Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  Here was the grey dawn coming, and the wind was still increasing, and Hotspur could not battle against it any longer.

  “Mr. Cargill!” Cargill was now officer of the watch. “We’ll heave to. Put her under main-topmast stays’l.”

  Hornblower had to shout the order at the top of his lungs before Cargill nodded that he understood.

  “All hands! All hands!”

  Some minutes of hard work effected a transformation. Without the immense leverage of the topsails Hotspur ceased to lie over quite so steeply; the more gentle influence of the main-topmast stay-sail kept her reasonably steady, and now the rudder desisted from its hitherto constant effort to force the little ship to battle into the wind. Now she rose and swooped more freely, more extravagantly yet with less strain. She was leaping wildly enough, and still shipping water over her weather bow, but her behaviour was quite different as she yielded to the wind instead of defying it at the risk of being torn apart.

  Bush was offering him a telescope, and pointing to windward, where there was now a grey horizon dimly to be seen—a serrated horizon, jagged with the waves hurrying towards them. Hornblower braced himself to put two hands to the telescope. Sea and then sky raced past the object glass as Hotspur tossed over successive waves. It was hard to sweep the area indicated by Bush; that had to be done in fits and starts, but after a moment something flashed across the field, was recaptured—many hours of using a telescope had developed Hornblower’s reflex skills—and soon could be submitted to intermittent yet close observation.

  “Naiad, sir,” shouted Bush into his ear.

  The frigate was several miles to windward, hove-to like Hotspur. She had one of those new storm-topsails spread, very shallow and without reefs. It might be of considerable advantage when lying-to, for even the reduction in height alone would be considerable, but when Hornblower turned his attention back to the Hotspur and observed her behaviour under her main-topmast stay-sail he felt no dissatisfaction. Politeness would have led him to comment on it when he handed back the glass, but politeness stood no chance against the labour of making conversation in the wind, and he contented himself with a nod. But the sight of Naiad out there to westward was confirmation that Hotspur was on her station, and beyond her Hornblower had glimpses of the Doris reeling and tossing on the horizon. He had done all there was to be done at present. A sensible man would get his breakfast while he might, and a sensible man would resolutely ignore the slight question of stomach occasioned by this new and different motion of the ship. All he had to do now was to endure it.

  There was a pleasant moment when he reached his cabin and Huffnell the purser came in to make his morning report, for then it appeared that at the first indication of trouble Bush and Huffnell between them had routed out Simmonds the cook and had set him to work cooking food.

  “That’s excellent, Mr. Huffnell.”

  “It was laid down in your standing orders, sir.”

  So it was, Hornblower remembered. He had added that paragraph after reading Cornwallis’s orders regarding stations to be assumed in westerly gales. Simmonds had boiled three hundred pounds of salt pork in Hotspur’s cauldrons, as well as three hundred pounds of dried peas, before the weather had compelled the galley fires to be extinguished.

  “Pretty nigh on cooked, anyway, sir,” said Huffnell.

  So that for the next three days—four at a pinch—the hands would have something more to eat than dry biscuit. They would have cold parboiled pork and cold pease porridge; the latter was what the Man in the Moon burned his mouth on according to the nursery rhyme.

  “Thank you, Mr. Huffnell. It’s unlikely that this gale will last more than four days.”

  That was actually the length of time that gale lasted, the gale that ushered in the worst winter in human memory, following the best summer. For those four days Hotspur lay hove-to, pounded by the sea, flogged by the wind, while Hornblower made anxious calculations regarding leeway and drift; as the wind backed northerly his attention was diverted from Ushant to the north to the Isle de Sein to the south of the approaches to Brest. It was not until the fifth day that Hotspur was able to set three-reefed top-sails and thrash her way back to station while Simmonds managed to start his galley fires again and to provide the crew—and Hornblower—with hot boiled beef as a change from cold boiled pork.

  Even then that three-reefed gale maintained the long Atlantic rollers in all their original vastness, so that Hotspur soared over them and slithered unhappily down the far side, adding her own corkscrew motion as her weather-bow met the swells, her own special stagger when a rogue wave crashed into her, and the worse lurch when—infrequently—a higher wave than usual blanketed her sails so that she reeled over her decks. But an hour’s work at the pumps every watch kept the bilges dear, and by tacking every two hours Hotspur was able to beat painfully out to sea again—not more than half a mile’s gain to windward on each tack—and recover the comparative safety of her original station before the next storm.

  It was as if in payment for that fair weather summer that these gales blew, and perhaps that was not an altogether fanciful thought; to Hornblower’s mind there might be some substance to the theory that prolonged local high pressure during the summer now meant that the pent-up dirty weather to the westward could exert more than its usual force. However that might be, the mere fresh gale that endured for four days after the first storm then worked up again into a tempest, blowing eternally from the westward with almost hurricane force; grey dreary days of lowering cloud, and wild black nights, with the wind howling unceasingly in the rigging until the ear was sated with the noise, until no price seemed too great to pay for five minutes of peace—and yet no price however great could buy even a second of peace. The creaking and the groaning of Hotspur’s fabric blended with the noise of the wind, and the actual woodwork of the ship vibrated with the vibration of the rigging until it seemed as if body and mind, exhausted with the din and with the fatigues of mere movement, could not endure for another minute, and yet went on to endure for days.

  The tempest died down to a fresh gale, to a point when the top-sails needed only a single reef, and then, unbelievably, worked up into a tempest again, the third in a month, during which all on board renewed the bruises that covered them as a result of being flung about by the motion of the ship. And it was during that tempest that Hornblower went through a spiritual crisis. It was not a mere question of calculation, it went far deeper than that, even though he did his best to appear quite imperturbable as Bush and Huffnell and Wallis the surgeon made their daily reports. He might have called them into a formal council of war; he might have covered himself by asking for their opinions in writing, to be produced in evidence should there be a court of inquiry, but that was not in his nature. Responsibility was the air he breathed; he could no more bring himself to evade it than he could hold his breath indefinitely.

  It was the first day that reefed topsails could be set that he reached his decision.

  “Mr. Prowse, I’d be obliged if you would set a course to close Naiad so that she can read our signals.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower, standing on the quarter-deck in the eternal, infernal wind, hated Prowse for darting that inquiring glance at him. Of course the wardroom had discussed his problem. Of course they knew of the shortage of drinking water; of course they knew that Wallis had discovered three cases of sore gums—the earliest symptoms of scurvy in a navy that had overcome scurvy except in special conditions. Of course they had wondered about when their captain would yield to circumstances. Perhaps they had made bets on the date. The problem, the decision, had been his and not theirs.

  Hotspur clawed her way over the tossing sea to the point on Naiad’s lee bow when the signal flags would blow out at right angles to the line of sight.

  “Mr. Foreman! Signal to Naiad, if you please. ‘Request permission to return to port’.”

  “Request permission to return to port. Aye aye, sir.”

  Na
iad was the only ship of the Inshore Squadron—of the Channel Fleet—in sight, and her captain was therefore senior officer on the station. Every captain was senior to the captain of the Hotspur.

  “Naiad acknowledges, sir,” reported Foreman, and then, after ten seconds’ wait “Naiad to Hotspur, sir ‘Interrogative’.”

  Somehow it might have been more politely put. Chambers of the Naiad might have signalled ‘Kindly give reasons for request,’ or something like that. But the single interrogative hoist was convenient and rapid. Hornblower framed his next signal equally tersely.

  “Hotspur to Naiad. ‘Eight days water’.”

  Hornblower watched the reply soar up Naiad’s signal halliards. It was not the affirmative; if it was permission, it was a qualified permission.

  “Naiad to Hotspur, sir. ‘Remain four more days’.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Foreman.”

  Hornblower tried to keep all expression out of his voice and his face.

  “I’ll wager he has two months’ water on board, sir,” said Bush, angrily.

  “I hope he has, Mr. Bush.”

  They were seventy leagues from Tor Bay; two days’ sailing with a fair wind. There was no margin for misfortune. If at the end of four days the wind should shift easterly, as was perfectly possible, they could not reach Tor Bay in a week or even more; the water-hoys might come down-channel, but might easily not find them at once, and then it was not unlikely that the sea would be too rough for boat work. There was an actual possibility that the crew of the Hotspur might die of thirst. It had not been easy for Hornblower to make his request; he had no desire to be thought one of those captains whose sole desire was to return to port, and he had waited to the last sensible moment. Chambers saw the problem differently, as a man well might do as regards the possible misfortune of other people. This was an easy way of demonstrating his resolution and firmness. An easy way, a comfortable way, a cheap way.

  “Send this signal, if you please, Mr. Foreman. ‘Thank you. Am returning to station. Good-bye.’ Mr. Prowse, we can bear away when that signal is acknowledged. Mr. Bush, from today the water ration is reduced. One between two.”

  Two quarts of water a day for all purposes—and such water—to men living on salted food, was far below the minimum for health. It meant sickness as well as discomfort, but the reduction also meant that the last drop of water would not be drunk until sixteen days had passed.

  Captain Chambers had not foreseen the future weather, and perhaps he could not be blamed for that, seeing that on the fourth day after the exchange of signals the westerly wind worked up again, unbelievably, into the fourth tempest of that gale-ridden autumn. It was towards the end of the afternoon watch that Hornblower was called on deck again to give his permission for the reefed topsails to be got in and the storm staysail set once more. Significantly it was growing dark already; the days of the equinox when the sun set at six o’clock were long past, and, equally significantly, that roaring westerly gale now had a chilling quality about it. It was cold; not freezing, not icy, but cold, searchingly cold. Hornblower tried to pace the unstable deck in an endeavour to keep his circulation going; he grew warm, not because of his walking, but because the physical labour of keeping his feet was great enough for the purpose. Hotspur was leaping like a deer beneath him, and from down below, too, came the dreary sound of the pumps at work.

  Six days’ water on board now; twelve at half-rations. The gloom of the night was no more gloomy than his thoughts. It was five weeks since he had last been able to send a letter to Maria, and it was six weeks since he had last heard from her, six weeks of westerly gales and westerly tempests. Anything might have happened to her or to the child, and she would be thinking that anything might have happened to the Hotspur or to him.

  A more irregular wave than usual, roaring out of the darkness, burst upon Hotspur’s weather bow. Hornblower felt her sudden sluggishness, her inertia, beneath his feet. That wave must have flooded the waist to a depth of a yard or more, fifty or sixty tons of water piled up on her deck. She lay like something dead for a moment. Then she rolled, slightly at first, and then more freely; the sound of the cataracts of water pouring across could be clearly heard despite the gale. She freed herself as the water cascaded out through the overworked scuppers, and she came sluggishly back to life, to leap once more in her mad career from wave crest to trough. A blow like that could well be her death; some time she might not rise to it; some time her deck might be burst in. Another wave beat on her bow like the hammer of a mad giant, and another after that.

  Next day was worse, the worst day that Hotspur had experienced in all these wild weeks. Some slight shift in the wind, or the increase in its strength, had worked up the waves to a pitch that was particularly unsuited to Hotspur’s idiosyncrasies. The waist was flooded most of the time now, so that she laboured heavily without relief, each wave catching her before she could free herself. That meant that the pumps were at work three hours out of every four, so that even with petty officers and idlers and waisters and marines all doing their share, every hand was engaged on the toilsome labour for twelve hours a day.

  Bush’s glance was more direct even than usual when he came to make his report.

  “We’re still sighting Naiad now and then, sir, but not a chance of signals being read.”

  This was the day when by Captain Chambers’s orders they were free to run for harbour.

  “Yes. I don’t think we can bear away in this wind and sea.”

  Bush’s expression revealed a mental struggle. Hotspur’s powers of resistance to the present battering were not unlimited, but on the other hand to turn tail and run would be an operation of extreme danger.

  “Has Huffnell reported to you yet, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Hornblower.

  There were nine hundred-gallon casks of freshwater left down below, which had been standing in the bottom tier for a hundred days. And now one of them had proved to be contaminated with seawater and was hardly drinkable. The others might perhaps be even less so.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower, terminating the interview. “We’ll remain hove-to for today at least.”

  Surely a wind of this force must moderate soon, even though Hornblower had a premonition that it would not.

  Nor did it. The slow dawn of the new day found Hotspur still labouring under the dark clouds, the waves still as wild, the wind still as insane. The time had come for the final decision, as Hornblower well knew as he came out on deck in his clammy clothes. He knew the dangers, and he had spent a large part of the night preparing his mind to deal with them.

  “Mr. Bush, we’ll get her before the wind.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Before she could come before the wind she would have to present her vulnerable side to the waves. There would be seconds during which she could be rolled over on to her beam ends, beaten down under the waves, pounded into a wreck.

  “Mr. Cargill!”

  This was going to be a moment far more dangerous than being chased by the Loire, and Cargill would have to be trusted to carry out a similar duty as on a tense occasion then. Face close to face, Hornblower shouted his instructions.

  “Get for’ard. Make ready to show a bit of the fore-topmast stays’l. Haul it up when I wave my arm.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Get it in the moment I wave a second time.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Bush! We shall need the fore-tops’l.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Goose-wing it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Stand by the sheets. Wait for me to wave my arm the second time.”

  “The second time. Aye aye, sir.”

  Hotspur’s stern was nearly as vulnerable as her side. If she presented it to the waves while stationary she would be ‘pooped’—a wave would burst over her and sweep her from stern to stem, a blow she would probably not survive. The fore-topsail would give her the necessary way, but spreadi
ng it before she was before the wind would lay her over on her beam ends. ‘Goose-winging it’—pulling down the lower corners while leaving the centre portion still furled—would expose less canvas than the reefed sail; enough in that gale to carry her forward at the necessary speed.

  Hornblower took his station beside the wheel, where he could be clearly seen from forward. He ran his eyes aloft to make sure that the preparations for goose-winging the fore-topsail were complete, and his gaze lingered for a while longer as he observed the motion of the spars relative to the wild sky. Then he transferred his attention to the sea on the weather side, to the immense rollers hurrying towards the ship. He watched the roll and the pitch; he gauged the strength of the howling wind which was trying to tear him from his footing. That wind was trying to stupefy him, to paralyse him, too. He had to keep the hard central core of himself alert and clear thinking while his outer body was numbed by the wind.

  A rogue wave burst against the weather bow in a huge but fleeting pillar of spray, the green mass pounding aft along the waist, and Hornblower swallowed nervously while it seemed as if Hotspur would never recover. But she did, slowly and wearily, rolling off the load from her deck. As she cleared herself the moment came, a moment of regularity in the oncoming waves, with her bow just lifting to the nearest one. He waved his arm, and saw the slender head of the fore-topmast stay-sail rising up the stay, and the ship lay over wildly to the pressure.

  “Hard-a-port,” he yelled to the hands at the wheel.

  The enormous leverage of the stay-sail, applied to the bowsprit, began to swing the Hotspur round like a weather vane; as she turned, the wind thrusting more and more from aft gave her steerage way so that the rudder could bite and accelerate the turn. She was down in the trough of the wave but turning, still turning. He waved his arm again. The clews of the fore-topsail showed themselves as the hands hauled on the sheets, and Hotspur surged forward with the impact of the wind upon the canvas. The wave was almost upon them, but it disappeared out of the tail of Hornblower’s eye as Hotspur presented first her quarter and then her stern to it.