voice from the mast-head. “Our cutter’s caught her!”

  “That’s one lot of beef and bread that Boney won’t get,” said Bush.

  Very heavy destruction of the coastal shipping in the Haff might be some compensation for the loss of 150 prime seamen. But it would be hard to convince Their Lordships of the Admiralty of that, if there was no certain evidence of the destruction.

  “Deck, there! The two sail are parting company. Our cutter’s going off before the wind. The other has her mains’l brailed up, I think, sir. Looks to me as if—”

  The lieutenant’s report terminated abruptly in mid-sentence.

  “There she goes!” yelled another voice, and at the same moment there came a cheer from everyone aloft.

  “She’s blown up!” shouted the lieutenant, forgetting in his excitement even to add ‘sir’ to his words when addressing his Commodore. “There’s a pillar of smoke as high as a mountain! You can see it from the deck, I think.”

  They certainly could—a mushroom-topped pillar of smoke, black and heavy, apparent as it reached above the horizon. It lasted a perceptible time before the wind blew it into strange ragged shapes and then dispersed it utterly.

  “That wasn’t beef and bread, by God!” said Bush, pounding his left palm with his right fist. “That was powder! A barge-load of powder! Fifty tons of powder, by God!”

  “Mast-head! What of the cutter?”

  “She’s all right, sir. Doesn’t look as if the explosion harmed her. She’s hull-down from here already, sir.”

  “Off after another one, please God,” said Bush.

  The destruction of a powder barge was the clearest p
ossible proof that Bonaparte was using the inland water route for the transport of military stores. Hornblower felt he had achieved something, even though Whitehall might not be fully convinced, and he found himself smiling with pleasure. He suppressed the smile as soon as he was aware of it, for his dignity demanded that triumph should leave him as unmoved as uncertainty.

  “It only remains to get Vickery and the men out to-night, sir,” said Bush.

  “Yes, that is all,” said Hornblower, as woodenly as he could manage.

  The blowing up of the powder barge was the only sure proof they had that day in the Nonsuch of success in the Haff, although more than once the lookouts hesitatingly reported smoke on the horizon inside. As evening came on another string of gunboats made their appearance, from Königsberg presumably, and took up their stations along the boom. A column of troops could be seen for a space, too, the horizontal lines of blue coats and white breeches clearly visible even from the deck as they marched in to strengthen the defences of Pillau. The entrance into the Haff was going to be stoutly defended, obviously, if the British should attempt a coup de main.

  In the evening Hornblower came up from below, where he had been making pretence at eating his dinner, and looked round him again although his senses had been so alert in his cabin that his glance told him nothing he did not know already. The wind was moderating with the dying of the day; the sun was on the point of setting, although there would be daylight for a couple of hours more at least.

  “Captain Bush, I’d be obliged if you would send your best gun pointers to the lower gun-deck starboard-side guns.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Have the guns cleared away and run out, if you please. Then I would like it if you would allow the ship to drop down within range of the batteries there. I want to draw their fire.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Pipes twittered around the ship; bosun and bosun’s mates roared out orders, and the bands ran to their stations. A long earthquake-tremor shook the ship as the massive twenty-four pounders of the lower gun-deck ran thunderously out.

  “Please see that the gun-captains are certain what their target is,” said Hornblower.

  He knew how limited was the view afforded a man on the lower deck, looking through a gun-port only a yard or so above the water’s edge, and he did not want the enemy to jump to the conclusion that the feint he was about to make was no more than a feint. The hands at the main-topsail lee brace walking smartly down the deck, swung the big sail round and Nonsuch came to the wind and slowly gathered way.

  “Port a little,” said Bush to the helmsman. “Let her fall off. Meet her there! Steady as you go!”

  “Steady as you go, sir,” echoed the helmsman, and then by a neat feat of facial gymnastics transferred his quid from his cheek to his mouth, and a moment later spat accurately into the spit-kid beside the wheel without transferring any of his attention from the leech of the main-topsail and the compass in the binnacle.

  Nonsuch edged down steadily towards the entrance and the batteries. This was a ticklish business, coming down to be shot at. There was smoke as from a fire visible not far from the batteries; maybe it was merely rising from the cooking stoves of the garrison, but it might well be smoke from the furnaces for heating red-hot shot. But Bush was aware of that possibility when in action against coastal batteries, and had needed no warning. Every available man was standing by with fire buckets, and every pump and hose was rigged. Now he was measuring the range with his eye.

  “A little closer, if you please, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower to prompt him, for to Hornblower it was obvious that they were still out of range. A fountain of water was visible for a moment on the surface of the choppy sea, two cables’ lengths from the starboard bow.

  “Not near enough yet, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.

  In tense silence the ship moved on. A whole cluster of fountains sprang suddenly into existence close under the starboard quarter, one so close indeed that a hatful of water, flung by some freak of wave and wind, hit Bush full in the face.

  “God damn it to hell!” spluttered Bush, wiping his eyes.

  That battery had no business to have come so close as that with that salvo. And there was no smoke near it either. Hornblower traversed his glass round, and gulped. It was another battery altogether which had fired, one farther to the left, and moreover one whose existence he had not suspected until that moment. Apparently the grass had grown over the parapets sufficiently to conceal it from quite close inspection; but it had unmasked itself a trifle too soon. If the officer commanding there had been patient for another ten minutes Nonsuch might have found herself in a difficult situation.

  “That will do, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.

  “Full and by,” said Bush to the helmsman and then raised his voice. “Lee braces, there!”

  Nonsuch swung round, turning her starboard broadside towards the batteries, and, close-hauled, was now edging towards them far less rapidly. Hornblower pointed out the exact situation of the newly revealed battery to the midshipman of the watch, and then sent him flying below to carry the information to the guns.

  “Keep your luff!” growled Bush to the helmsman.

  “Keep your luff, sir.”

  For a moment or two there were waterspouts leaping from the surface of the sea all round, and the loud noise of cannon-balls passing through the air assaulted their ears. It was remarkable that they were not hit; at least, it was remarkable until Hornblower, glancing up, saw two elliptical holes in the mizzen-topsail. The shooting was poor, for there were at least twenty heavy guns firing at them, as Hornblower calculated from the smoke appearing on shore. He took careful note of the sites of the batteries—one never knew when such intelligence might be useful.

  “Open fire, Captain, if you please,” said Hornblower, and before the polite ending of his sentence had passed his lips Bush had raised his speaking-trumpet and was repeating the order at the top of his lungs. The gunner’s mate posted at the main hatchway relayed the message to the lower gun-deck. There was a brief pause which Hornblower noted with pleasure, because it showed that the gun-captains were taking pains to train their guns on the target, and not merely jerking the lanyards the moment the word reached them. Then came a ragged crash; the ship trembled, and the smoke surged up and blew away to leeward. Through his glass Hornblower could see sand flying all round the masked battery. The seventeen twenty-four pounders roared out again and again, the deck vibrating under Hornblower’s feet with the concussion and with the rumble of the gun-tracks.

  “Thank you, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “you can put the ship about, now.”

  Bush blinked at him momentarily, his fighting blood roused so that he had to stop and think before dealing with the new order.

  “Aye aye, sir.” He raised his trumpet. “Cease fire! Stand by to go about!”

  The order was relayed to the guns, and the din died down abruptly, so that Bush’s “Hard-a-lee” to the helmsman sounded unnecessarily loud.

  “Mainsail haul!” bellowed Bush.

  As Nonsuch went ponderously about, rising to an even keel with her canvas slatting, a further cluster of waterspouts, grouped closely together for the first time, rose from the surface of the sea on the starboard bow. If she had not made the sudden turn the shots might well have hit her. Hornblower might be a mutilated corpse lying on the quarter-deck with his guts strung out beside him at this moment.

  Nonsuch had passed the wind, and the after sails were filling.

  “Let go and haul!” yelled Bush. The forward sails filled as the hands came aft with the lee braces, and Nonsuch settled down on the new tack.

  “Any further orders, sir?” asked Bush.

  “That will do for the present.”

  Close-hauled on the starboard tack the ship was drawing away fast from the land, beating out to where the two sloops were backing and filling while waiting for her. The people on shore must be exulting over having driven off a serious attack
; probably some garrulous gunner was swearing that he had seen with his own eyes damaging hits striking home on the British intruder. They must be encouraged in the belief that something desperate was still being meditated in this neighbourhood.

  “Midshipman?” said Hornblower.

  Strings of coloured flags soared up Nonsuch’s halliards; it was good practice for the signal midshipman to try to spell out ‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’ with the fewest possible number of flag hoists. With his telescope pointed the midshipman read off Raven’s reply.

  “The—” he read, “l—o—w—must be ‘blowing’. No, it’s ‘lowing’, whatever he means by that. H—e—r—d. Herd. Two—five. That’s ‘wind’, and ‘s’. That ‘winds’—S—l—o—”