Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Four days’ rations there, sir,” said Bush making a practiced estimate. “An’ there’s a live bullock an’ four sheep an’ four pigs. Excuse me, sir, and I’ll post a guard at the side.”

  Most of the hands had money in their pockets and would spend it freely on liquor if they were given the chance, and the men in the victualling barges would sell to them unless the closest supervision were exercised. The water-lighters had finished their task and were casting off. It had been a brief orgy; from the moment that the hoses were taken in ship’s routine would be re-established. One gallon of water per man per day for all purposes from now on.

  The place of the watering barges was taken by the dry victualling barge, with bags of biscuit, sacks of dried peas, kegs of butter, cases of cheese, sacks of oatmeal, but conspicuous on top of all this were half a dozen nets full of fresh bread. Two hundred four-pound loaves—Hornblower could taste the crustiness of them in his watering mouth when he merely looked at them. A beneficent government, under the firm guidance of Cornwallis, was sending these luxuries aboard; the hardships of a life at sea were the result of natural circumstances quite as much as of ministerial ineptitude.

  There was never a quiet moment all through that day. Here was Bush touching his hat again with a final demand on his attention.

  “You’ve given no order about wives, sir.”

  “Wives?”

  “Wives, sir.”

  There was an interrogative lift in Hornblower’s voice as he said the word; there was a flat, complete absence of expression in Bush’s. It was usual in His Majesty’s Ships when they lay in harbour for women to be allowed on board, and one or two of them might well be wives. It was some small compensation for the system that forbade a man to set foot on shore lest he desert; but the women inevitably smuggled liquor on board, and the scenes of debauchery that ensued on the lower-deck were as shameless as in Nero’s court. Disease and indiscipline were the natural result; it took days or weeks to shake the crew down again into an efficient team. Hornblower did not want his fine ship ruined but if Hotspur were to stay long at anchor in Tor Bay he could not deny what was traditionally a reasonable request. He simply could not deny it.

  “I’ll give my orders later this morning,” he said.

  It was not difficult, some minutes later, to intercept Bush at a moment when a dozen of the hands were within earshot.

  “Oh, Mr. Bush!” Hornblower hoped his voice did not sound as stilted and theatrical as he feared. “You’ve plenty of work to be done about the ship.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a good deal of standing rigging I’d like set up again. And there’s running rigging to be re-rove. And there’s the paintwork—”

  “Very well, Mr. Bush. When the ship’s complete in all respects we’ll allow the wives on board, but not until then. Not until then, Mr. Bush. And if we have to sail before then it will be the fortune of war.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Next came the letters; word must have reached the post office in Plymouth of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay, and the letters had been sent across overland. Seven letters from Maria; Hornblower tore open the last first, to find that Maria was well and her pregnancy progressing favourably, and then he skimmed through the others to find, as he expected, that she had rejoiced to read her Valiant Hero’s Gazette letter although she was perturbed by the risks run by her Maritime Alexander, and although she was consumed with sorrow because the Needs of the Service had denied from her eyes the light of his Countenance. Hornblower was half-way through writing a reply when a midshipman came escorted to his cabin door with a note…

  HMS Hibernia

  Tor Bay

  Dear Captain Hornblower,

  If you can be tempted out of your ship at three o’clock this afternoon to dine in the flagship it would give great pleasure to

  Your ob’t servant,

  Wm. Cornwallis, Vice Ad.

  P.S.—An affirmative signal hung out in the Hotspur is all the acknowledgement necessary.

  Hornblower went out on to the quarter-deck.

  “Mr. Foreman. Signal ‘Hotspur to Flag. Affirmative’.”

  “Just affirmative, sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  An invitation from the Commander in Chief was as much a royal command as if it had been signed George R.—even if the postcript did not dictate the reply.

  Then there was the powder to be put on board, with all the care and precautions that operation demanded; Hotspur had fired away one ton of the five tons of gunpowder that her magazine could hold. The operation was completed when Prowse brought up one of the hands who manned the powder-barge.

  “This fellow says he has a message for you, sir.”

  This was a swarthy gypsy-faced fellow who met Hornblower’s eye boldly with all the assurance to be expected of a man who carried in his pocket a protection against impressment.

  “What is it?”

  “Message for you from a lady, sir, and I was to have a shilling for delivering it to you.”

  Hornblower looked him over keenly. There was only one lady who could be sending a message.

  “Nonsense. That lady promised sixpence. Now didn’t she?”

  Hornblower knew that much about Maria despite his brief married life.

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  “Here’s the shilling. What’s the message?”

  “The lady said look for her on Brixham Pier, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Hornblower took the glass from its becket and walked forward. Busy though the ship was, there were nevertheless a few idlers round the knightheads who shrank away in panic at the remarkable sight of their captain here. He trained the glass; Brixham Pier, as might be expected, was crowded with people, and he searched for a long time without result, training the glass first on one woman and then on another. Was that Maria? She was the only woman wearing a bonnet and not a shawl. Of course it was Maria; momentarily he had forgotten that this was the end of the seventh month. She stood in the front row of the crowd; as Hornblower watched she raised an arm and fluttered a scarf. She could not see him, or at least she certainly could not recognize him at that distance without a telescope. She must have heard, along with the rest of Plymouth, of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay; presumably she had made her way here via Totnes in the carrier’s cart—a long and tedious journey.

  She fluttered her scarf again, in the pathetic hope that he was looking at her. In that part of his mind which never ceased attending to the ship Hornblower became conscious of the pipes of the bos’n’s mate—the pipes had been shrilling one call or another all day long.

  “Quarter-boat away-ay-ay!”

  Hornblower had never been so conscious of the slavery of the King’s service. Here he was due to leave the ship to dine with the Commander-in-Chief, and the Navy had a tradition of punctuality that he could not flout. And there was Foreman, breathless from his run forward.

  “Message from Mr. Bush, sir. The boat’s waiting.”

  What was he to do? Ask Bush to write Maria a note and send it by a shore boat? No, he would have to risk being late—Maria could not bear to receive second hand messages at this time of all times. A hurried scribble with the left-handed quill.

  My own darling,

  So much pleasure in seeing you, but not a moment to spare yet. I will write to you at length.

  Your devoted husband,

  H.

  He used that initial in all his letters to her; he did not like his first name and he could not bring himself to sign ‘Harry’. Damn it all, here was the half-finished letter, interrupted earlier that day and never completed. He thrust it aside and struggled to apply a wafer to the finished note. Seven months at sea had destroyed every vestige of gum and the wafer would not adhere. Doughty was hovering over him with sword and hat and cloak—Doughty was just as aware of the necessity for punctuality as he was. Hornblower gave the open note to Bush.

  “Seal this, if you please, Mr. Bush. And send it by shore b
oat to Mrs Hornblower on the pier. Yes, she’s on the pier. By a shore boat, Mr. Bush; no one from the ship’s to set foot on land.”

  Down the side and into the boat. Hornblower could imagine the explanatory murmur through the crowd on the pier, as Maria would learn from better informed bystanders what was going on.

  “That’s the captain going down into the boat.” She would feel a surge of excitement and happiness. The boat shoved off, the conditions of wind and current dictating that her bow was pointing right at the pier; that would be Maria’s moment of highest hope. Then the boat swung round while the hands hauled at the halliards and the balance-lug rose up the mast. Next moment she was flying towards the flagship, flying away from Maria without a word or a sign, and Hornblower felt a great welling of pity and remorse within his breast.

  Hewitt responded to the flagship’s hail, turned the boat neatly into the wind, dropped the sail promptly, and with the last vestige of the boat’s way ran her close enough to the starboard main-chains for the bowman to hook on. Hornblower judged his moment and went up the ship’s side. As his head reached the level of the main-deck the pipes began to shrill in welcome. And through that noise Hornblower heard the three sharp double strokes of the ship’s bell. Six bells in the afternoon watch; three o’clock, the time stated in his invitation.

  The great stern cabin in the Hibernia was furnished in a more subdued fashion than Pellew had affected in the Tonnant, more Spartan and less lavish, but comfortable enough. Somewhat to Hornblower’s surprise there were no other visitors; present in the cabin were only Cornwallis, and Collins, the sardonic Captain of the Fleet, and the flag lieutenant, whose name Hornblower vaguely heard as one of these new-fangled double barrelled names with a hyphen.

  Hornblower was conscious of Cornwallis’s blue eyes fixed upon him, examining him closely in a considering, appraising way that might have unsettled him in other conditions. But he was still a little preoccupied with his thoughts about Maria, on the one hand, while on the other seven months at sea, seven weeks of continuous storms, provided all necessary excuse for his shabby coat and his seaman’s trousers. He could meet Cornwallis’s glance without shyness. Indeed, the effect of Cornwallis’s kindly but unsmiling expression was much modified because his wig was slightly awry; Cornwallis still affected a horsehair bobwig of the sort that was now being relegated by fashion to noblemen’s coachmen, and today it had a rakish cant that dissipated all appearance of dignity.

  Yet, wig or no wig, there was something in the air, some restraint, some tension, even though Cornwallis was a perfect host who did the honours of his table with an easy grace. The quality of the atmosphere was such that Hornblower hardly noticed the food that covered the table, and he felt acutely that the polite conversation was guarded and cautious. They discussed the recent weather; Hibernia had been in Tor Bay for several days, having run for shelter just in time to escape the last hurricane.

  “How were your stores when you came in, Captain?” asked Collins.

  Now here was another sort of atmosphere, something artificial. There was an odd quality about Collins’ tone, accentuated by the formal ‘Captain’, particularly when addressed to a lowly Commander. Then Hornblower identified it. This was a stilted and prepared speech, exactly of the same nature as his recent speech to Bush regarding the admission of women to the ship. He could identity the tone, but he still could not account for it. But he had a commonplace answer, so commonplace that he made it in a commonplace way.

  “I still had plenty, sir. Beef and pork for a month at least.”

  There was a pause a shade longer than natural, as if the information was being digested, before Cornwallis asked the next question in a single word.

  “Water?”

  “That was different, sir. I’d never been able to fill my casks completely from the hoys. We were pretty low when we got in. That was why we ran for it.”

  “How much did you have?”

  “Two days at half-rations, sir. We’d been on half-rations for a week, and two-thirds rations for four weeks before that.”

  “Oh,” said Collins, and in that instant the atmosphere changed.

  “You left very little margin for error, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis, and now he was smiling, and now Hornblower in his innocence realized what had been going on. He had been suspected of coming in unnecessarily early, of being one of those captains who wearied of combating tempests. Those were the captains Cornwallis was anxious to weed out from the Channel Fleet, and Hornblower had been under consideration for weeding out.

  “You should have come in at least four days earlier,” said Cornwallis.

  “Well, sir—” Hornblower could have covered himself by quoting the orders of Chambers of the Naiad, but he saw no reason to, and he changed what he was going to say. “It worked out all right in the end.”

  “You’ll be sending in your journals, of course, sir?” asked the flag lieutenant.

  “Of course,” said Hornblower.

  The ship’s log would be documentary proof of his assertions, but the question was a tactless, almost an insulting one, impugning of his veracity, and Cornwallis instantly displayed a hot-tempered impatience at this awkwardness on the part of his flag lieutenant.

  “Captain Hornblower can do that all in his own good time,” he said. “Now, wine with you, sir?”

  It was extraordinary how pleasant the meeting had become; the change in the atmosphere was as noticeable as the change in the lighting at this moment when the stewards brought in candles. The four of them were laughing and joking when Newton, captain of the ship, came in to make his report and for Hornblower to be presented to him.

  “Wind’s steady at west nor’west, sir,” said Newton.

  “Thank you, captain.” Cornwallis rolled his blue eyes on Hornblower. “Are you ready for sea?”

  “Yes, sir.” There could be no other reply.

  “The wind’s bound to come easterly soon,” meditated Cornwallis. “The Downs, Spithead, Plymouth Sound—all of them jammed with ships outward bound and waiting for a fair wind. But one point’s all you need with Hotspur.”

  “I could fetch Ushant with two tacks now, sir,” said Hornblower. There was Maria huddled in some lodging in Brixham at this moment, but he had to say it.

  “M’m,” said Cornwallis, still in debate with himself. “I’m not comfortable without you watching the Goulet, Hornblower. But I can let you have one more day at anchor.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “That is if the wind doesn’t back any further.” Cornwallis reached a decision. “Here are your orders. You sail at nightfall tomorrow. But if the wind backs one more point you hoist anchor instantly. That is, with the wind at nor’west by west.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower knew how he liked his own officers to respond to his orders, and he matched his deportment with that mental model. Cornwallis went on, his eye still considering him.

  “We took some reasonable claret out of a prize a month ago. I wonder if you would honour me by accepting a dozen, Hornblower?”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, sir.”

  “I’ll have it put in your boat.”

  Cornwallis turned to give the order to his steward, who apparently had something to say in return in a low voice; Hornblower heard Cornwallis reply, “Yes, yes, of course,” before he turned back.

  “Perhaps your steward would pass the word for my boat at the same time, sir?” said Hornblower, who was in no doubt that his visit had lasted long enough by Cornwallis’s standards.

  It was quite dark when Hornblower went down the side into the boat, to find at his feet the case that held the wine, and by now the wind was almost moderate. The dark surface of Tor Bay was spangled with the lights of ships, and there were the lights of Torquay and of Paignton and Brixham visible as well. Maria was somewhere there, probably uncomfortable, for these little places were probably full of naval officers’ wives.

  “Call me the moment the wind comes nor’
west by west,” said Hornblower to Bush as soon as he reached the deck.

  “Nor’west by west. Aye aye, sir. The hands managed to get liquor on board, sir.”

  “Did you expect anything else?”

  The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his earrings in exchange.

  “I had trouble with some of ‘em, sir, especially after the beer issue.”

  Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.

  “You dealt with ‘em?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bush.”

  A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it open with a hand-spike.

  “The only place to put it, sir,” explained Doughty, apologetically.

  That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores, even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient, there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he had removed from the case.

  “What’s that?” demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he repeated the question more sharply still.

  “It’s just a parcel from the Admiral’s steward, sir.”

  “Show me.”

  Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled goods.

  “It’s only cabin stores, sir.”

  “Show me.”

  “Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.” Doughty examined the contents while exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what he would find. “This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here’s coffee—only half a pound, by the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And…”