Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  He was recalled suddenly from these thoughts, from these mental pictures of Maria, by hearing his name spoken during the conversation round the table. Nearly everyone present was looking at him, and he had to ferret hurriedly through his unconscious memory to recapture what had been said. Someone—it must have been Cornwallis himself—had said that the information he had gathered from the French coast had been satisfactory and illuminating. But for the life of him Hornblower could not recall what had next been said, and now here he was, with every eye on him, gazing round the table with a bewilderment that he tried to conceal behind an impassive countenance.

  “We are all interested in your sources of information, Hornblower,” prompted Cornwallis, apparently repeating something already said.

  Hornblower shook his head in decisive negation; that was his instant reaction, before he could analyse the situation, and before he could wrap up a blunt refusal in pretty words.

  “No,” he said, to back up the shaking of his head.

  There were all these people present; nothing would remain a secret if known to so large a group. The pilchard fishermen and lobster-pot men with whom he had been having furtive dealings and on whom he had been lavishing British gold—French gold, to be exact—would meet with short shrift if their activities became known to the French authorities. Not only would they die, but they would never be able to supply him with any further news. He was passionately anxious for his secrets to remain secrets, yet he was surrounded by all these senior officers any one of whom might have an influence on his career. Luckily he was already committed by the curt negative that had been surprised out of him—nothing could commit him more deeply than that, and that was thanks to Maria. He must not think about Maria, yet he must find some way of softening his abrupt refusal.

  “It’s more important than a formula for fattening chickens, sir,” he said, and then, with a bright further inspiration he shifted the responsibility. “I would not like to disclose my operations without a direct order.”

  His sensibilities, keyed to the highest pitch, detected sympathy in Cornwallis’s reaction.

  “I’m sure there’s no need, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis, turning back to the others. Now, before he turned, was it true that the eyelid of his left eye, nearest to Hornblower, flickered a trifle? Was it? Hornblower could not be sure.

  As the conversation reverted to a discussion of future operations Hornblower’s sense, almost telepathic, became aware of something else in the past atmosphere which called up hot resentment in his mind. These fighting officers, these captains of ships of the line, were content to leave the dirty details of the gathering of intelligence to a junior, to someone hardly worthy of their lofty notice. They would not sully their aristocratic white hands; if the insignificant Commander of an insignificant sloop chose to do the work they would leave it to him in tolerant contempt.

  Now the contempt was in no way one-sided. Fighting captains had their place in the scheme of things, but only an insignificant place, and anyone could be a fighting captain, even if he had to learn to swallow down the heart from his mouth and master the tensions that set his limbs a-tremble. Hornblower was experiencing symptoms not unlike these at this moment, when he was in no danger at all. Vintage port and a good dinner, thoughts of Maria and resentment against the captains, combined within him in a witches’ brew that threatened to boil over. Luckily the bubbling mixture happened to distil off a succession of ideas, first one and then another. They linked themselves in a logical chain. Hornblower, along with his agitation, could feel the flush of blood under his skin that foretold the development of a plan, in the same way that the witch in Macbeth could tell the approach of something wicked by the pricking in her thumbs. Soon the plan was mature, complete, and Hornblower was left calm and clearheaded after his spiritual convulsion; it was like the clearness of head that follows the crisis of an attack of fever—possibly that was exactly what it was.

  The plan called for a dark night, and for half-flood an hour before dawn; nature would supply those sooner or later, following her immutable laws. It called for some good fortune, and it would call for resolution and promptitude of action, but those were accessory ingredients in every plan. It included possibilities of disaster, but was there ever a plan that did not? It also called for the services of a man who spoke perfect French, and Hornblower, measuring his abilities with a cold eye, knew that he was not that man. The penniless noble French refugee who in Hornblower’s boyhood had instructed him, with fair success, in French and Deportment (and, totally unsuccessfully, in Music and Dancing), had never managed to confer a good accent upon his tone-deaf pupil. His grammar and his construction were excellent, but no one would ever mistake him for a Frenchman.

  Hornblower had reached every necessary decision by the time the party began to break up, and he made it his business to take his stand, casually, beside Collins at the moment the Admiral’s barge was called.

  “Is there anyone in the Channel Fleet who speaks perfect French, sir?” he asked.

  “You speak French yourself,” replied Collins.

  “Not well enough for what I have in mind, sir,” said Hornblower, more struck by the extent of Collins’ knowledge than flattered. “I might find a use for a man who speaks French exactly like a Frenchman.”

  “There’s Cotard,” said Collins, meditatively rubbing his chin. “Lieutenant in the Marlborough. He’s a Guernsey-man. Speaks French like a native—always spoke it as a child, I believe. What do you want him to do?”

  “Admiral’s barge coming alongside, sir,” reported a breathless messenger to Pellew.

  “Hardly time to tell you now, sir,” said Hornblower. “I can submit a plan to Sir Edward. But it’ll be no use without someone speaking perfect French.”

  The assembled company was now filing to the gangway; Collins, in accordance with naval etiquette, would have to go down the side into the barge ahead of Cornwallis.

  “I’ll detail Cotard from his ship on special service,” said Collins hastily. “I’ll send him over to you and you can look him over.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Cornwallis was now thanking his host and saying good-bye to the other captains; Collins unobtrusively yet with remarkable rapidity contrived to do the same, and disappeared over the side. Cornwallis followed, with all the time honoured ceremonial of guard of honour and band and sideboys, while his flag was hauled down from the foretopmast head. After his departure barge after barge came alongside, each gaudy with new paint, with every crew tricked out in neat clothing paid for out of their captains’ pockets, and captain after captain went down into them, in order of seniority, and shoved off to their respective ships.

  Lastly came Hotspur’s drab little quarter-boat, its crew dressed in the clothes issued to them in the slop-ship the day they were sent on board.

  “Good-bye, sir,” said Hornblower, holding out his hand to Pellew.

  Pellew had shaken so many hands, and had said so many good-byes, that Hornblower was anxious to cut this farewell as short as possible.

  “Good-bye, Hornblower,” said Pellew, and Hornblower quickly stepped back, touching his hat. The pipes squealed until his head was below the level of the main-deck, and then he dropped perilously into the boat, hat, gloves, sword and all, all of them shabby.

  Chapter X

  “I’ll take this opportunity, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower, “of repeating what I said before. I’m sorry you’re not being given your chance.”

  “It can’t be helped, sir. It’s the way of the service,” replied the shadowy figure confronting Hornblower on the dark quarter-deck. The words were philosophical, but the tone was bitter. It was all part of the general logical madness of war, that Bush should feel bitter at not being allowed to risk his life, and that Hornblower, about to be doing so, should commiserate with Bush, speaking in flat formal tones as if he were not in the least excited—as if he were feeling no apprehension at all.

  Hornblower knew himself well enough to be s
ure that if some miracle were to happen, if orders were to arrive forbidding him to take personal part in the coming raid, he would feel a wave of relief; delight as well as relief. But it was quite impossible, for the orders had definitely stated that ‘the landing party will be under the command of Captain Horatio Hornblower of the Hotspur.’ That sentence had been explained in advance in the preceding one… ‘because Lieut. Cotard is senior to Lieut. Bush.’ Cotard could not possibly have been transferred from one ship and given command of a landing party largely provided by another; nor could he be expected to serve under an officer junior to him, and the only way round the difficulty had been that Hornblower should command. Pellew, writing out those orders in the quiet of his magnificent cabin, had been like a Valkyrie in the Norse legends now attaining a strange popularity in England—he had been a Chooser of the Slain. Those scratches of his pen could well mean that Bush would live and Hornblower would die.

  But there was another side to the picture. Hornblower had grudgingly to admit to himself that he would have been no more happy if Bush had been in command. The operation planned could only be successful if carried through with a certain verve and with an exactness of timing that Bush possibly could not provide. Absurdly, Hornblower was glad he was to command, and that was one demonstration in his mind of the defects of his temperament.

  “You are sure about your orders until I return, Mr. Bush?” he said. “And in case I don’t return?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hornblower had felt a cold wave up his spine while he spoke so casually about the possibility of his death. An hour from now he might be a disfigured stiffening corpse.

  “Then I’ll get myself ready,” he said, turning away with every appearance of nonchalance.

  He had hardly reached his cabin when Grimes entered.

  “Sir!” said Grimes, and Hornblower swung round and looked at him. Grimes was in his early twenties, skinny, highly strung, and excitable. Now his face was white—his duties as steward meant that he spent little time on deck in the sun—and his lips were working horribly.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Hornblower curtly.

  “Don’t make me come with you, sir!” spluttered Grimes. “You don’t want me with you, sir, do you, sir?”

  It was an astonishing moment. In all his years of service Hornblower had never met with any experience in the least similar, and he was taken aback. This was cowardice; it might even be construed as mutiny. Grimes had in the last five seconds made himself liable not merely to the cat but to the noose. Hornblower could only stand and stare, wordless.

  “I’ll be no use, sir,” said Grimes. “I—I might scream!”

  Now that was a very definite point. Hornblower, giving his orders for the raid, had nominated Grimes as his messenger and aide-de-camp. He had given no thought to the selection; he had been a very casual Chooser of the Slain. Now he was learning a lesson. A frightened man at his elbow, a man made clumsy by fear, could imperil the whole expedition. Yet the first words he could say echoed his earlier thoughts.

  “I could hang you, by God!” he exclaimed.

  “No, sir! No, sir! Please, sir—” Grimes was on the point of collapse; in another moment he would be down on his knees.

  “Oh, for God’s sake—” said Hornblower. He was conscious of contempt, not for the coward, but for the man who allowed his cowardice to show. And then he asked himself by what right he felt this contempt. And then he thought about the good of the Service, and then—. He had no time to waste in these trivial analyses.

  “Very well,” he snapped. “You can stay on board. Shut your mouth, you fool!”

  Grimes was about to show gratitude, but Hornblower’s words cut it off short.

  “I’ll take Hewitt out of the second boat. He can come with me. Pass the word for him.”

  The minutes were fleeting by, as they always did with the final touches to put on to a planned scheme. Hornblower passed his belt through the loop on a cutlass sheath, and buckled it round him. A sword hanging on slings could be a hindrance, would strike against obstructions, and the cutlass was a handier weapon for what he contemplated. He gave a final thought to taking a pistol, and again rejected the idea. A pistol might be useful in certain circumstances, but it was a bulky encumbrance. Here was something more silent—a long sausage of stout canvas filled with sand, with a loop for the wrist. Hornblower settled it conveniently in his right hand pocket.

  Hewitt reported, and had to be briefly told what was expected of him. The sidelong glance he gave to Grimes revealed much of what Hewitt thought, but there was no time for discussion; that matter would have to be sorted out later. Hewitt was shown the contents of the bundle originally allotted to Grimes—the flint and steel for use if the dark lantern were extinguished, the oily rags, the slow match, the quick match, the blue lights for instant intense combustion. Hewitt took solemn note of each item and weighed his sandbag in his hand.

  “Very well. Come along,” said Hornblower.

  “Sir!” said Grimes at that moment in a pleading tone, but Hornblower would not—indeed could not—spare time to hear any more.

  On deck it was pitch dark, and Hornblower’s eyes took long to adjust themselves.

  Officer after officer reported all ready.

  “You’re sure of what you have to say, Mr. Cotard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was no hint of the excitable Frenchman about Cotard. He was as phlegmatic as any commanding officer could desire.

  “Fifty-one rank and file present, sir,” reported the captain of marines.

  Those marines, brought on board the night before, had lain huddled below decks all day, concealed from the telescopes on Petit Minou.

  “Thank you, Captain Jones. You’ve made sure no musket is loaded?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Until the alarm was given not a shot was to be fired. The work was to be done with the bayonet and the butt, and the sandbag—but the only way to be certain of that was to keep the muskets unloaded.

  “First landing party all down in the fishing boat, sir,” reported Bush.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush. Very well, Mr. Cotard, we may as well start.”

  The lobster-boat, seized earlier in the night to the surprise of its crew, lay alongside. The crew were prisoners down below; their surprise was due to the breach of the traditional neutrality enjoyed during the long wars by fishing-boats. These men were all acquainted with Hornblower, had often sold him part of their catch in exchange for gold, yet they had hardly been reassured when they were told that their boat would be returned to them later. Now it lay alongside, and Cotard followed Hewitt, and Hornblower followed Cotard, down into it. Eight men were squatting in the bottom where the lobster-pots used to lie.

  “Sanderson, Hewitt, Black, Downes take the oars. The rest of you get down below the gunners. Mr. Cotard, sit here against my knees, if you please.”

  Hornblower waited until they had settled themselves. The black silhouette of the boat must appear no different in the dark night. Now came the moment.

  “Shove off,” said Hornblower.

  The oars dragged through the water, bit more effectively at the next stroke, pulled smoothly at the third, and they were leaving Hotspur behind them. They were setting off on an adventure, and Hornblower was only too conscious that it was his own fault. If he had not been bitten with this idea they might all be peacefully asleep on board; tomorrow men would be dead who but for him would still be alive.

  He put the morbid thought to one side, and then immediately he had to do the same with thoughts about Grimes. Grimes could wait perfectly well until his return, and Hornblower would not trouble his mind about him until then. Yet even so, as Hornblower concentrated on steering the lobster-boat, there was a continual undercurrent of thought—like ship’s noises: during a discussion of plans—regarding how the crew on board would be treating Grimes, for Hewitt, before leaving the ship, would have certainly told the story to his cronies.

  Hornbl
ower, with his hand on the tiller, steered a steady course northward towards Petit Minou. A mile and a quarter to go, and it would never do if he missed the little jetty so that the expedition would end in a miserable fiasco. He had the faint outline of the steep hills on the northern shore of the Goulet to guide him; he knew them well enough now, after all these weeks of gazing at them, and the abrupt shoulder, where a little stream came down to the sea a quarter of a mile west of the semaphore, was his principal guide. He had to keep that notch open as the boat advanced, but after a few minutes he could actually make out the towering height of the semaphore itself, just visible against the dark sky, and then it was easy.

  The oars groaned in the rowlocks, the blades splashing occasionally in the water; the gentle waves which raised them and lowered them seemed to be made of black glass. There was no need for a silent or invisible approach; on the contrary, the lobster-boat had to appear as if she were approaching on her lawful occasions. At the foot of the abrupt shore was a tiny half-tide jetty, and it was the habit of the lobster-boats to land there and put ashore a couple of men with the pick of the catch. Then, each with a basket on his head containing a dozen live lobsters, they would run along the track over the hills into Brest so as to be ready for the opening of the market, regardless of whether the boat was delayed by wind and tide or not. Hornblower, scouting at a safe distance in the jolly boat, had ascertained during a succession of nights such of the routine as he had not been able to pick up in conversation with the fishermen.

  There it was. There was the jetty. Hornblower found his grip tightening on the tiller. Now came the loud voice of the sentry at the end of the jetty.