Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to blockade Brest as soon as I can get the fleet to sea, and you’re to go ahead of us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not to do anything to precipitate war. You’re not to provide Boney with an excuse.”

  “No, sir.”

  “When war’s declared you can of course take the appropriate action. Until then you have merely to observe. Keep your eye on Brest. Look in as far as you can without provoking fire. Count the ships of war—the number and rate of ships with their yards crossed, ships still in ordinary, ships in the roads, ships preparing for sea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Boney sent the best of his ships and crews to the West Indies last year. He’ll have more trouble manning his fleet even than we have. I’ll want your report as soon as I arrive on the station. What’s the Hotspur’s draught?”

  “She’ll draw thirteen feet aft when she’s complete with stores, sir.”

  “You’ll be able to use the Goulet pretty freely, then. I don’t have to tell you not to run her aground.”

  “No, sir.”

  “But remember this. You’ll find it hard to perform your duty unless you risk your ship. There’s folly and there’s foolhardiness on one side, and there’s daring and calculation on the other. Make the right choice and I’ll see you through any trouble that may ensue.”

  Cornwallis’s wide blue eyes looked straight into Hornblower’s brown ones. Hornblower was deeply interested in what Cornwallis had just said, and equally interested in what he had left unsaid. Cornwallis had made a promise of sympathetic support, but he had refrained from uttering the threat which was the obvious corollary. This was no rhetorical device, no facile trick of leadership—it was a simple expression of Cornwallis’s natural state of mind. He was a man who preferred to lead rather than to drive; most interesting.

  Hornblower realized with a start that for several seconds be had been staring his commander-in-chief out of countenance while following up this train of thought; it was not the most tactful behaviour, perhaps.

  “I understand, sir,” he said, and Cornwallis rose from his chair.

  “We’ll meet again at sea. Remember to do nothing to provoke war before war is declared,” he said, with a smile—and the smile revealed the man of action. Hornblower could read him as someone to whom the prospect of action was stimulating and desirable and who would never seek reasons or excuses for postponing decisions.

  Cornwallis suddenly withheld his proffered hand.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I was forgetting. This is your wedding day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were only married this morning?”

  “An hour ago, sir.”

  “And I’ve taken you away from your wedding breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir.” It would be cheap rhetoric to add anything trite like ‘For King and Country,’ or even ‘Duty comes first.’

  “Your good lady will hardly be pleased.”

  Nor would his mother-in-law, more especially, thought Hornblower, but again it would not be tactful to say so.

  “I’ll try to make amends, sir,” he contented himself with saying.

  “It’s I who should make amends,” replied Cornwallis. “Perhaps I could join the festivities and drink the bride’s health?”

  “That would be most kind of you, sir,” said Hornblower.

  If anything could reconcile Mrs Mason to his breach of manners, it would be the presence of Admiral the Hon. Sir William Cornwallis, K.B., at the breakfast table.

  “I’ll come, then, if you’re certain I shan’t be unwelcome. Hachett, find my sword. Where’s my hat?”

  So that when Hornblower appeared again through the door of the coffee-room Mrs Mason’s instant and bitter reproaches died away on her lips, the moment she saw that Hornblower was ushering in an important guest. She saw the glittering epaulettes, and the red ribbon and the star which Cornwallis had most tactfully put on in honour of the occasion. Hornblower made the introductions.

  “Long life and much happiness,” said Cornwallis, bowing over Maria’s hand, “to the wife of one of the most promising officers in the King’s service.”

  Maria could only bob, overwhelmed with embarrassment in this glittering presence.

  “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Sir William,” said Mrs Mason.

  And the parson and his wife, and the few neighbours of Mrs Mason’s who were the only other guests, were enormously gratified at being in the same room as—let alone being personally addressed by—the son of an Earl, a Knight of the Bath, and a Commander-in-chief combined in one person.

  “A glass of wine, sir?” asked Hornblower.

  “With pleasure.”

  Cornwallis took the glass in his hand and looked round: It was significant that it was Mrs Mason whom he addressed.

  “Has the health of the happy couple been drunk yet?”

  “No, sir,” answered Mrs Mason, in a perfect ecstasy.

  “Then may I do so? Ladies, gentlemen. I ask you all to stand and join me on this happy occasion. May they never know sorrow. May they always enjoy health and prosperity. May the wife always find comfort in the knowledge that the husband is doing his duty for King and Country, and may the husband be supported in his duty by the loyalty of the wife. And let us hope that in time to come there will be a whole string of young gentlemen who will wear the King’s uniform after their father’s example, and a whole string of young ladies to be mothers of further young gentlemen. I give you the health of the bride and groom.”

  The health was drunk amid acclamation, with all eyes turned on the blushing Maria, and then from her all eyes turned on Hornblower. He rose; he had realized, before Cornwallis had reached the midpoint of his speech, that the Admiral was using words he had used scores of times before, at scores of weddings of his officers. Hornblower, keyed up on the occasion, met Cornwallis’s eyes and grinned. He would give as good as he got; he would reply with a speech exactly similar to the scores that Cornwallis had listened to.

  “Sir William, ladies and gentlemen, I can only thank you in the name of”—Hornblower reached down and took Maria’s hand—“my wife and myself.”

  As the laughter died away—Hornblower had well known that the company would laugh at his mention of Maria as his wife, although he himself did not think it a subject for laughter—Cornwallis looked at his watch, and Hornblower hastened to thank him for his presence and to escort him to the door. Beyond the threshold Cornwallis turned and thumped him on the chest with his large hand.

  “I’ll add another line to my orders for you,” he said; Hornblower was acutely aware that Cornwallis’s friendly smile was accompanied by a searching glance.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ll add my written permission for you to sleep out of your ship for tonight and tomorrow night.”

  Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; for once in his life his readiness of wit had deserted him. His mind was so busy reassessing the situation that it had nothing to spare for his organ of speech.

  “I thought you might have forgotten,” said Cornwallis, grinning. “Hotspur’s part of the Channel fleet now. Her captain is forbidden by law to sleep anywhere except on board without the permission of the Commander-in-Chief. Well, you have it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, at last able to articulate.

  “Maybe you won’t sleep ashore again for a couple of years. Maybe more than that, if Boney fights it out.”

  “I certainly think he’ll fight, sir.”

  “In that case you and I will meet again off Ushant in three weeks’ time. So now good-bye, once more.”

  For some time after Cornwallis had left Hornblower stood by the half-closed door of the coffee-room in deep thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the nearest he could get to pacing up and down. War was coming; he had always been certain of that, because Bonaparte would never retreat from the positi
on he had taken up. But until this moment Hornblower had thought recklessly that he would not be ordered to sea until war was declared, in two or three weeks’ time, after the final negotiations had broken down. He had been utterly wrong in this surmise, and he was angry with himself on that account. The facts that he had a good crew—the first harvest of the press—that his ship could be quickly made ready for sea, that she was small and of no account in the balance of power, even that she was of light draught and therefore well adapted to the mission Cornwallis had allotted her, should have warned him that he would be packed off to sea at the earliest possible moment. He should have foreseen all this and he had not.

  That was the first point, the first pill to swallow. Next he had to find out why his judgement had been so faulty. He knew the answer instantly, but—and he despised himself for this even more—he flinched from expressing it. But here it was. He had allowed his judgement to be clouded on account of Maria. He had shrunk from hurting her, and in consequence he had refused to allow his mind to make calculations about the future. He had gone recklessly forward in the wild hope that some stroke of good fortune would save him from having to deal her this blow.

  He pulled himself up abruptly at this point. Good fortune? Nonsense. He was in command of his own ship, and was being set in the forefront of the battle. This was his golden chance to distinguish himself. That was his good fortune—it would have been maddening bad luck to have been left in harbour. Hornblower could feel the well-remembered thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing action again, of risking reputation—and life—in doing his duty, in gaining glory, and in (what was really the point) justifying himself in his own eyes. Now he was sane again; he could see things in their proper proportion. He was a naval officer first, and a married man only second, and a bad second at that. But—but—that did not make things any easier. He would still have to tear himself free from Maria’s arms.

  Nor could he stay here outside the coffee-room any longer. He must go back, despite his mental turmoil. He turned and re-entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “It will look well in the Naval Chronicle,” said Mrs Mason, “that the Commander-in-Chief proposed the health of the happy pair. Now, Horatio, some of your guests have empty plates.”

  Hornblower was still trying to be a good host when he saw across the room the worried face of the innkeeper again; it called for a second glance to see what had caused him to come in. He was ushering in Hornblower’s new coxwain, Hewitt, a very short man who escaped observation across the room. Hewitt made up in breadth a good deal of what he lacked in height, and he sported a magnificent pair of glossy black side-whiskers in the style which was newly fashionable on the lower-deck. He came rolling across the room, his straw hat in his hand, and, knuckling his forehead, gave Horatio a note. The address was in Bush’s handwriting and in the correct phrasing, although now a lithe old-fashioned—Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander. Silence fell on the assembled company—a little rudely, Hornblower thought—as he read the few lines.

  H.M. Sloop Hotspur

  2 April, 1803

  Sir,

  I hear from the dockyard that the first of the lighters is ready to come alongside. Extra pay is not yet authorized for dockyard hands, so that work will cease at nightfall. I respectfully submit that I can supervise the embarkation of the stores if you should find it inconvenient to return on board.

  Your obdt servant,

  Wm Bush.

  “Is the boat at the Hard?” demanded Hornblower.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Oh, Horry,” said Maria, with a hint of reproach in her voice. No, it was disappointment, not reproach.

  “My dear—” said Hornblower. It occurred to him that he might now quote ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much’ but he instantly discarded the idea; it would not be at all suitable at this moment, with this wife.

  “You’re going to the ship again,” said Maria.

  “Yes.”

  He could not stay away from the ship while there was work to be done. Today, by driving the hands, they could get half the stores on board at least. Tomorrow they could finish, and if Ordnance responded to the prodding of the Admiral, they could get the powder and shot on board as well. Then they could sail at dawn the day after tomorrow.

  “I’ll be back again this evening,” he said. He forced himself to smile, to look concerned, to forget that he was on the threshold of adventure, that before him lay a career of possible distinction.

  “Nothing shall keep me from you, dear,” he said.

  He clapped his hands on her shoulders and gave her a smacking kiss that drew applause from the others; that was the way to reintroduce a note of comedy into the proceedings, and, under cover of the laughter, he made his exit. As he hastened down to the Hard two subjects for thought intertwined in his mind, like the serpents of the medical caduceus—the tender love that Maria wished to lavish upon him, and the fact that the day after tomorrow he would be at sea, in command.

  Chapter II

  Someone must have been knocking at the bedroom door for some time; Hornblower had been conscious of it but was too stupid with sleep to think more about it. But now the door opened with a clank of the latch, and Maria, awakening with a start, clutched at him in sudden fright, and he was now fully awake. There was the faintest gleam of light through the thick bed curtains, a shuffling step on the oak floor of the bedroom, and a high-pitched female voice.

  “Eight bells, sir. Eight bells.”

  The curtains opened an inch to let in a ray of brighter light still, and Maria’s grip tightened, but they came together again as Hornblower found his voice.

  “Very well. I’m awake.”

  “I’ll light your candles for you,” piped the voice, and the shuffling step went round the room and the light through the curtains grew brighter.

  “Where’s the wind? What way’s the wind?” asked Hornblower, now so far awake as to feel the quickening of his heart beat and the tensing of his muscles as he realized what this morning meant to him.

  “Now that I can’t tell you, sir,” piped the voice. “I’m not one who can box the compass, and there’s no one else awake as yet.”

  Hornblower snorted with annoyance at being kept in ignorance of this vital information, and without a thought reached to fling off the bedclothes so as to get up and find out for himself. But there was Maria clasping him, and he knew that he could not leap out of bed in such a cavalier fashion. He had to go through the proper ritual and put up with the delay. He turned and kissed her, and she returned his kisses, eagerly and yet differently from on other occasions. He felt something wet on his cheek; it was a tear, but there was only that one single tear as Maria forced herself to exert self control. His rather perfunctory embrace changed in character.

  “Darling, we’re being parted,” whispered Maria. “Darling, I know you must go. But—but—I can’t think how I’m going to live without you. You’re my whole life. You’re…”

  A great gust of tenderness welled up in Hornblower’s breast, and there was compunction too, a pricking of conscience. Not the most perfect man on earth could merit this devotion. If Maria knew the truth about him she would turn away from him, her whole world shattered. The cruellest thing he could do would be to let her find him out; he must never do that. Yet the thought of being loved so dearly set flowing deeper and deeper wells of tenderness in his breast and he kissed her cheeks and sought out the soft eager lips. Then the soft lips hardened, withdrew.

  “No, angel, darling. No, I mustn’t keep you. You would be angry with me—afterwards. Oh, my dear life, say goodbye to me now. Say that you love me—say that you’ll always love me. Then say good-bye, and say that you’ll think of me sometimes as I shall always think of you.”

  Hornblower said the words, the right words, and in his tenderness he used the right tone. Maria kissed him once more, and
then tore herself free and flung herself on to the far side of the bed face downward. Hornblower lay still, trying to harden his heart to rise, and Maria spoke again; her voice was half muffled by the pillow, but her forced change of mood was apparent even so.

  “Your clean shirt’s on the chair, dear, and your second-best shoes are beside the fireplace.”

  Hornblower flung himself out of bed and out through the curtains. The air of the bedroom was certainly fresher than that inside. The door latch choked again and he had just time to whip his bedgown in front of him as the old chambermaid put her head in. She let out a high cackle of mirth at Hornblower’s modesty.

  “The ostler says ‘light airs from the s’uth’ard,’ sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door closed behind her.

  “Is that what you want, darling?” asked Maria, still behind the curtains. “Light airs from the s’uth’ard—that means south, does it not?”

  “Yes, it may serve,” said Hornblower, hurrying over to the wash basin and adjusting the candles so as to illuminate his face.

  Light airs from the south now, at the end of March, were hardly likely to endure. They might back or they might veer, but would certainly strengthen with the coming of day. If Hotspur handled as well as he believed she would he could weather the Foreland and be ready for the next development, with plenty of sea room. But of course—as always in the Navy—he could not afford to waste any time. The razor was rasping over his cheeks, and as he peered into the mirror he was vaguely conscious of Maria’s reflection behind his own as she moved about the room dressing herself. He poured cold water into the basin with which to wash himself, and felt refreshed, turning away with his usual rapidity of movement to put on his shirt.

  “Oh, you dress so fast,” said Maria in consternation.

  Hornblower heard her shoes clacking on the oaken floor; she was hurriedly putting on a fresh mob cap over her hair, and clearly she was dressing as quickly as she could, even at the cost of some informality.