A Ship of the Line h-8

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Come on, sir!” said Longley. “Not much more now, sir. Don’t look down!”

  He recalled himself to sanity. Changing foothold and handhold inch by inch, he shuffled along in accordance with Longley’s instructions.

  “Just a minute,” said Longley. “Are you all right, sir? Wait here while I go and have a look.”

  Hornblower clung on with aching arms and legs. He kept his face against the cliff, stupid with fatigue and fear. Then he heard Longley beside him again.

  “It’s all right, sir. There’s only one nasty bit. Get your feet down on to that knob, there. Where that bit of grass is.”

  They had to get past a projecting boss in the face of the cliff; there was one awful second when Hornblower had no foothold, and with his legs dangling had to stretch to a new handhold.

  “They can’t see us here, sir. You can rest a bit, if you’d like to,” said Longley solicitously.

  Hornblower lay on his face in the shallow depression which grooved the cliff, conscious for a space of nothing save the cessation of strain. Then with a rush he remembered everything—his dignity, the work on the beach, the fighting on the summit. He sat up and looked down; with a solid lump of the cliff under him his head would stand that. The beach was clear of guns now, in the darkening evening, and only a few animals stood waiting their turn to be coaxed into the boats. Up above the firing seemed to have died down for a space; either the French had begun to despair of achieving anything further or they were gathering for a last effort.

  “Come on,” said Hornblower, abruptly.

  The rest of the descent was easy; they could slide and scramble all the way until he felt the welcome sand under his feet. A worried-looking Brown materialised here, his face clearing as he caught sight of his captain. Cavendish was standing supervising the despatch of the last cutter.

  “Very good, Mr. Cavendish. The seamen can go next. Are the armed boats ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was nearly dark now, and the sky gave only a faint light when the marines began to pour down the gully and over the sand. The last shots in the long retreat were fired by the four-pounders mounted in the bows of the two longboats which lay nosing the sand while the final section of marines splashed out into the water to them. The long red tongues of flame lit up the dark masses of Frenchmen swarming down on to the beach, and the blast of grape which they had hurled was followed by a gratifying chorus of screams and cries from the stricken masses.

  “A very handsome operation indeed,” said Major Laird from his seat in the stern of the longboat beside Hornblower.

  Hornblower drooping in weariness was inclined to agree with him, although he was shivering with the chill of his soaked breeches, and his hands smarted from cuts and abrasions, and other parts of him pained him with saddlesoreness as if they were being held before a fierce fire. They rowed out over the silent sea to a ship strange with the whinnying of horses and smelling stable-like already.

  Hornblower staggered on board; he saw the boatswain’s mate who held the lantern for him glance curiously at his ragged clothes and white face. He walked blindly past the dark line of horses and mules, picketed head and heel to the deck ringbolts, to the security of his cabin. He ought to make his report to the admiral—surely he could leave that until daylight. The deck seemed to be heaving under him rhythmically. Polwheal was there, and food was laid on the candle-lighted table, but Hornblower later could never remember eating any. Faintly he could remember Polwheal helping him into bed, and a vivid, clearcut memory always abode with him of hearing Polwheal, through the closed cabin door, arguing with the sentry outside.

  “Twarn’t Horny’s fault,” said Polwheal, didactically.

  Then sleep swooped down upon Hornblower, sleep which held him fast, even though he was conscious through it of the aches and pains which assailed him, of the perils he had encountered that day, of the fear which had tortured him on the cliff.

  Chapter XIX

  The Sutherland was wallowing through the stormy waters of the Gulf of the Lion, under a grey sky, with flecked wave tops all round her, while her captain stood on his heaving quarterdeck enjoying the cold blast of the mistral round his ears. The nightmare adventure on the Spanish mainland was three weeks past now, for over a fortnight the ship had been clear of horses and mules, and the stable-smell had nearly disappeared, and the decks were white once again. Much more important, the Sutherland had been sent away on detached duty with orders to examine the French coast line all the way along to Toulon; he was free from the clogging authority of the admiral again, and he breathed the keen air with the delight of someone released from slavery. Barbara’s husband was not a man whom it was a pleasure to serve.

  The whole ship seemed to be infected with this feeling of freedom—unless it was the pleasure in the contrast between the present weather and the tranquil skies and calm seas which had prevailed so long. Here came Bush, rubbing his hands and grinning like a gargoyle.

  “Blowing a little, sir,” said Bush, “and it’ll blow harder than this before it’s over.”

  “Very likely,” said Hornblower.

  He grinned back, light heartedly, with a bubbling of high spirits within him. It was quite fantastic how stimulating it was to be thrashing to windward again against a stiff breeze, especially with the nearest admiral a hundred miles away. In Southern France that same wind would be causing grumbling and complaints, and the French would be going about hugging their cloaks to them, but here at sea it was perfectly delightful.

  “You can put the hands to any work you please, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower magnanimously, as discretion returned to him and he evaded the tempting snares of falling into idle conversation.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Young Longley came aft with the sand glass to attend to the hourly heaving of the log, and Hornblower watched him from the corner of his eye. The boy was carrying himself with assurance now, and gave his orders easily. He was the only one of all the midshipmen whose calculations of the day’s work made any pretence at accuracy, and the incident on the cliff had shown him to be a lad of quick decision. Towards the end of this commission, and at a suitable opportunity, Hornblower decided, he would appoint him acting lieutenant; he watched him bending over the traverse board marking up the hour’s run with a queer wonder as to whether he was observing a future Nelson, an admiral who would some day rule forty ships of the line.

  He was an ugly little fellow, with this stubby hair and monkey face, yet it was hard not to feel a surge of affection for him. If little Horatio, the child whom smallpox had killed on the third day in those Southsea lodgings, had grown up in this fashion Hornblower would have been proud of him. Perhaps he might have done—but it was not a good thing to think himself into gloom on a fresh morning like this about the little boy he had loved. There would be another child by the time he reached home. Hornblower hoped it might be a boy; and he was nearly sure that Maria hoped the same. Not that any little boy could quite take the place of Horatio—Hornblower felt a new flood of depression when he remembered how Horatio had said “Papa! Want papa!” and had rested his face against his shoulder that evening when the first malaise of the illness was creeping over him. He shook his depression off; if his return to England was at the earliest moment he could hope for the child would be crawling about the floor with all a baby’s misdirected zeal. He might even be talking a little, and would hang his head in shyness when his strange papa arrived, so that Hornblower would have the task of winning his confidence and affection. It would be a pleasant task.

  Maria was going to ask Lady Barbara to be godmother to the child—it would be delightful if Lady Barbara agreed. Any child with the influence of the Wellesley family behind it could contemplate a secure future. Without a doubt it was the Wellesley influence which had put Leighton in command of the squadron he was mismanaging. And by this time Hornblower was sure that it was the Wellesley influence which had put him in command of one of the ships of that squadron and retained h
im in employment without a single day of half pay. He was still in doubt about what had been Lady Barbara’s motive, but on a stimulating morning like this he could almost venture to believe that it was because she loved him; he would far rather it were that than it should merely be because she admired his professional ability. Or it might be just an amused and tolerant kindliness towards an inferior whom she knew to love her.

  That thought called up a surge of revolt. She had been his for the asking, once. He had kissed her, clasped her. No matter that he had been afraid to take her—he slurred that memory over in his present indignation—she had offered, and he had declined. As a suppliant once, she had no right to pose to herself now as his patroness. He stamped his feet with mortification as he paced the deck.

  But his clairvoyance was instantly blurred by his idealism. His memory of a cool and self collected Lady Barbara, the perfect hostess, the dignified wife of an admiral, was overlaid by mental pictures of a tender Lady Barbara, a loving Lady Barbara, with a beauty which would take a man’s breath away. His heart was torn with longing for her; he felt sick and sad and lonely in his rush of desire for her, for the angel of goodness and sweetness and kindliness he thought her to be. His pulse beat faster as he remembered her white bosom with the sapphire pendant resting on it, and animal desire came to reinforce the boyish affection he bore her.

  “Sail ho!” bellowed the masthead lookout, and Hornblower’s dreaminess was stripped from him in a flash, like the straw wrapping from a bottle.

  “Where away?”

  “Right in the wind’s eye, sir, an’ comin’ up fast.”

  A brisk nor’easterly wind like the present meant ideal weather conditions for French ships which wished to escape from the blockade of Marseille and Toulon. It was a fair wind for the escaping ship, enabling her to get out of harbour and cover a long distance during the first night, while at the same time it pushed the blockading squadron away to leeward. This might well be a ship engaged in breaking the blockade, and if such were the case she would have small chance of escape with the Sutherland right to leeward of her. It would be consistent with the good fortune he had enjoyed on detached service during the present commission if this were to be another prize for him.

  “Keep her steady as she goes,” said Hornblower, in reply to Bush’s look of inquiry. “And turn the hands up, if you please, Mr. Bush.”

  “Deck, there!” hailed the lookout. “She’s a frigate, and British by the look of her.”

  That was a disappointment. There were fifty possible explanations of a British frigate’s presence here and on her present course which offered no chance of action as opposed to one which might involve the proximity of an enemy. Her topsails were in sight already, white against the grey sky.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said the gunlayer of one of the port side quarterdeck carronades. “Stebbings here thinks he knows who she is.”

  Stebbings was one of the hands taken from the East India convoy, a middle-aged man with grey hairs in his beard.

  “Cassandra, sir, thirty-two, seems to me. She convoyed us last v’yage.”

  “Captain Frederick Cooke, sir,” added Vincent, flipping hastily over the pages of the printed list.

  “Ask her number and make sure,” ordered Hornblower.

  Cooke had been posted six months later than he had; in the event of any combined operations he would be the senior officer.

  “Yes, she’s the Cassandra, sir,” said Vincent, his eye to his telescope, as a hoist of flags went up to the frigate’s foretopsail yardarm.

  “She’s letting fly her sheets,” said Bush, with a hint of excitement in his voice. “Queer, that is, sir.”

  From time immemorial, dating back long before a practical flag signalling system had been devised, letting fly the sheets had been a conventional warning all the world over of the approach of a fleet.

  “She’s signalling again, sir,” said Vincent. “It’s hard to read with the flags blowing straight towards us.”

  “Damn it, sir,” blazed Bush. “Use your eyes, or I’ll know the reason why not.”

  “Numeral. Four. Literal. Seventeen—astern—to windward—source—sou’west,” translated Longley with the signal book.

  “Beat to quarters, if you please, Mr. Bush. And wear the ship directly.”

  It was not the Sutherland’s task to fight odds of four to one. If there were any British ships in pursuit he could throw himself in the enemy’s path and reply on crippling at least two Frenchmen so as to ensure their capture, but until he knew more about the situation he must keep as clear as was possible.

  “Ask ‘Are any British ships at hand?’” he said to Vincent while the Sutherland first lay over on her side and then rose to an even keel as Bush brought her before the wind.

  “Reply negative, sir,” said Vincent, a minute later, through the din of clearing for action.

  It was as he expected, then. The four French ships of the line had broken out of Toulon during the darkness, and while the blockading squadron had been blown away to leeward. Only the Cassandra, the inshore lookout, had caught sight of them, and had run before them so as to keep them under observation.

  “Ask ‘Where is the enemy?’” said Hornblower. It was an interesting exercise, calling for familiarity with the signal book, to frame a message so as to use the fewest number of flags.

  “Six—miles—astern—bearing—nor’east,” translated Longley from the code book as Vincent read out the numbers.

  So the French were lying right before the wind. That might merely be because they wanted to put as great a distance as possible between them and the blockading squadron off Toulon, but it was not likely that the officer in command would run wastefully direct to leeward unless that was the course most suited to his plan. It ruled out completely any thought of Sicily or the Adriatic or the Eastern Mediterranean as objective, and it pointed directly to the Spanish coast near Barcelona and beyond that to the Straits of Gibraltar.

  Hornblower on his quarterdeck set himself to try and think the thoughts of Bonaparte at the Tuileries. Beyond the Straits lay the Atlantic and the whole world. Yet it was hard to imagine any useful objective for four French ships of the line out there; the French West Indies had been nearly all reduced by English expeditions, the Cape of Good Hope was in English hands, Mauritius was about to fall. The French squadron might be intended for a mere commerce destroying raid, but in that case an equal number of frigates would be both cheaper and more effective. That was not like Bonaparte. And on the other hand exactly enough time had elapsed for the appearance of Leighton’s squadron on the Catalan coast and the resultant dearth of supplies to have been reported to the Tuileries, and for orders to have been transmitted thence to Toulon. Those orders would bear the Bonaparte stamp. Three British ships on the Catalan coast? Then send four French ones against them. Man with crews picked from all the ships rotting in Toulon harbour. Load them with all the stores for which the Barcelona garrison is clamouring. Let them slip out one dark night, hack their way through to Barcelona, crush the British squadron if they can, and return if they are lucky. In a week they might be safe and sound, and if not—every omelette demands the breaking of eggs.

  That must be the French plan, and he would gladly bet all he had that he was right. It only remained to decide how to defeat the French aims, and the opening moves were obvious. First, he must keep between the French and their objective, and second, it would be desirable to keep out of sight of the French, over their horizon, as long as possible—it would be a surprise to them to find a ship of considerable force, and not a mere frigate, in their path; and surprise was half a battle. In that case his first instinctive move had been correct, and the Sutherland was on the right course to achieve both these ends—Hornblower wondered uneasily whether his unthinking mind had jumped at once to the conclusions which his thinking mind had only just reached. All that remained to be done was to call down the Pluto and the Caligula. Three British ships of the line and a frigate could fi
ght four French ships, picked crews or not, and Bonaparte’s opinion notwithstanding.

  “Cleared for action, sir,” said Bush, touching his hat. His eyes were bright with the anticipation of action. Hornblower saw in him a fighting man of the type to which he regretted he did not belong—a man who relished the prospect of a battle for its own sake, who loved physical danger, who would never stop to count the odds against him.

  “Dismiss the watch below, if you please,” said Hornblower. There was no object in keeping every man at his station when action was far distant, and Hornblower saw Bush’s expression alter when he heard the words. They meant that the Sutherland was not going to plunge immediately into action against odds of four to one.

  “Aye aye, sir,” he said, reluctantly.

  There was something to be said for Bush’s point of view, for the Sutherland well handled might knock away so many French spars as to leave two or three at least of the French so crippled as to fall a certain prey into British hands sooner or later. It would be at the cost of her own destruction, however, and he could think about it again later. A fair wind today might still mean a foul wind tomorrow; there might still be time for the Pluto and the Caligula to come up if only they could be informed of the proximity of their prey.

  “Give me that signal book,” said Hornblower to Longley.

  He turned its pages, refreshed his memory regarding the wording of some of the arbitrary signals. In sending a long message there was always danger of misunderstanding. And he pulled his chin while he composed his message. Like every British officer retreating, he was running the risk of having his motives misunderstood, even though as he told himself petulantly, not even the mad British public, gorged with past victories, could condemn him for refusing action against odds of four to one. But if everything went wrong the Wellesley faction might seek a scapegoat; and the order he was about to transmit might mean the difference between success and failure, between a court of inquiry and the thanks of Parliament.