“No further messages, Mr Barrow?”
“None, Mr Marsden.”
“There will be no confirmation from Plymouth before eight o'clock tomorrow morning,” remarked Marsden looking at the clock.
The telegraph in clear weather and daylight could transmit a message from Plymouth in fifteen minutes — Hornblower had noticed several of the huge semaphore standards during his recent journey; last year he had landed outside Brest and burned a similar machine. But a written message, carried by relays of mounted couriers (some of them riding through darkness) would take twenty three hours to make the journey. On wheels in his post chaise he himself had taken forty; it seemed now as if it were weeks, and not hours.
“This captured dispatch of Captain Hornblower's is of interest, Mr Marsden,” said Barrow; the tone of his voice seemed to echo Marsden's apparent indifference. It was hard for Hornblower to decide whether it was imitation or parody.
Yet it was only a matter of moments for Marsden to read the dispatch and to grasp the important features of the writing of it.
“So now we might imitate a letter from His Imperial and Royal Majesty the Emperor Napoleon,” commented Marsden; the smile that accompanied the words was just as inhuman as the tone of his voice.
Hornblower was experiencing an odd reaction, possibly initialed by this last remark of Marsden's. His head was swimming with hunger and fatigue; he was being projected into a world of unreality, and the unreality was being made still more unreal by the manner of these two cold-blooded gentlemen with whom he was closeted. There were stirrings in his brain. Wild — delirious — ideas were forming there, but no wilder than this world in which he found himself, where fleets were set in motion by a word and where an Emperor's dispatches could be the subject of a jest. He condemned his notions to himself as lunatic nonsense, and yet even as he did so he found additions making their appearance in his mind, logical contributions building up into a fantastic whole.
Marsden was looking at him — through him — with those cold eyes
“You may have done a great service for your King and Country,” said Marsden; the words might be interpreted as words of praise, perhaps, but the manner and expression would call for no modification if Marsden were a judge on the bench condemning a criminal.
“I hope I have done so, sir,” replied Hornblower.
“Exactly why do you hope that?”
It was a bewildering question, bewildering because its answer was so obvious.
“Because I am a King's officer, sir,” said Hornblower.
“And not, Captain, because you expect any reward?”
“I had not thought of it, sir. It was only the purest chance,” answered Hornblower.
This was verbal fencing, and faintly irritating. Perhaps Marsden enjoyed the game. Perhaps years of having to throw cold water on the hopes of innumerable ambitious officers demanding promotion and employment had made the process habitual to him.
“A pity it is not a dispatch of real importance,” he said. “This only makes clear what we already could guess that Boney does not intend to send reinforcements to Martinique.”
“But with that for a model —” began Hornblower. The he stopped, angry with himself. His tumultuous thought would make greater nonsense still expressed in words.
“With this as a model?” repeated Marsden.
“Let us have your suggestion, Captain,” said Barrow.
“I can't waste your time, gentlemen,” stammered Hornblower; he was on the verge of the abyss and striving unavailingly to draw back.
“You have given us an inkling, Captain,” said Barrow. “Please continue.”
There was nothing else to be done. An end to discretion.
“An order from Boney to Villeneuve, telling him to sail from Ferrol at all costs. It would have to give a reason — say that Décrès has escaped from Brest and will await him at a rendezvous off Cape Clear. So that Villeneuve must sail instantly — weigh, cut, or slip. A battle with Villeneuve is what England needs most — that would bring it about.”
Now he had committed himself. Two pairs of eyes were staring at him fixedly.
“An ideal solution, Captain,” said Marsden. “If only it could be done. How fine it would be if such an order could be delivered to Villeneuve.”
The Secretary to the Board of Admiralty probably received crackpot schemes for the destruction of the French Navy every day of the week.
“Boney will be sending orders from Paris, often enough,” went on Hornblower. He was not going to give up. “How often do you transmit orders from this office to Commanders in Chief, sir? To Admiral Cornwallis, for instance? Once a week, sir? Oftener?”
“At least,” admitted Marsden.
“Boney would write more often than that, I think.”
“He would,” agreed Barrow.
“And those orders would come by road. Of course Boney would never trust the Spanish postal services. An officer — a French officer, one of the Imperial aides de-camp — would ride with the orders through Spain, from the French frontier to Ferrol.”
“Yes?” said Marsden. He was at least interested enough to admit an interrogative note into the monosyllable.
“Captain Hornblower has been engaged on gathering information from the French coast for the last two years,” interposed Barrow. “His name was always appearing in Cornwallis' dispatches, Mr Marsden.”
“I know that, Mr Barrow,” said Madden; there might even be a testy note in his voice at the interruption.
“The dispatch is forged,” said Hornblower, taking the final plunge. “A small party is landed secretly with it at a quiet spot on the Spanish Biscay coast, posing as French officials, or Spanish officials, and they travel slowly towards the frontier along the highroad. A succession of couriers is coming in the opposite direction, bearing orders for Villeneuve. Seize one of them — kill him, perhaps — or perhaps with the best of luck substitute the forged order for the one he is carrying. Otherwise one of the party turns back, posing as a French officer, and delivers the false letter to Villeneuve.”
There was the whole plan, fantastic and yet — and yet — at least faintly possible. At least not demonstrably impossible.
“You say you've seen these Spanish roads, Captain?” asked Barrow.
“I saw something of them, sir.”
Hornblower turned back from addressing Barrow to find Marsden's gaze still unwavering, fixed on his face.
“Haven't you any more to say, Captain? Surely you have.”
This might be irony; it might be intended to lure him into making a greater and greater fool of himself. But there was so much that was plainly obvious and which he had forborne to mention. His weary mind could still deal with such points, with a moment to put them in order.
“This is an opportunity, gentlemen. A victory at sea is what England needs more than anything else at this moment. Could we measure its value? Could we? It would put an end to Boney's schemes. It would ease the strain of blockade beyond all measure. What would we give for the chance?”
“Millions,” said Barrow.
“And what do we risk? Two or three agents. If they fail, that is all we have lost. A penny ticket in a lottery. An infinite gain against an inconsiderable loss.”
“You are positively eloquent, Captain,” said Marsden, still without any inflexion in his voice.
“I had no intention of being eloquent, sir,” said Hornblower, and was a little taken aback at realizing how much truth there was in such a simple statement.
He was suddenly annoyed both with himself and with the others. He had allowed himself to be drawn into indiscretions, to appear as one of the feather brained crackpots for whom Marsden must have so much contempt. He rose in irritation from his chair, and then restrained himself on the verge of being still more indiscreet by displaying irritation. A stiffly formal attitude would be better; something that would prove that his recent speeches had been mere polite and meaningless conversation. Moreover he must for
estall the imminent and inevitable dismissal if he were going to preserve any of his self respect.
“I have consumed a great deal of your very valuable time, gentlemen,” he said.
There was a sudden sharp pleasure, despite his weariness, in thus being the first to make a move, to volunteer to quit the company of the Secretary to the Board, and of the Second Secretary, while dozens of junior officers were prepared to wait hours and days for an interview. But Marsden was addressing Barrow.
“What's the name of that South American fellow who's haunting every ante room at present, Mr Barrow? You meet him everywhere — he was even dining at White's last week with Camberwell.”
“The fellow who wants to start a revolution, sir? I've met him a couple of times myself. It's — it's Miranda, or Mirandola, something like that, sir.”
“Miranda! That's the name. I suppose we can lay hands on him if we want him.”
“Easily enough, sir.”
“Yes. Now there's Claudius in Newgate Gaol. I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr Barrow.”
“Claudius, sir? I met him, as everyone else did.”
“He'll be coming up for trial within the week, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. He'll swing next Monday. But why are you asking about him, Mr Marsden?”
There was some faint pleasure in seeing one of those two, even though it was only the Second Secretary, so bewildered, and at the moment he was given no satisfaction.
“So there is no time to waste.” Marsden turned to Hornblower, who was standing uncomfortably aware that most of the drama of his exit had fallen a little flat with this delay. “The doorkeeper has your address, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall send for you very shortly.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower had shut the door before he experienced any qualm regarding using this purely naval expression towards a civilian, nor did it linger, with so much else for his weary brain to think about. He wanted food; he was desperately in need of sleep. He hardly cared about the unknown Miranda, this mysterious Claudius in Newgate Gaol. What he must do was to eat himself into a torpor, and then sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But also he must write to Maria.
Hornblower and the Crisis
CHAPTER NINE
Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.
What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the post chaise — he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the church goers gathering round the post chaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning — yesterday, hard to believe though that was — and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth — he had last seen Maria — on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there — it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.
He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty — he had completely forgotten until now — the French captain's blanket in which he had bundled the ship's papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about — nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain's head shattered like a cracked walnut.
He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semi consciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse's hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no further than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.
“Who is it?”
“Admiralty messenger.”
Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.
“Captain Hornblower?”
“Yes.”
The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.
The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o'clock AM today, Tuesday.
“What's the time now?” asked Hornblower.
“Not long past eight, sir.”
“Very well.” Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. “Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?”
“Only those over a mile, sir.” The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.
He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha'pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.
“That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,” said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.
“We'll know more about it in a day or two,” replied Hornblower mildly.
“He caught 'em and let 'em go. Nelson wouldn't 'a done that.”
“There's no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.”
“Boney on our doorstep, an' Villain noove at sea. That Calder! 'E ought to be ashamed. I've 'eard about Admiral Byng an' 'ow they shot 'im. That's what they ought to do with Calder.”
That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen's Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.
“Let me see a newspaper,” said Hornblower.
“Newspaper, sir? Yes, certainly, sir.”
Here was the Gazette Extraordinary, in the place of honour on the front page, but it hardly merited the lofty title, for it consisted of no more than eight lines, and was only a resumé of the first telegraphic dispatch; the full report from Calder, carried up to London by relays of couriers riding ten mile stages at full speed, would only now be arriving at the Admiralty. It was the editorial comment which was significant, for the Morning Post clearly held the same views as the wherryman and the innkeeper. Calder had been stationed to intercept Villeneuve, and the interception had taken place, thanks to good planning by the Admiralty. But Calder had failed in his particular task, which was to destroy Villeneuve once the Admiralty had brought about the
meeting.
Villeneuve had arrived from the West Indies, evading Nelson who had followed him there, and had broken through the barrier England had endeavoured to interpose. Now he had reached Ferrol, where he would be able to land his sick, and renew his fresh water, ready to issue forth again to threaten the Channel. Viewed in this light it could be reckoned as a decided French success; Hornblower had no doubt that Bonaparte would represent it as a resounding victory.
“Yes, sir. What do you think, sir?” asked the innkeeper.
“Look out of your door and tell me if Boney's marching down the street,” said Hornblower.
It was indicative of the innkeeper's state of mind that he actually made a move towards the door before realization came to him.
“You are pleased to jest, sir.”
There was really nothing to do except to jest. These discussions of naval strategy and tactics by ignorant civilians reminded Hornblower a little of the arguments of the citizens of Gibbon's declining Rome regarding the nature of the Trinity. Yet it was popular clamour that had compelled the death sentence on Byng to be carried out. Calder might be in serious danger of his life.
“The worst thing Boney's done today is to keep me from my breakfast,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. This minute, sir.”
It was as the innkeeper bustled away that Hornblower caught sight of another name on the front page of the Morning Post. It was a paragraph about Doctor Claudius, and as Hornblower read he remembered why the name had been vaguely familiar to him when Marsden mentioned it. There had been references to him in earlier newspapers, old copies which he had seen even during the blockade of Brest. Claudius was a clergyman, a genuine Doctor of Divinity, and the centre of the most resounding scandal, both social and financial, in English history. He had entered into London society to gain a bishopric for himself, but, while achieving considerable popularity or notoriety, he had failed in his object. Despairing of preferment he had plunged into crime. He had built up an extensive organization specializing in the forging of bills of exchange. So perfect were his forgeries, and so cunning was his marketing of them, that he had long gone undetected.
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