The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  “Pull!” shrieked Hornblower.

  Instinctively, he gave the tiller a touch to take the jolly boat out into a flanking position.

  “Easy!”

  The jolly boat’s oars stilled, as their way carried them past the cutter. Hornblower could see Soames standing up in the sternsheets looking at the death which was cleaving the blue water towards him. Bow to bow the cutter might have stood a chance, but too late the cutter tried to evade the blow altogether. Hornblower saw her turn, presenting her vulnerable side to the galley’s stem. That was all he could see, for the next moment the galley herself hid from him the final act of the tragedy. The jolly boat’s starboard side oars only just cleared the galley’s starboard oars as she swept by. Hornblower heard a shriek and a crash, saw the galley’s forward motion almost cease at the collision. He was mad with the lust of fighting, quite insane, and his mind was working with the rapidity of insanity.

  “Give way, port!” he yelled, and the jolly boat swung round under the galley’s stern. “Give way all!”

  The jolly boat leaped after the galley like a terrier after a bull.

  “Grapple them, damn you, Jackson!”

  Jackson shouted an oath in reply, as he leaped forward, seemingly hurdling the men at the oars without breaking their stroke. In the bows Jackson seized the boat’s grapnel on its long line and flung it hard and true. It caught somewhere in the elaborate gilt rail on the galley’s quarter. Jackson hauled on the line, the oars tugged madly in the effort to carry the jolly boat up to the galley’s stern. At that moment Hornblower saw it, the sight which would long haunt his dreams—up from under the galley’s stern came the shattered forepart of the cutter, still with men clinging to it who had survived the long passage under the whole length of the galley which had overrun them. There were straining faces, empurpled faces, faces already relaxing in death. But in a moment it was past and gone, and Hornblower felt the jerk transmitted through the line to the jolly boat as the galley leaped forward.

  “I can’t hold her!” shouted Jackson.

  “Take a turn round the cleat, you fool!”

  The galley was towing the jolly boat now, dragging her along at the end of a twenty-foot line close on her quarter, just clear of the arc of her rudder. The white water bubbled all around her, her bows were cocked up with the strain. It was a bad moment, as though they had harpooned a whale. Some one came running aft on the Spaniard’s poop, knife in hand to cut the line.

  “Shoot him, Jackson!” shrieked Hornblower again.

  Jackson’s pistol cracked, and the Spaniard fell to the deck out of sight—a good shot. Despite his fighting madness, despite the turmoil of rushing water and glaring sun, Hornblower tried to think out his next move. Inclination and common sense alike told him that the best plan was to close with the enemy despite the odds.

  “Pull up to them, there!” he shouted—everyone in the boat was shouting and yelling. The men in the bows of the jolly boat faced forward and took the grapnel line and began to haul in on it, but the speed of the boat through the water made any progress difficult, and after a yard or so had been gained the difficulty became insurmountable, for the grapnel was caught in the poop rail ten or eleven feet above water, and the angle of pull became progressively steeper as the jolly boat neared the stern of the galley. The boat’s bow cocked higher out of the water than ever.

  “Belay!” said Hornblower, and then, his voice rising again, “Out pistols, lads!”

  A row of four or five swarthy faces had appeared at the stern of the galley. Muskets were pointing into the jolly boat, and there was a brief but furious exchange of shots. One man fell groaning into the bottom of the jolly boat, but the row of faces disappeared. Standing up precariously in the swaying sternsheets, Hornblower could still see nothing of the galley’s poop deck save for the tops of two heads, belonging, it was clear, to the men at the tiller.

  “Reload,” he said to his men, remembering by a miracle to give the order. The ramrods went down the pistol barrels.

  “Do that carefully if you ever want to see Pompey again,” said Hornblower.

  He was shaking with excitement and mad with the fury of fighting, and it was the automatic, drilled part of him which was giving these level-headed orders. His higher faculties were quite negatived by his lust for blood. He was seeing things through a pink mist—that was how he remembered it when he looked back upon it later. There was a sudden crash of glass. Someone had thrust a musket barrel through the big stern window of the galley’s after cabin. Luckily having thrust it through he had to recover himself to take aim. An irregular volley of pistols almost coincided with the report of the musket. Where the Spaniard’s bullet went no one knew; but the Spaniard fell back from the window.

  “By God! That’s our way!” screamed Hornblower, and then, steadying himself. “Reload.”

  As the bullets were being spat into the barrels he stood up. His unused pistols were still in his belt; his cutlass was at his side.

  “Come aft, here,” he said to stroke oar; the jolly boat would stand no more weight in the bows than she had already. “And you, too.”

  Hornblower poised himself on the thwarts, eyeing the grapnel line and the cabin window.

  “Bring ’em after me one at a time, Jackson,” he said.

  Then he braced himself and flung himself at the grapnel line. His feet grazed the water as the line sagged, but using all his clumsy strength his arms carried him upwards. Here was the shattered window at his side; he swung up his feet, kicked out a big remaining piece of the pane, and then shot his feet through and then the rest of himself. He came down on the deck of the cabin with a thud; it was dark in here compared with the blinding sun outside. As he got to his feet, he trod on something which gave out a cry of pain—the wounded Spaniard, evidently—and the hand with which he drew his cutlass was sticky with blood. Spanish blood. Rising, he hit his head a thunderous crash on the deckbeams above, for the little cabin was very low, hardly more than five feet, and so severe was the blow that his senses almost left him But before him was the cabin door and he reeled out through it, cutlass in hand. Over his head he heard a stamping of feet, and shots were fired behind him and above him—a further exchange, he presumed, between the jolly boat and the galley’s stern rail. The cabin door opened into a low half-deck, and Hornblower reeled along it out into the sunshine again. He was on the tiny strip of maindeck at the break of the poop. Before him stretched the narrow gangway between the two sets of rowers; he could look down at these latter—two seas of bearded faces, mops of hair and lean sunburned bodies, swinging rhythmically back and forward to the beat of the oars.

  That was all the impression he could form of them at the moment. At the far end of the gangway at the break of the forecastle stood the overseer with his whip; he was shouting words in rhythmic succession to the slaves—Spanish numbers, perhaps, to give them the time. There were three or four men on the forecastle; below them the half-doors through the forecastle bulkhead were hooked open, through which Hornblower could see the two big guns illuminated by the light through the port holes out of which they were run almost at the water level. The guns’ crews were standing by the guns, but numerically they were far fewer than two twenty-four pounders would demand. Hornblower remembered Wales’ estimate of no more than thirty for a galley’s crew. The men of one gun at least had been called aft to defend the poop against the jolly boat’s attack.

  A step behind him made him leap with anxiety and he swung round with his cutlass ready to meet Jackson stumbling out of the half deck, cutlass in hand.

  “Nigh on cracked my nut,” said Jackson.

  He was speaking thickly like a drunken man, and his words were chorused by further shots fired from the poop at the level of the top of their heads.

  “Oldroyd’s comin’ next,” said Jackson. “Franklin’s dead.”

  On either side of them a companion ladder mounted to the poop deck. It seemed logical, mathematical, that they should each go up one but Hornbl
ower thought better of it.

  “Come along,” he said, and headed for the starboard ladder, and, with Oldroyd putting in an appearance at that moment, he yelled to him to follow.

  The handropes of the ladder were of twisted red and yellow cord—he even could notice that as he rushed up the ladder, pistol in hand and cutlass in the other. After the first step, his eye was above deck level. There were more than a dozen men crowded on the tiny poop, but two were lying dead, and one was groaning with his back to the rail, and two stood by the tiller. The others were looking over the rail at the jolly boat. Hornblower was still insane with fighting madness. He must have leaped up the final two or three steps with a bound like a stag’s, and he was screaming like a maniac as he flung himself at the Spaniards. His pistol went off apparently without his willing it, but the face of the man a yard away dissolved into bloody ruin, and Hornblower dropped the weapon and snatched the second, his thumb going to the hammer as he whirled his cutlass down with a crash on the sword which the next Spaniard raised as a feeble guard. He struck and struck and struck with a lunatic’s strength. Here was Jackson beside him shouting hoarsely and striking out right and left.

  “Kill ’em! Kill ’em!” shouted Jackson.

  Hornblower saw Jackson’s cutlass flash down on the head of the defenceless man at the tiller. Then out of the tail of his eye he saw another sword threaten him as he battered with his cutlass at the man before him, but his pistol saved him as he fired automatically again. Another pistol went off beside him—Oldroyd’s, he supposed—and then the fight on the poop was over. By what miracle of ineptitude the Spaniards had allowed the attack to take them by surprise Hornblower never could discover. Perhaps they were ignorant of the wounding of the man in the cabin, and had relied on him to defend that route; perhaps it had never occurred to them that three men could be so utterly desperate as to attack a dozen; perhaps they never realized that three men had made the perilous passage of the grapnel line; perhaps—most probably—in the mad excitement of it all, they simply lost their heads, for five minutes could hardly have elapsed altogether from the time the jolly boat hooked on until the poop was cleared. Two or three Spaniards ran down the companion to the maindeck, and forward along the gangway between the rows of slaves. One was caught against the rail and made a gesture of surrender, but Jackson’s hand was already at his throat. Jackson was a man of immense physical strength; he bent the Spaniard back over the rail, farther and farther, and then caught him by the thigh with his other hand and heaved him over. He fell with a shriek before Hornblower could interpose. The poop deck was covered with writhing men, like the bottom of a boat filled with flapping fish. One man was getting to his knees when Jackson and Oldroyd seized him. They swung him up to toss him over the rail.

  “Stop that!” said Hornblower, and quite callously they dropped him again with a crash on the bloody planks.

  Jackson and Oldroyd were like drunken men, unsteady on their feet, glazed of eye and stertorous of breath; Hornblower was just coming out of his insane fit. He stepped forward to the break of the poop, wiping the sweat out of his eyes while trying to wipe away the red mist that tinged his vision. Forward by the forecastle were gathered the rest of the Spaniards, a large group of them; as Hornblower came forward, one of them fired a musket at him but the ball went wide. Down below him the rowers were still swinging rhythmically, forward and back, forward and back, the hairy heads and the naked bodies moving in time to the oars; in time to the voice of the overseer, too, for the latter was still standing on the gangway (the rest of the Spaniards were clustered behind him) calling the time—“Seis, siete, ocho.”

  “Stop!” bellowed Hornblower.

  He walked to the starboard side to be in full view of the starboard side rowers. He held up his hand and bellowed again. A hairy face or two was raised, but the oars still swung.

  “Uno, dos, tres,” said the overseer.

  Jackson appeared at Hornblower’s elbow, and levelled a pistol to shoot the nearest rower.

  “Oh, belay that!” said Hornblower testily. He knew he was sick of killings now. “Find my pistols and reload them.”

  He stood at the top of the companion like a man in a dream—in a nightmare. The galley slaves went on swinging and pulling; his dozen enemies were still clustered at the break of the forecastle thirty yards away; behind him the wounded Spaniards groaned away their lives. Another appeal to the rowers was as much ignored as the preceding ones. Oldroyd must have had the clearest head or have recovered himself quickest.

  “I’ll haul down his colours, sir, shall I?” he said.

  Hornblower woke from his dream. On a staff above the taffrail fluttered the yellow and red.

  “Yes, haul ’em down at once,” he said.

  Now his mind was clear, and now his horizon was no longer bounded by the narrow limits of the galley. He looked about him, over the blue, blue sea. There were the merchant ships; over there lay the Indefatigable. Behind him boiled the white wake of the galley—a curved wake. Not until that moment did he realize that he was in control of the tiller, and that for the last three minutes, the galley had been cutting over the blue seas unsteered.

  “Take the tiller, Oldroyd,” he ordered.

  Was that a galley disappearing into the hazy distance? It must be, and far in its wake was the longboat. And there, on the port bow, was the gig, resting on her oars—Hornblower could see little figures standing waving in bow and stern, and it dawned upon him that this was in acknowledgment of the hauling down of the Spanish colours. Another musket banged off forward, and the rail close at his hip was struck a tremendous blow which sent gilded splinters flying in the sunlight. But he had all his wits about him again, and he ran back over the dying men; at the after end of the poop he was out of sight of the gangway and safe from shot. He could still see the gig on the port bow.

  “Starboard your helm, Oldroyd.”

  The galley turned slowly—her narrow length made her unhandy if the rudder were not assisted by the oars—but soon the bow was about to obscure the gig.

  “Midships!”

  Amazing that there, leaping in the white water that boiled under the galley’s stern, was the jolly boat with one live man and two dead men still aboard.

  “Where are the others, Bromley?” yelled Jackson.

  Bromley pointed overside. They had been shot from the taffrail at the moment that Hornblower and the others were preparing to attack the poop.

  “Why in hell don’t you come aboard?”

  Bromley took hold of his left arm with his right; the limb was clearly useless. There was no reinforcement to be obtained here, and yet full possession must be taken of the galley. Otherwise it was even conceivable that they would be carried off to Algeciras; even if they were masters of the rudder the man who controlled the oars dictated the course of the ship if he willed. There was only one course left to try.

  Now that his fighting madness had ebbed away, Hornblower was in a sombre mood. He did not care what happened to him; hope and fear had alike deserted him, along with his previous exalted condition. It might be resignation that possessed him now. His mind, still calculating, told him that with only one thing left to do to achieve victory he must attempt it, and the flat, dead condition of his spirits enabled him to carry the attempt through like an automaton, unwavering and emotionless. He walked forward to the poop rail again; the Spaniards were still clustered at the far end of the gangway, with the overseer still giving the time to the oars. They looked up at him as he stood there. With the utmost care and attention he sheathed his cutlass, which he had held in his hand up to that moment. He noticed the blood on his coat and on his hands as he did so. Slowly he settled the sheathed weapon at his side.

  “My pistols, Jackson,” he said.

  Jackson handed him the pistols and with the same callous care he thrust them into his belt. He turned back to Oldroyd, the Spaniards watching every movement fascinated.

  “Stay by the tiller, Oldroyd. Jackson, follow me. Do not
hing without my orders.”

  With the sun pouring down on his face, he strode down the companion ladder, walked to the gangway, and approached the Spaniards along it. On either side of him the hairy heads and naked bodies of the galley slaves still swung with the oars. He neared the Spaniards; swords and muskets and pistols were handled nervously, but every eye was on his face. Behind him Jackson coughed. Two yards only from the group, Hornblower halted and swept them with his glance. Then, with a gesture, he indicated the whole of the group except the overseer; and then pointed to the forecastle.

  “Get forrard, all of you,” he said.

  They stood staring at him, although they must have understood the gesture.

  “Get forrard,” said Hornblower with a wave of his hand and a tap of his foot on the gangway.

  There was only one man who seemed likely to demur actively, and Hornblower had it in mind to snatch a pistol from his belt and shoot him on the spot. But the pistol might misfire, the shot might arouse the Spaniards out of their fascinated dream. He stared the man down.

  “Get forrard, I say.”

  They began to move, they began to shamble off. Hornblower watched them go. Now his emotions were returning to him, and his heart was thumping madly in his chest so that it was hard to control himself. Yet he must not be precipitate. He had to wait until the others were well clear before he could address himself to the overseer.

  “Stop those men,” he said.

  He glared into the overseer’s eyes while pointing to the oarsmen; the overseer’s lips moved, but he made no sound.

  “Stop them,” said Hornblower, and this time he put his hand to the butt of his pistol.

  That sufficed. The overseer raised his voice in a high-pitched order, and the oars instantly ceased. Strange what sudden stillness possessed the ship with the cessation of the grinding of the oars in the tholes. Now it was easy to hear the bubbling of the water round the galley as her way carried her forward. Hornblower turned back to hail Oldroyd.