The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  In the whirl of excitement of the last few days Bush had forgotten all about the possibility of yellow fever. He found that he was looking concerned at the mention of it, and he hurriedly tried to assume an appearance of indifference. A glance at Buckland showed his face going through exactly the same transitions.

  “I see,” said Buckland.

  It was an appalling thought. If yellow fever were to strike it might within a week leave the Renown without enough men to work her sails.

  Ortega broke into passionate speech again, and Hornblower translated.

  “He says his troops have lived here all their lives. They won’t get yellow jack as easily as our men, and many of them have already had it. He has had it himself, he says, sir.”

  Bush remembered the emphasis with which Ortega had tapped his breast.

  “And the blacks believe us to be their enemies, because of what happened in Dominica, sir, so he says. He could make an alliance with them against us. They could send an army against us here in the fort tomorrow, then. But please don’t look as if you believe him, sir.”

  “Damn it to hell,” said Buckland, exasperated. Bush wondered vaguely what it was that had happened in Dominica. History—even contemporary history—was not one of his strong points.

  Again Ortega spoke.

  “He says that’s his last word, sir. An honourable proposal and he won’t abate a jot, so he says. You could send him away now that you’ve heard it all and say that you’ll give him an answer in the morning.”

  “Very well.”

  There were ceremonious speeches still to be made. Ortega’s bows were so polite that Buckland and Bush were constrained, though reluctantly, to stand and endeavour to return them. Hornblower tied the handkerchief round Ortega’s eyes again and led him out.

  “What do you think about it?” said Buckland to Bush.

  “I’d like to think it over, sir,” replied Bush.

  Hornblower came in again while they were still considering the matter. He glanced at them both before addressing himself to Buckland.

  “Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?”

  “Oh, damn it, you’d better stay. You know more about these Dagoes than we do. What do you think about it?”

  “He made some good arguments, sir.”

  “I thought so too,” said Buckland with apparent relief.

  “Can’t we turn the thumbscrews on them somehow, sir?” asked Bush.

  Even if he could not make suggestions himself, he was too cautious to agree readily to a bargain offered by a foreigner, even such a tempting one as this.

  “We can bring the ship up the bay,” said Buckland. “But the channel’s tricky. You saw that yesterday.”

  Good God! it was still only yesterday that the Renown had tried to make her way in under the fire of red-hot shot. Buckland had had a day of comparative peace, so that the mention of yesterday did not appear as strange to him.

  “We’ll still be under the fire of the battery across the bay, even though we hold this one,” said Buckland.

  “We ought to be able to run past it, sir,” protested Bush. “We can keep over to this side.”

  “And if we do run past? They’ve warped their ships right up the bay again. They draw six feet less of water than we do—and if they’ve got any sense they’ll lighten ’em so as to warp ’em farther over the shallows. Nice fools we’ll look if we come in an’ then find ’em out of range, an’ have to run out again under fire. That might stiffen ’em so that they wouldn’t agree to the terms that fellow just offered.”

  Buckland was in a state of actual alarm at the thought of reporting two fruitless repulses.

  “I can see that,” said Bush, depressed.

  “If we agree,” said Buckland, warming to his subject, “the blacks’ll take over all this end of the island. This bay can’t be used by privateers then. The blacks’ll have no ships, and couldn’t man ’em if they had. We’ll have executed our orders. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hornblower?”

  Bush transferred his gaze. Hornblower had looked weary in the morning, and he had had almost no rest during the day. His face was drawn and his eyes were rimmed with red.

  “We might still be able to—to put the thumbscrews on ’em, sir,” he said.

  “How?”

  “It’d be risky to take Renown into the upper end of the bay. But we might get at ’em from the peninsula here, all the same, sir, if you’d give the orders.”

  “God bless my soul!” said Bush, the exclamation jerked out of him.

  “What orders?” asked Buckland.

  “If we could mount a gun on the upper end of the peninsula we’d have the far end of the bay under fire, sir. We wouldn’t need hot shot—we’d have all day to knock ’em to pieces however much they shifted their anchorage.”

  “So we would, by George,” said Buckland. There was animation in his face. “Could you get one of these guns along there?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, sir, an’ I’m afraid we couldn’t. Not quickly, at least. Twenty-four-pounders. Two an’ a half tons each. Garrison carriages. We’ve no horses. We couldn’t move ’em with a hundred men over those gullies, four miles or more.”

  “Then what the hell’s the use of talking about it?” demanded Buckland.

  “We don’t have to drag a gun from here, sir,” said Hornblower. “We could use one from the ship. One of those long nine-pounders we’ve got mounted as bow chasers. Those long guns have a range pretty nearly as good as these twenty-fours, sir.”

  “But how do we get it there?”

  Bush had a glimmering of the answer even before Hornblower replied.

  “Send it round in the launch, sir, with tackle and cables, near to where we landed yesterday. The cliff’s steep there. And there are big trees to attach the cables to. We could sway the gun up easy enough. Those nine-pounders only weigh a ton.”

  “I know that,” said Buckland, sharply.

  It was one thing to make unexpected suggestions, but it was quite another to tell a veteran officer facts with which he was well acquainted.

  “Yes, of course, sir. But with a nine-pounder at the top of the cliff it wouldn’t be so difficult to move it across the neck of land until we had the upper bay under our fire. We wouldn’t have to cross any gullies. Half a mile—uphill, but not too steep, sir—and it would be done.”

  “And what d’you think would happen then?”

  “We’d have those ships under fire, sir. Only a nine-pounder, I know, but they’re not built to take punishment. We could batter ’em into wrecks in twelve hours’ steady fire. Less than that, perhaps. An’ I suppose we could heat the shot if we wanted to, but we wouldn’t have to. All we’d have to do would be to open fire, I think, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “The Dons wouldn’t risk those ships, sir. Ortega spoke very big about making an alliance with the blacks, but that was only talking big, sir. Give the blacks a chance an’ they’ll cut every white throat they can. An’ I don’t blame ’em—excuse me, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Those ships are the Dons’ only way of escape. If they see they’re going to be destroyed they’ll be frightened. It would mean surrendering to the blacks—that or being killed to the last man. And woman, sir. They’d rather surrender to us.”

  “So they would, by jingo,” said Bush.

  “They’d climb down, d’ye think?”

  “Yes—I mean I think so, sir. You could name your own terms, then. Unconditional surrender for the soldiers.”

  “It’s what we said at the start,” said Bush. “They’d rather surrender to us than to the blacks, if they have to.”

  “You could allow some conditions to salve their pride, sir,” said Hornblower. “Agree that the women are to be conveyed to Cuba or Puerto Rico if they wish. But nothing important. Those ships would be our prizes, sir.”

  “Prizes, by George!” said Buckland.

  Prizes meant prize money, and as commanding officer he would hav
e the lion’s share of it. Not only that—and perhaps the money was the smallest consideration—but prizes escorted triumphantly into port were much more impressive than ships sunk out of sight of the eyes of authority. And unconditional surrender had a ring of finality about it, proof that the victory gained could not be more complete.

  “What do you say, Mr. Bush?” asked Buckland.

  “I think it might be worth trying, sir,” said Bush.

  He was fatalistic now about Hornblower. Exasperation over his activity and ingenuity had died of surfeit. There was something of resignation about Bush’s attitude, but there was something of admiration too. Bush was a generous soul, and there was not a mean motive in him. Hornblower’s careful handling of his superior had not been lost on him, and Bush was decently envious of the tact that had been necessary. Bush realistically admitted to himself that even though he had fretted at the prospect of agreeing to Ortega’s terms he had not been able to think of a way to modify them, while Hornblower had. Hornblower was a very brilliant young officer, Bush decided; he himself made no pretence at brilliance, and now he had taken the last step and had overcome his suspicions of brilliance. He made himself abandon his caution and commit himself to a definite opinion.

  “I think Mr. Hornblower deserves every credit,” he said.

  “Of course,” said Buckland—but the slight hint of surprise in his voice seemed to indicate that he did not really believe it; and he changed the subject without pursuing it further. “We’ll start tomorrow—I’ll get both launches out as soon as the hands’ve had breakfast. By noon—now what’s the matter with you, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Come on. Out with it.”

  “Ortega comes back tomorrow morning to hear our terms again, sir. I suppose he’ll get up at dawn or not long after. He’ll have a bite of breakfast. Then he’ll have a few words with Villanueva. Then he’ll row across the bay. He might be here at eight bells. Later than that, probably, a little—”

  “Who cares when Ortega has his breakfast? What’s all this rigmarole for?”

  “Ortega gets here at two bells in the forenoon. If he finds we haven’t wasted a minute; if I can tell him that you’ve rejected his terms absolutely, sir, and not only that, if we can show him the gun mounted, and say we’ll open fire in an hour if they don’t surrender without conditions, he’ll be much more impressed.”

  “That’s true, sir,” said Bush.

  “Otherwise it won’t be so easy, sir. You’ll either have to temporize again while the gun’s being got into position, or you’ll have to use threats. I’ll have to say to him if you don’t agree then we’ll start hoisting a gun up. In either case you’ll be allowing him time, sir. He might think of some other way out of it. The weather might turn dirty—there might even be a hurricane get up. But if he’s sure we’ll stand no nonsense, sir—”

  “That’s the way to treat ’em,” said Bush.

  “But even if we start at dawn—” said Buckland, and having progressed so far in his speech he realized the alternative. “You mean we can get to work now?”

  “We have all night before us, sir. You could have the launches hoisted out and the gun swayed down into one of them. Slings and cables and some sort of carrying cradle prepared. Hands told off—”

  “And start at dawn!”

  “At dawn the boats can be round the peninsula waiting for daylight, sir. You could send some hands with a hundred fathoms of line up from the ship to here. They can start off along the path before daylight. That’d save time.”

  “So it would, by George!” said Bush; he had no trouble in visualizing the problems of seamanship involved in hoisting a gun up the face of a cliff.

  “We’re shorthanded already in the ship,” said Buckland. “I’ll have to turn up both watches.”

  “That won’t hurt ’em, sir,” said Bush. He had already been two nights without sleep and was now contemplating a third.

  “Who shall I send? I’ll want a responsible officer in charge. A good seaman at that.”

  “I’ll go if you like, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “No. You’ll have to be here to deal with Ortega. If I send Smith I’ll have no lieutenant left on board.”

  “Maybe you could send me, sir,” said Bush. “That is, if you were to leave Mr. Hornblower in command here.”

  “Um—” said Buckland. “Oh well, I don’t see anything else to do. Can I trust you, Mr. Hornblower?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Let me see—” said Buckland.

  “I could go back to the ship with you in your gig, sir,” said Bush. “Then there’d be no time wasted.”

  This prodding of a senior officer into action was something new to Bush, but he was learning the art fast. The fact that the three of them had not long ago been fellow conspirators made it easier; and once the ice was broken, as soon as Buckland had once admitted his juniors to give him counsel and advice, it became easier with repetition.

  “Yes, I suppose you’d better,” said Buckland, and Bush promptly rose to his feet, so that Buckland could hardly help doing the same.

  Bush ran his eye over Hornblower’s battered form.

  “Now look you here, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “You take some sleep. You need it.”

  “I relieve Whiting as officer on duty at midnight, sir,” said Hornblower, “and I have to go the rounds.”

  “Maybe that’s true. You’ll still have two hours before midnight. Turn in until then. And have Whiting relieve you at eight bells again.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  At the very thought of abandoning himself to the sleep for which he yearned Hornblower swayed with fatigue.

  “You could make that an order, sir,” suggested Bush to Buckland.

  “What’s that? Oh yes, get a rest while you can, Mr. Hornblower.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Bush picked his way down the steep path to the landing stage at Buckland’s heels, and took his seat beside him in the stern sheets of the gig.

  “I can’t make that fellow Hornblower out,” said Buckland a little peevishly on one occasion as they rowed back to the anchored Renown.

  “He’s a good officer, sir,” answered Bush, but he spoke a little absently. Already in his mind he was tackling the problem of hoisting a long nine-pounder up a cliff, and he was sorting out mentally the necessary equipment, and planning the necessary orders. Two heavy anchors—not merely boat grapnels—to anchor the buoy solidly. The thwarts of the launch had better be shored up to bear the weight of the gun. Travelling blocks. Slings—for the final hoist it might be safer to suspend the gun by its cascabel and trunnions.

  Bush was not of the mental type that takes pleasure in theoretical exercises. To plan a campaign; to put himself mentally in the position of the enemy and think along alien lines; to devise unexpected expedients; all this was beyond his capacity. But to deal with a definite concrete problem, a simple matter of ropes and tackles and breaking strains, pure seamanship—he had a lifetime of experience to reinforce his natural bent in that direction.

  XIII

  “Take the strain,” said Bush, standing on the cliff’s edge and looking far, far down to where the launch floated moored to the buoy and with an anchor astern to keep her steady. Black against the Atlantic blue two ropes came down from over his head, curving slightly but almost vertical, down to the buoy. A poet might have seen something dramatic and beautiful in those spider lines cleaving the air, but Bush merely saw a couple of ropes, and the white flag down in the launch signalling that all was clear for hoisting. The blocks creaked as the men pulled in on the slack.

  “Now, handsomely,” said Bush. This work was too important to be delegated to Mr. Midshipman James, standing beside him. “Hoist away. Handsomely.”

  The creaking took on a different tone as the weight came on the blocks. The curves of the ropes altered, appeared almost deformed, as the gun began to rise from its cradle on the thwarts. The shallow, love
ly catenaries changed to a harsher, more angular figure. Bush had his telescope to his eye and could see the gun stir and move, and slowly—that was what Bush meant by “handsomely” in the language of the sea—it began to upend itself, to dangle from the traveller, to rise clear of the launch; hanging, just as Bush had visualized it, from the slings through its cascabel and round its trunnions. It was safe enough—if those slings were to give way or to slip, the gun would crash through the bottom of the launch. The line about its muzzle restrained it from swinging too violently.

  “Hoist away,” said Bush again, and the traveller began to mount the rope with the gun pendant below it. This was the next ticklish moment, when the pull came most transversely. But everything held fast.

  “Hoist away.”

  Now the gun was mounting up the rope. Beyond the launch’s stern it dipped, with the stretching of the cable and the straightening of the curve, until its muzzle was almost in the sea. But the hoisting proceeded steadily, and it rose clear of the water, up, up, up. The sheaves hummed rhythmically in the blocks as the hands hove on the line. The sun shone on the men from its level position in the glowing east, stretching out their shadows and those of the trees to incredible lengths over the irregular plateau.

  “Easy, there!” said Bush. “Belay!”

  The gun had reached the cliff edge.

  “Move that cat’s cradle over this way a couple of feet. Now, sway in. Lower. Good. Cast off those lines.”

  The gun lay, eight feet of dull bronze, upon the cat’s cradle that had been spread to receive it. This was a small area of stout rope-netting, from which diverged, knotted thickly to the central portion, a score or more of individual lines, each laid out separately on the ground.

  “We’ll get that on its way first. Take a line, each of you marines.”