Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Sail ho! Sail to windward! Deck, there! There’s another. Looks like a fleet, sir.”

  Now Bush could join Hornblower.

  “I expect that’s the frigates, sir.”

  “Maybe.” Hornblower hailed the main-topmast-head. “How many sail now?”

  “Eight, sir. Sir, they look like ships of the line, some of them, sir. Yes, sir, a three-decker an’ some two-deckers.”

  A squadron of ships of the line, heading for Cadiz. They might possibly be French—fragments of Bonaparte’s navy sometimes evaded blockade. In that case it was his duty to identify them, risking capture. Most likely they were British, and Hornblower had a momentary misgiving as to what their presence would imply in that case.

  “We’ll stand towards them, Mr. Bush. Mr. Foreman! Hoist the private signal.”

  There were the topsails showing now, six ships of the line ploughing along in line ahead, a frigate out on either flank.

  “Leading ship answers 264, sir. That’s the private signal for this week.”

  “Very well. Make our number.”

  Today’s grey sea and grey sky seemed to reflect the depression that was settling over Hornblower’s spirits.

  “Dreadnought, sir. Admiral Parker. His flag’s flying.”

  So Parker had been detached from the fleet off Ushant; Hornblower’s unpleasant conviction was growing.

  “Flag to Hotspur, sir. ‘Captain come on board’.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Foreman. Mr. Bush, call away the quarter boat.”

  Parker gave an impression of greyness like the weather when Hornblower was led aft to Dreadnought’s quarter-deck. His eyes and his hair and even his face (in contrast with the swarthy faces round him) were of a neutral grey. But he was smartly dressed, so that Hornblower felt something of a ragamuffin in his presence, wishing, too, that this morning’s shave had been more effective.

  “What are you doing here, Captain Hornblower?”

  “I am on the rendezvous appointed for Captain Moore’s squadron, sir.”

  “Captain Moore’s in England by this time.”

  The news left Hornblower unmoved, for it was what he was expecting to hear, but he had to make an answer.

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “You haven’t heard the news?”

  “I’ve heard nothing for a week, sir.”

  “Moore captured the Spanish treasure fleet. Where were you?”

  “I had an encounter with a French frigate, sir.”

  A glance at Hotspur lying hove-to on the Dreadnought’s beam could take in the fished main-yard and the raw patches on her sides.

  “You missed a fortune in prize money.”

  “So I should think, sir.”

  “Six million dollars. The Dons fought, and one of their frigates blew up with all hands before the others surrendered.”

  In a ship in action drill and discipline had to be perfect; a moment’s carelessness on the part of a powder boy or a gun loader could lead to disaster. Hornblower’s thoughts on this subject prevented him this time from making even a conversational reply, and Parker went on without waiting for one.

  “So it’s war with Spain. The Dons will declare war as soon as they hear the news—they probably have done so already. This squadron is detached from the Channel Fleet to begin the blockade of Cadiz.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You had better return north after Moore. Report to the Channel Fleet off Ushant for further orders.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The cold grey eyes betrayed not the least flicker of humanity. A farmer would look at a cow with far more interest than this Admiral looked at a Commander.

  “A good journey to you, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The wind was well to the north of west; Hotspur would have to stand far out to weather St. Vincent, and farther out still to make sure of weathering Cape Roca. Parker and his ships had a fair wind for Cadiz and although Hornblower gave his orders the moment he reached the deck they were over the horizon almost as soon as Hotspur had hoisted in her boat and had settled down on the starboard tack, close-hauled, to begin the voyage back to Ushant. And as she plunged to the seas that met her starboard bow there was something additional to be heard and felt about her motion. As each wave crest reached her, and she began to put her bows down, there was a sudden dull noise and momentary little shock through the fabric of the ship, to be repeated when she had completed her descent and began to rise again. Twice for every wave this happened, so that ear and mind came to expect it at each rise and fall. It was the fished main-yard, splinted between the two spare studding sail booms. However tightly the trapping was strained that held the joint together, a little play remained, and the ponderous yardarms settled backward and forward with a thump, twice with every wave, until mind and ear grew weary of its ceaseless monotony.

  It was on the second day that Bailey provided a moment’s distraction for Hornblower while Hotspur still reached out into the Atlantic to gain her offing.

  “This was in the pocket of your nightshirt, sir. I found it when I was going to wash it.”

  It was a folded piece of paper with a note written on it, and that note must have been written the evening that Hotspur lay in Cadiz Bay—Bailey clearly did not believe in too frequent washing of nightshirts.

  Sir—

  The Cabin Stores are short of Capers and Cayenne.

  Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

  Your Humble obedient Servant

  J. Doughty.

  Hornblower crumpled the paper in his hand. It was painful to be reminded of the Doughty incident. This must be the very last of it.

  “Did you read this, Bailey?”

  “No, sir. I’m no scholar, sir.”

  That was the standard reply of an illiterate in the Royal Navy, but Hornblower was not satisfied until he had taken a glance at the ship’s muster rolls and seen the ‘X’ against Bailey’s name. Most Scotsmen could read and write—it was fortunate that Bailey was an exception.

  So Hotspur continued close-hauled, first on the starboard tack and then on the port, carrying sail very tenderly on her wounded main-yard, while she made her way northward over the grey Atlantic until at last she weathered Finisterre and could run two points free straight for Ushant along the hypotenuse of the Bay of Biscay. It snowed on New Year’s Eve just as it had snowed last New Year’s Eve when Hotspur had baulked Bonaparte’s attempted invasion of Ireland. It was raining and bleak, and thick weather closely limited the horizon when Hotspur attained the latitude of Ushant and groped her way slowly forward in search of the Channel Fleet. The Thunderer loomed up in the mist and passed her on to the Majestic, and the Majestic passed her on until the welcome word “Hibernia” came back in reply to Bush’s hail. There was only a small delay while the news of Hotspur’s arrival was conveyed below to the Admiral before the next hail came; Collins’s voice, clearly recognizable despite the speaking-trumpet.

  “Captain Hornblower?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you kindly come aboard?”

  Hornblower was ready this time, so closely shaved that his cheeks were raw, his best coat on, two copies of his report in his pocket.

  Cornwallis was shivering, huddled in a chair in his cabin, a thick shawl over his shoulders and another over his knees, and presumably with a hot bottle under his feet. With his shawls and his wig he looked like some old woman until he looked up with his china blue eyes.

  “Now what in the world have you been up to this time, Hornblower?”

  “I have my report here, sir.”

  “Give it to Collins. Now tell me.”

  Hornblower gave the facts as briefly as he could.

  “Moore was furious at your parting company, but I think he’ll excuse you when he hears about this. Medusa never acknowledged your signal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You did quite right in hanging on to Felicite. I’ll endorse your report to that effect. Moore ought to be glad tha
t there was one ship fewer to share his prize money.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t give that a thought, sir.”

  “I expect you’re right. But you, Hornblower. You could have turned a blind eye to the Felicite—there’s a precedent in the Navy for turning a blind eye. Then you could have stayed with Moore and shared the prize money.”

  “If Felicite had escaped round Cape St. Vincent there might not have been any prize money, sir.”

  “I see. I quite understand.” The blue eyes had a twinkle. “I put you in the way of wealth and you disdain it.”

  “Hardly that, sir.”

  It was a sudden revelation to Hornblower that Cornwallis had deliberately selected him and Hotspur to accompany Moore and share the prize money. Every ship must have been eager to go; conceivably this was a reward for months of vigilance in the Goulet.

  Now Collins entered the conversation.

  “How are your stores?”

  “I’ve plenty, sir. Food and water for sixty more days on full rations.”

  “What about your powder and shot?” Collin’ tapped his finger on Hornblower’s report, which he had been reading.

  “I’ve enough for another engagement, sir.”

  “And your ship?”

  “We’ve plugged the shot holes, sir. We can carry sail on the main-yard as long as it doesn’t blow too strong.”

  Cornwallis spoke again.

  “Would it break your heart if you went back to Plymouth?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “That’s as well, for I’m sending you in to refit.”

  “Aye aye, sir. When shall I sail?”

  “You’re too restless even to stay to dinner?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cornwallis laughed outright. “I wouldn’t like to put you to the test.”

  He glanced up at the tell-tale wind-vane in the deck beams above. Men who had spent their whole lives combating the vagaries of the wind all felt alike in that respect; when a fair wind blew it was sheer folly to waste even an hour on a frivolous pretext.

  “You’d better sail now,” went on Cornwallis. “You know I’ve a new second in command?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Lord Gardner. Now that I have to fight the Dons as well as Boney I need a vice-admiral.”

  “I’m not surprised, sir.”

  “If you sail in this thick weather you won’t have to salute him. That will save the King some of his powder that you’re so anxious to burn. Collins, give Captain Hornblower his orders.”

  So he would be returning once more to Plymouth. Once more to Maria.

  Chapter XXIV

  “It really was a magnificent spectacle,” said Maria.

  The Naval Chronicle, at which Hornblower was glancing while conversing with her, used those identical words ‘magnificent spectacle’.

  “I’m sure it must have been, dear.”

  Under his eyes was a description of the landing of the Spanish treasure at Plymouth from the frigates captured by Moore’s squadron. Military precautions had of course been necessary when millions of pounds in gold and silver had to be piled into wagons and dragged through the streets up to the Citadel, but the fanfare had exceeded military necessity. The Second Dragoon Guards had provided a mounted escort, the Seventy-First Foot had marched with the wagons, the local militia had lined the streets, and every military band for miles round had played patriotic airs. And when the treasure was moved on to London troops had marched with it and their bands had marched with them, so that every town through which the convoy passed had been treated to the same magnificent spectacle. Hornblower suspected that the government was not averse to calling the attention of as many people as possible to this increase in the wealth of the country, at a moment when Spain had been added to the list of England’s enemies.

  “They say the captains will receive hundreds of thousands of pounds each,” said Maria. “I suppose it will never be our good fortune to win anything like that, dear?”

  “It is always possible,” said Hornblower.

  It was astonishing, but most convenient, that Maria was quite unaware of any connexion between Hotspur’s recent action with Felicite and Moore’s capture of the flota. Maria was shrewd and sharp, but she was content to leave naval details to her husband, and it never occurred to her to inquire how it had come about that Hotspur, although attached to the Channel Fleet off Ushant, had found herself off Cape St. Vincent. Mrs Mason might have been more inquisitive, but she, thank God, had returned to Southsea.

  “What happened to that Doughty?” asked Maria.

  “He deserted,” answered Hornblower; luckily, again, Maria was not interested in the mechanics of desertion and did not inquire into the process.

  “I’m not sorry, dear,” she said. “I never liked him. But I’m afraid you miss him.”

  “I can manage well enough without him,” said Hornblower. It was useless to buy capers and cayenne during this stay in Plymouth; Bailey would not know what to do with them.

  “Perhaps one of these days I’ll be able to look after you instead of these servants,” said Maria.

  There was the tender note in her voice again, and she was drawing nearer.

  “No one could do that better than you, my darling,” answered Hornblower. He had to say it. He could not hurt her. He had entered into this marriage voluntarily, and he had to go on playing the part. He put his arm round the waist that had come within reach.

  “You are the kindest husband, darling,” said Maria. “I’ve been so happy with you.”

  “Not as happy as I am when you say that,” said Hornblower. That was the base intriguer speaking again, the subtle villain—the man who had plotted Doughty’s escape from justice. No; he must remember that his conscience was clear now in that respect. That self-indulgence had been washed away by the blood that had poured over the decks of Felicite.

  “I often wonder why it should be,” went on Maria, with a new note in her voice. “I wonder why you should be so kind to me, when I think about—you, darling—and me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Hornblower, as bluffly as he could manage. “You must always be sure of my feelings for you, dear. Never doubt me.”

  “My very dearest,” said Maria, her voice changing again, the note of inquiry dying out and the tenderness returning. She melted into his arms. “I’m fortunate that you have been able to stay so long in Plymouth this time.”

  “That was my good fortune, dear.”

  Replacing the transoms which Bush had so blithely cut away in Hotspur’s stern for the fight with Felicite had proved to be a laborious piece of work—Hotspur’s stern had had to be almost rebuilt.

  “And the Little One has been sleeping like a lamb all the evening,” went on Maria; Hornblower could only hope that this did not involve his crying all night.

  A knock at the door made Maria tear herself away from Hornblower’s embracing arm.

  “Gentleman to see you,” said the landlady’s voice.

  It was Bush, in pea-jacket and scarf, standing hesitating on the threshold.

  “Good evening, sir. Your servant, ma’am. I hope I don’t intrude.”

  “Of course not,” said Hornblower, wondering what shift of wind or politics could possibly have brought Bush here, and very conscious that Bush’s manner was a little odd.

  “Come in, man. Come in. Let me take your coat—unless your news is urgent?”

  “Hardly urgent, sir,” said Bush rather ponderously, allowing himself, with embarrassment, to be relieved of his coat. “But I felt you would like to hear it.”

  He stood looking at them both, his eyes not quite in focus, yet sensitive to the possibility that Maria’s silence might be a sign that to her he was unwelcome; but Maria made amends.

  “Won’t you take this chair, Mr. Bush?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Seated, he looked from one to the other again; it was quite apparent to Hornblower by now that Bush was a little drunk.

  “
Well, what is it?” he asked.

  Bush’s face split into an ecstatic grin.

  “Droits of Admiralty, sir,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Moore and the frigates—I mean Captain Moore, of course, begging your pardon, sir.”

  “What about them?”

  “I was in the coffee-room of the Lord Hawke, sir—I often go there of an evening—and last Wednesday’s newspapers came down from London. And there it was, sir. Droits of Admiralty.”

  Wrecks; stranded whales; flotsam and jetsam; Droits of Admiralty dealt with things of this sort, appropriating them for the Crown, and, despite the name, they were of no concern to Their Lordships. Bush’s grin expanded into a laugh.

  “Serves ‘em right, doesn’t it, sir?” he said.

  “You’ll have to explain a little further.”

  “All that treasure they captured in the flota, sir. It’s not prize money at all. It goes to the Government as Droits of Admiralty. The frigates don’t get a penny. You see, sir, it was time of peace.”

  Now Hornblower understood. In the event of war breaking out with another country, the ships of that country which happened to be in British ports were seized by the Government as Droits of Admiralty; prize money came under a different category, for prizes taken at sea in time of war were Droits of the Crown, and were specifically granted to the captors by an order in Council which waived the rights of the Crown.

  The government was perfectly justified legally in its action. And however much that action would infuriate the ships’ companies of the frigates, it would make the rest of the navy laugh outright, just as it had made Bush laugh.

  “So we didn’t lose anything, sir, on account of your noble action. Noble—I’ve always wanted to tell you it was noble, sir.”

  “But how could you lose anything?” asked Maria.

  “Don’t you know about that, ma’am?” asked Bush, turning his wavering gaze upon her. Wavering or not, and whether he was drunk or not, Bush could still see that Maria had been left in ignorance of the opportunity that Hotspur had declined, and he still was sober enough to make the deduction that it would be inadvisable to enter into explanations.