The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Look at that!’ yelled Bush. ‘Look at that, sir! We’ve fooled him properly!’

  Loire had gone about. There she was, just settling down on the starboard tack. The French captain had been too clever. He had decided that Hotspur would go about when concealed by the squall, and had moved to anticipate her. Hornblower watched the Loire. That French captain must be boiling with rage at having his too-great-cleverness revealed to his ship’s company in this fashion. That might cloud his judgement later. It might make him over-anxious. Even so, he showed little sign of it from here. He had been about to haul his bowlines, but he reached a rapid and sensible decision. To tack again would necessitate standing on for sometime on his present course while his ship regained speed and manoeuvrability, so that instead he made use of the turning momentum she still possessed, put up his helm and completed the circle, wearing his ship round so that she momentarily presented her stern to the wind before arriving at last on her original tack again. It was a cool-headed piece of work, making the best of a bad job, but the Loire had lost a good deal of ground.

  ‘Two full points abaft the beam,’ said Prowse.

  ‘And he’s farther down to looard, too,’ supplemented Bush.

  The greatest gain, Hornblower decided, watching her, was that it made possible, and plausible, the long leg to the northward that his plan demanded. He could make a long beat on the port tack without the French captain seeing anything unusual in that.

  ‘Keep her going, there!’ he shouted to the wheel. ‘Let her fall off a little! Steady as you go!’

  The race was resumed, both ships plunging along, battling with the unremitting gale. Hornblower could see the wide angle from the vertical described by the Loire’s masts as she rolled; he could see her yards dipped towards the sea, and he could be sure that Hotspur was acting in the same way, rolling even a trifle more deeply, perhaps. So this very deck on which he stood was over at that fantastic angle too; he was proud of the fact that he was regaining his sea legs so rapidly. He could stand balanced, one knee straight and rigid, the other considerably bent, while he leaned over against the heel, and then he could straighten with the roll almost as steadily as Bush could. And his sea-sickness was better as well – no; a pity he had let that subject return to his mind, for he had to struggle with a qualm the moment it did so.

  ‘Making a long leg like this gives him a chance, sir,’ grumbled Prowse, juggling with telescope and sextant. ‘He’s drawing up on us fast.’

  ‘We’re doing our best,’ answered Hornblower.

  His glass could reveal many details of the Loire now, as he concentrated upon her to distract himself from his sea-sickness. Then, as he was about to lower the glass to ease his eye he saw something new. The gun ports along her weather side seemed to change their shape, and as he continued to look he saw, first from one gun-port and then from another and finally from the whole line, the muzzles of her guns come nosing their way out, as the invisible crews strained at the tackles to drag the ponderous weights up against the slope of the deck.

  ‘She’s running out her guns, sir,’ said Bush, a little unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was no purpose in imitating her example yet. It would be the lee side guns that Hotspur would have to run out. They would increase her heel and render her by that much less weatherly. Lying over as she was she would probably take in water over the port-sills at the low point of her roll. Lastly, even at extreme elevation, they would nearly all the time be depressed by the heel below the horizontal, and would be useless, even with good timing on the part of the gun captains, against a target at any distance.

  The look-outs at the fore-topmasthead were yelling something, and then one of them launched himself into the rigging and came running aft to the quarter-deck.

  ‘Why don’t you use the backstay like a seaman?’ demanded Bush, but Hornblower checked him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Land, sir,’ spluttered the seaman. He was wet to the skin with water streaming from every angle, whisked away by the wind as it dripped.

  ‘Where away?’

  ‘On the lee bow, sir.’

  ‘How many points?’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘A good four, sir.’

  Hornblower looked across at Prowse.

  ‘That’ll be Ushant, sir. We ought to weather it with plenty to spare.’

  ‘I want to be sure of that. You’d better go aloft, Mr Prowse. Make the best estimate you can.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  It would not do Prowse any harm to make the tiring and exacting journey to the masthead.

  ‘He’ll be opening fire soon, sir,’ said Bush, referring to the Frenchman and not to Prowse’s departing figure. ‘Not much chance of replying as yet. On the other tack maybe, sir.’

  Bush was ready for a fight against any odds, and he was unaware that Hornblower had no intention of tacking again.

  ‘We’ll see when the time comes,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘He’s opening fire now, sir.’

  Hornblower whipped round, just in time to see a puff of smoke vanishing in the gale, and then others, all down the Loire’s side, enduring hardly for a second before the wind overcame the force of the powder that impelled them. That was all. No sound of the broadside reached them against the wind, and there was not a sight of the fall of shot.

  ‘Long range, sir,’ said Bush.

  ‘A chance for him to exercise his guns’ crews,’ said Hornblower.

  His glass showed him the Loire’s gun-muzzles disappearing back into the ship as the guns were run in again for reloading. There was a strange unreality about all this, about the silence of that broadside, about the fact that Hotspur was under fire, about the fact that he himself might be dead at any moment now as the result of a lucky hit.

  ‘He’s hoping for a lucky hit, I suppose, sir,’ said Bush, echoing the very words of Hornblower’s thoughts in a manner that made the situation all the more uncanny and unreal.

  ‘Naturally.’ Hornblower forced himself to say that word, and in this strange mood his voice, pitched against the gale, seemed to come from very far away.

  If the Frenchman had no objection to a prodigious waste of powder and shot he might as well open fire at this range, at extreme cannon-shot, in the hope of inflicting enough damage on Hotspur’s rigging to slow her down. Hornblower could think clearly enough, but it was as if he was looking on at someone else’s adventure.

  Now Prowse was returning to the quarter-deck.

  ‘We’ll weather the land by a good four miles, sir,’ he said; the spray tossed up by the weather-bow had wetted him just as thoroughly as the seamen. He looked over at the Loire. ‘Not a chance of our paying off, I suppose, sir.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Hornblower. Long before such a plan could bear fruit he would be engaged in close action were he to drop down to leeward, in the hope of forcing the Loire to go about to avoid running ashore. ‘How long before we’re up to the land?’

  ‘Less than an hour, sir. Maybe half. It ought to be in sight from the deck any minute.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Bush. ‘There it is, sir!’

  Over the lee bow Hornblower could see the black bold shoreline of Ushant. Now the three points of the triangle, Ushant, Hotspur and Loire, were all plain to him, and he could time his next move. He would have to hold on to his present course for some considerable time; he would have to brave further broadsides, whether he liked it or not – insane words those last, for no one could like being under fire. He trained his glass on the land, watching his ship’s movement relative to it, and then as he looked away he saw something momentarily out of the corner of his eye. It took him a couple of seconds to deduce what it was he had seen; two splashes, separated by a hundred feet in space and by a tenth of a second in time. A cannon-ball had skipped from the top of one wave crest and plunged into the next.

  ‘They’re firing very deliberately, sir,’ said Bush.

  Hornblower’s
attention was directed to the Loire in time to see the next brief puff of smoke from her side; they saw nothing of the ball. Then came the next puff.

  ‘I expect they have some marksman on board moving along from gun to gun,’ said Hornblower.

  If that were the case the marksman must wait each time for the right conditions of roll – a slow rate of firing, but, allowing for the length of time to reload and run up, not impossibly slower than firing broadsides.

  ‘You can hear the guns now, sir. The sound’s carried by the water.’

  It was an ugly, flat, brief clap, following just after each puff of smoke.

  ‘Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower speaking slowly as he felt the excitement of the approaching crisis boiling up within him. ‘You know your watch – and quarter-bills off by heart, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Bush, simply.

  ‘I want—’ Hornblower checked the position of Loire again. ‘I want sufficient hands at the braces and bowlines to handle the ship properly. But I want crews sufficient for the guns of one side too.’

  ‘Not very easy, sir.’

  ‘Impossible?’

  ‘Nearly, sir. I can do it, though.’

  ‘Then I want you to arrange it. Station crews at the port-side guns, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Port side.’

  The repetition was in the usual navy style to ensure against misunderstanding; there was only the faintest questioning note in Bush’s voice, for the port side was that turned away from the enemy.

  ‘I want—’ went on Hornblower, still slowly. ‘I want the portside guns run out when we go about, Mr Bush. I’ll give the order. Then I want them run in again like lightning and the ports closed. I’ll give the order for that, too.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Run ’em in again.’

  ‘Then they’re to cross to the starboard side and run those guns out ready to open fire. You understand, Mr Bush?’

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’

  Hornblower looked round at the Loire and at Ushant again.

  ‘Very well, Mr Bush. Mr Cargill will need four hands for a special duty, but you can start stationing the rest.’

  Now he was committed. If his calculations were incorrect he would appear a fool in the eyes of the whole ship’s company. He would also be dead or a prisoner. But now he was keyed up, the fighting spirit boiling within him as it had done once when he boarded Renown to effect her recapture. There was a sudden shriek overhead, so startling that even Bush stopped short as he was moving forward. A line mysteriously parted in mid-air, the upper end blowing out horizontal in the wind, the lower end flying out to trail overside. A luckier shot than any so far had passed over the Hotspur twenty feet above her deck.

  ‘Mr Wise!’ yelled Hornblower into the speaking-trumpet. ‘Get that halliard re-rove.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The spirit of mischief asserted itself in Hornblower’s mind along with his excitement, and he raised the trumpet again.

  ‘And Mr Wise! If you think proper you can tell the hands we’re at war!’

  That raised the laugh that Hornblower anticipated, all over the ship, but there was no more time for frivolity.

  ‘Pass the word for Mr Cargill.’

  Cargill presented himself with a faint look of anxiety on his round face.

  ‘You’re not in trouble, Mr Cargill. I’ve selected you for a responsible duty.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Arrange with Mr Bush to give you four steady hands and take your station on the fo’c’sle at the jib halliard and jib sheet. I shall be going about very shortly, and then I shall change my mind and come back on my original tack. So now you can see what you have to do. The moment you get my signal run the jib up the stay and then flat it out to port. I want to be quite sure you understand?’

  Several seconds went by while Cargill digested the plan before he answered ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m relying on you to keep us from being laid flat a-back, Mr Cargill. You’ll have to use your own judgment after that. The moment the ship’s turning and under command again run the jib down. You can do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well, carry on.’

  Prowse was standing close by, straining to hear all this. His long face was longer than ever it seemed.

  ‘Is it the gale that’s making your ears flap, Mr Prowse?’ snapped Hornblower, in no mood to spare anyone; he regretted the words as soon as they were said, but now there was no time to compensate for them.

  Loire was dead to leeward, and beyond her was Ushant. They had opened up the Bay of Lampoul on Ushant’s seaward side, and now were beginning to close it again. The moment had come; no, better to wait another minute. The scream of a cannon-ball and a simultaneous crash. There was a gaping hole in the weather side bulwark; the shot had crossed the heeling deck and smashed its way through from within outwards. A seaman at the gun there was looking stupidly at his left arm where the blood was beginning to flow from a splinter wound.

  ‘Stand by to go about!’ yelled Hornblower.

  Now for it. He had to fool the French captain, who had already proved he was no fool.

  ‘Keep your glass on the Frenchman, Mr Prowse. Tell me just what he’s doing. Quartermaster, a little lee helm. Just a little. Handsomely. Helm’s a-lee!’

  The fore-topsail shivered. Now every moment was precious, and yet he must delay so as to induce the Frenchman to commit himself.

  ‘His helm’s a-lee, sir! He’s coming round.’

  This would be the moment – actually it was just past the moment – when the Frenchman would expect him to tack to avoid the gunfire, and the Frenchman would try to tack as nearly simultaneously as possible.

  ‘Now, quartermaster. Hard down. Tacks and sheets!’

  Hotspur was coming to the wind. Despite the brief delay she was still well under command.

  ‘Mr Bush!’

  On the weather side they opened the gun-ports, and the straining gun crews dragged the guns up the slope. A rogue wave slapping against the side came in through the ports and flooded the deck knee deep in water; but the Frenchman must see those gun muzzles run out on the port side.

  ‘He’s coming about, sir!’ reported Prowse. ‘He’s casting off the braces!’

  He must make quite sure.

  ‘Mainsail haul!’

  This was the danger point.

  ‘He’s past the wind’s eye, sir. His foretops’ls coming round.’

  ‘Ava-a-ast!’

  The surprised crew stopped dead as Hornblower screamed into the speaking-trumpet.

  ‘Brace all back again! Jump to it! Quartermaster! Hard-a-port! Mr Cargill!’

  Hornblower waved his hand, and the jib rushed up the stay. With its tremendous leverage on the bowsprit the jib, given a chance, would turn the ship back irresistibly. Cargill and his men were hauling it out to port by main force. There was just enough of an angle for the wind to act upon it in the right direction. Was there? Yes! Hotspur was swinging back again, gallantly ignoring her apparent mistreatment and the wave that she met bows-on which burst over her fore-castle. She was swinging, more and more rapidly, Cargill and his men hauling down the jib that had played so great a part in the operation.

  ‘Braces, there! She’s coming before the wind. Stand by! Quartermaster, meet her as she swins. Mr Bush!’

  The guns’ crews flung themselves on the tackles and ran the guns in again. It was a pleasure to see Bush restraining their excitement and making certain that they were secure. The ports slammed shut and the crews raced over to the starboard side. He could see the Loire now that Hotspur had completed her turn, but Prowse was still reporting, as his order dictated.

  ‘She’s in irons, sir. She’s all a-back.’

  That was the very thing Hornblower had hoped for. He had believed it likely that he would be able to effect his escape to leeward, perhaps after an exchange of broadsides; this present situation had appeared possible but too good to materialise. The Loire was hanging
helpless in the wind. Her captain had noted Hotspur’s manoeuvre just too late. Instead of going round on the other tack, getting his ship under command, and then tacking once more in pursuit, he had tried to follow Hotspur’s example and revert to his previous course. But with an unskilled crew and without a carefully prepared plan the improvisation had failed disastrously. While Hornblower watched he saw Loire yaw off the wind and then swing back again, refusing obstinately, like a frightened horse, to do the sensible thing. And Hotspur, dead before the wind, was rushing down upon her. Hornblower measured the dwindling gap with a calculating eye all the keener for his excited condition.

  ‘We’ll render passing honours, Mr Bush!’ he yelled – no trumpet needed with the wind behind him. ‘You gunners! Hold your fire until her mainmast comes into your sights. Quartermaster! Starboard a little. We’ll pass her close.’

  ‘Pistol shot’ was the ideal range for firing a broadside according to old tradition, or even ‘half pistol shot,’ twenty yards or ten yards. Hotspur was passing Loire starboard side to starboard side but on the starboard side Hotspur had her guns run out, manned, and ready, while Loire presented to his gaze a line of blank ports – no wonder, with the ship in her present state of confusion.

  They were level with her. No. 1 gun went off with a crash; Bush was standing beside it and gave the word, and apparently he intended to walk along the battery firing each gun in turn, but Hotspur with the wind behind her was going far too fast for him. The other guns went off in a straggling roll. Hornblower saw the splinters fly from the Frenchman’s side, saw the holes battered in it. With the wind behind her Hotspur was hardly rolling at all; she was pitching, but any cool-headed gun captain could make sure of hitting his mark at fifteen yards. Hornblower saw a single gun-port open in Loire’s side – they were trying to man the guns, minutes too late. Then he was level with the Loire’s quarter-deck. He could see the bustling crowd there; for a moment he thought he distinguished the figure of the French captain, but at that moment the carronade beside him went off with a crash that took him by surprise so that he almost leaped from the deck.