That was not the most sensible attitude to adopt, as he discovered when Grimes shook him awake. He ached in every joint, it seemed, while to dash cold sea water on his face did little enough to clear his head. He had to struggle out of the after-effects of a long period of strain as other men had to struggle out of the after effects of a drinking bout. But he had recovered sufficiently to move his left-handed pen when he sat down and began his report.
‘Sir,
In obedience to your instructions, dated the 16th instant, I proceeded on the afternoon of the 18th…’
He had to leave the last paragraph until the coming of daylight should reveal what he should write in it, and he laid the letter aside and took another sheet. He had to bite the end of his pen before he could even write the salutation in this second letter, and when he had written ‘My dear Wife’ he had to bite it again before he could continue. It was something of a relief to have Grimes enter at last.
‘Mr Bush’s compliments, sir, and it’s not far off daylight.’
That made it possible to conclude the letter.
‘And now, my dearest—’ Hornblower glanced at Maria’s letter to select an endearment – ‘Angel, my duty calls me once more on deck, so that I must end this letter with—’ another reference – ‘fondest love to my dear Wife, the loved Mother of the Child to be.
Your affectionate Husband,
Horatio.’
Daylight was coming up fast when he arrived on deck.
‘Brace the maintops’l round, if you please, Mr Young. We’ll stand to the s’uth’ard a little. Good morning, Mr Bush.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
Bush was already trying to see to the southward through his telescope. Increasing light and diminishing distance brought rapid results.
‘There they are, sir! God, sir – one, two, three – and there are two others over on the Council Rocks. And that looks like a wreck right in the fairway – that’s one we sunk, I’ll wager, sir.’
In the glittering dawn the half-tide revealed wrecks littering the shoals and the shore, black against the crystal light, the coasters which had paid the penalty of trying to run the blockade.
‘They’re all holed and waterlogged, sir,’ said Bush. ‘Not a hope of salvage.’
Hornblower was already composing in his mind the final paragraph of his report.
‘I have reason to believe that not less than ten sail of coasters were sunk or forced to run aground during this encounter. This happy result …’
‘That’s a fortune lost, sir,’ grumbled Bush. ‘That’s a tidy sum in prize money over on those rocks.’
No doubt, but in those decisive moments last night there could have been no question of capture. Hotspur’s duty had been to destroy everything possible, and not to fill her captain’s empty purse by sending boats to take possession, at the cost of allowing half the quarry to escape. Hornblower’s reply was cut off short, as the smooth water on the starboard beam suddenly erupted in three successive jets of water. A cannon-ball had come skipping towards them over the surface, to make its final plunge a cable’s length away. The sound of gunfire reached their ears at the same moment, and their instantly elevated telescopes revealed a cloud of smoke engulfing the Toulinguet battery.
‘Fire away, Monseer le Frog,’ said Bush. ‘The damage is done.’
‘We may as well make sure we’re out of range,’ said Hornblower. ‘Put the ship about, if you please.’
He was trying as best he could to reproduce Bush’s complete indifference under fire. He told himself that he was only being sensible, and not cowardly, in making certain that there was no chance of Hotspur’s being hit by a salvo of twenty-four-pounders, but he was inclined to sneer at himself, all the same.
Yet there was one source of self-congratulation. He had held his tongue when the subject of prize money had come up in the conversation. He had been about to burst out condemning the whole system as pernicious, but he had managed to refrain. Bush thought him a queer character in any case, and if he had divulged his opinion of prize money – of the system by which it was earned and paid – Bush would have thought him more than merely eccentric. Bush would think him actually insane, and liberal-minded, revolutionary, subversive and dangerous as well.
IX
Hornblower stood ready to go down the side into the waiting boat. He made the formal, legal speech.
‘Mr Bush, you will take command.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Hornblower remembered to look about him as he prepared to make the descent. He glowered round at the sideboys in the white gloves that Bush had had made for this ceremonial purpose out of white twine by some seaman adept with a hook – ‘crochet’ was the French name for this process. He ran his eyes up and down the bos’n’s mates as they piped his departing salute. Then he went over the side. The piping stopped at the same moment as his foot reached for the thwart – that was a measure of the height of Hotspur’s free-board, for by the rules of ceremonial the honours ceased the moment the departing officer’s head was at the level of the deck. Hornblower scrambled into the stern sheets, embarrassed by hat and gloves and sword and boat cloak, and he barked an order to Hewitt. The boat-hook released its hold and there was a moment of apparent disorder as the boat left the ship’s side and four brawny arms at the halliards sent the balance-lug up the mast. There was a decided strangeness at sitting here on a level with the water, with the green waves close at hand; it was over eight weeks since Hornblower had last set foot outside the ship.
The boat settled on her course, running free because the wind had backed southerly several points, and Hornblower looked back at Hotspur lying hove-to. He ran a professional eye over her lines, noting, as an observer from the outside again, the relative heights of her masts, the distances at which they were stepped, the rake of the bow-spit. He knew a great deal now about the behaviour of the ship under sail, but there was always more to learn. Not at this moment, though, for a stronger puff of wind laid the boat over and Hornblower felt suddenly uncertain both of his surroundings and himself. The little waves of which Hotspur took no notice were monstrous when encountered in a small boat, which, besides lying over, was now rising and swooping in a most unpleasant fashion. After the reassuring solidity of Hotspur’s deck – after painfully accustoming himself to her motion – these new surroundings and these new antics were most unsettling, especially as Hornblower was excited and tense at the prospect before him. He swallowed hard, battling against the sea-sickness which had leaped out of ambush for him; to divert his mind he concentrated his attention upon the Tonnant, growing slowly nearer – much too slowly.
At her main topgallant masthead she sported the coveted broad pendant in place of the narrow one worn by other ships in commission. It was the sign of a captain with executive powers over other ships besides his own. Pellew was not only high up in the captains’ list but clearly destined for important command as soon as he reached flag rank; there must be rear admirals in the Channel Fleet bitterly jealous of Pellew’s tenure of the Inshore Command. A boat came along her starboard side, painted white picked out with red, and of a design unlike that of the workaday boats supplied by the Navy Office. Hornblower could see the matching red and white uniforms of the boat’s crew; this must be some very dandy captain at last, paying a call – or more likely a flag officer. Hornblower saw a ribboned and epauletted figure go up the side, and across the water came the sound of the squealing of the pipes and the boomp-bump noise that to his ears indicated a band playing. Next moment the White Ensign broke out at the foretopmast-head. A vice-admiral of the White! That could be no other than Cornwallis himself.
Hornblower realised that this meeting to which he had been summoned by the curt signal ‘All captains,’ was something more than a sociable gathering. He looked down in distress at his shabby clothing, reminded as he did so to open his boat cloak and reveal the epaulette on his left shoulder – a shabby brassy thing, dating back to the time of his earlier, disallowed app
ointment as commander, two years ago. Hornblower distinctly saw the officer of the watch, in attendance at the gangway, turn from his telescope and give an order which sent four of the eight white-gloved side-boys there scurrying out of sight, so that a mere commander should not share the honours given a vice-admiral. The admiral’s barge had sheered off and the Hotspur’s boat took its place, with Hornblower not too sea-sick and nervous to worry about the way it was handled, in case it did not reflect credit on his ship. The worry, however, was instantly overlaid by the necessity for concentration on the process of going up the side. This was a lofty two-decker, and although the considerable ‘tumble-home’ was of help it was a tricky business for the gangling Hornblower to mount with dignity encumbered as he was. Somehow he reached the deck, and somehow, despite his shyness and embarrassment, he remembered to touch his hat in salute to the guard that presented arms to him.
‘Captain Hornblower?’ enquired the officer of the watch. He knew him by the single epaulette on his left shoulder, the only commander in the Inshore Squadron, perhaps the only one in the Channel Fleet. ‘This young gentleman will act as your guide.’
The deck of the Tonnant seemed incredibly spacious after the cramped deck of the Hotspur, for the Tonnant was no mere seventy-four. She was an eighty-four, with dimensions and scantlings worthy of a three-decker. She was a reminder of the era when the French built big ships in the hope of overpowering the British seventy-fours by brute force instead of by skill and discipline. How the venture had turned out was proved by the fact that Tonnant now flew the flag of England.
The great poop-cabins had been thrown into a single suite for Pellew, in the absence of a flag-officer permanently on board. It was incredibly luxurious. Once past the sentry the decks were actually carpeted – Wilton carpets in which the foot sank noiselessly. There was an anteroom with a steward in dazzling white ducks to take Hornblower’s hat and gloves and cloak.
‘Captain Hornblower, sir,’ announced the young gentleman, throwing open the door.
The deck-beams above were six feet clear, over the carpet, and Pellew had grown so used to this that he advanced to shake hands with no stoop at all, in contrast with Hornblower, who instinctively crouched with his five-foot-eleven.
‘Delighted to see you, Hornblower,’ said Pellew. “Genuinely delighted. There is much to say to you, for letters are always inadequate. But I must make the introductions. The Admiral has already made your acquaintance, I think?’
Hornblower shook hands with Cornwallis, mumbling the same politenesses as he had already addressed to Pellew. Other introductions followed, names known to everyone who had read in the Gazette the accounts of naval victories; Grindall of the Prince, Marsfield of the Minotaur, Lord Henry Paulet of the Terrible, and half a dozen others. Hornblower felt dazzled, although he had just come in from the bright outer world. In all this array there was one other officer with a single epaulette, but he wore it on his right shoulder, proof that he, too, had attained the glorious rank of post captain, and had only to go on living to mount a second epaulette on attaining three years’ seniority, and – if long life was granted him – eventually to attain the unspeakable heights of flag rank. He was far higher above a commander than a commander was above a lowly lieutenant.
Hornblower sat in the chair offered him, instinctively edging it backward so as to make himself, the most junior, the infinitely junior officer, as inconspicuous as possible. The cabin was finished in some rich material – damask, Hornblower guessed – with a colour scheme of nutmeg and blue unobtrusive and yet incredibly satisfying to the eye. Daylight poured in through a vast stern window, to glint upon the swaying silver lamps. There was a shelf of books, some in good leather bindings, but Hornblower’s sharp eye detected tattered copies of the Mariners’ Guide and the Admiralty publications for the coasts of France. On the far side were two large masses so draped as to be shapely and in keeping so that no uninitiated person could guess that inside were two eighteen-pounder carronades.
‘This must take you a full five minutes to clear for action, Sir Edward,’ said Cornwallis.
‘Four minutes and ten seconds by stop-watch, sir,’ answered Pellew, ‘to strike everything below, including the bulkheads.’
Another steward, also in dazzling white ducks, entered at this moment and spoke a few words in a low tone to Pellew, like a well-trained butler in a ducal house, and Pellew rose to his feet.
‘Dinner, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Permit me to lead the way.’
A door, thrown open in the midships bulkhead, revealed a dining-room, an oblong table with white damask, glittering silver, sparkling glasses, while more stewards in white ducks were ranged against the bulkhead. There could be little doubt about precedence, when every captain in the Royal Navy had, naturally, studied his place in the captains’ list ever since his promotion; Hornblower and the single-epauletted captain were headed for the foot of the table when Pellew halted the general sorting-out.
‘At the Admiral’s suggestion,’ he announced, ‘We are dispensing with precedence today. You will find your names on cards at your places.’
So now every one began a feverish hunt for their names; Hornblower found himself seated between Lord Henry Paulet and Hosier of the Fame, and opposite him was Cornwallis himself.
‘I made the suggestion to Sir Edward,’ Cornwallis was saying as he leisurely took his seat, ‘because otherwise we always find ourselves sitting next to our neighbours in the captains’ list. In blockade service especially, variety is much to be sought after.’
He lowered himself into his chair, and when he had done so his juniors followed his example. Hornblower, cautiously on guard about his manners, still could not restrain his mischievous inner self from mentally adding a passage to the rules of naval ceremonial, to the lines of the rule about the officer’s head reaching the level of the maindeck – ‘when the Admiral’s backside shall touch the seat of his chair—’.
‘Pellew provides good dinners,’ said Lord Henry, eagerly, scanning the dishes with which the stewards were now crowding the table. The largest dish was placed in front of him, and when the immense silver dish cover was whipped away a magnificent pie was revealed. The pastry top was built up into a castle, from the turret of which flew a paper Union Jack.
‘Prodigious!’ exclaimed Cornwallis. ‘Sir Edward, what lies below the dungeons here?’
Pellew shook his head sadly. ‘Only beef and kidneys, sir. Beef stewed to rags. Our ship’s bullock this time, as ever, was too tough for ordinary mortals, and only stewing would reduce his steaks to digestibility. So I called in the aid of his kidneys for a beefsteak and kidney pie.’
‘But what about the flour?’
‘The Victualling Officer sent me a sack, sir. Unfortunately it had rested in bilge water, as could only be expected, but there was just enough at the top unspoiled for the pie-crust.’
Pellew’s gesture, indicating the silver bread barges filled with ship’s biscuit, hinted that in more fortunate circumstances they might have been filled with fresh rolls.
‘I’m sure it’s delicious,’ said Cornwallis. ‘Lord Henry, might I trouble you to serve me, if you can find it in your heart to destroy those magnificent battlements?’
Paulet set to work with carving knife and fork on the pie, while Hornblower pondered the phenomenon of the son of a Marquis helping the son of an Earl to a steak and kidney pie made from a ration bullock and spoiled flour.
‘That’s a ragout of pork beside you, Captain Hosier,’ said Pellew. ‘Or so my chef would call it. You may find it even saltier than usual, because of the bitter tears he shed into it. Captain Durham has the only live pig left in the Channel Fleet, and no gold of mine would coax it from him, so that my poor fellow had to make do with the contents of the brine tub.’
‘He has succeeded perfectly with the pie, at least,’ commented Cornwallis. ‘He must be an artist.’
‘I engaged him during the Peace,’ said Pellew, ‘and brought him with me on the outbreak
of war. At quarters he points a gun on the starboard side lower-deck.’
‘If his aim is as good as his cooking,’ said Cornwallis, reaching for his glass which a steward had filled, ‘then – confusion to the French!’
The toast was drunk with murmured acclaim.
‘Fresh vegetables!’ said Lord Henry ecstatically. ‘Cauliflower!’
‘Your quota is on the way to your ship at this moment, Hornblower,’ said Cornwallis. ‘We try not to forget you.’
‘Hotspur’s like Uriah the Hittite,’ said a saturnine captain at the end of the table whose name appeared to be Collins. ‘In the forefront of the battle.’
Hornblower was grateful to Collins for that speech, because it brought home to him a truth, like a bright light, that he had not realised before; he would rather be on short commons in the forefront of the battle than back in the main body with plenty of vegetables.
‘Young carrots!’ went on Lord Henry, peering into each vegetable dish in turn. ‘And what’s this? I can’t believe it!’
‘Spring greens, Lord Henry,’ said Pellew. ‘We still have to wait for peas and beans.’
‘Wonderful!’
‘How do you get these chickens so fat, Sir Edward?’ asked Grindall.
‘A matter of feeding, merely. Another secret of my chef.’
‘In the public interest you should disclose it, said Cornwallis. ‘The life of a sea-sick chicken rarely conduces to putting on flesh.’
‘Well, sir, since you ask. This ship has a complement of six hundred and fifty men. Every day thirteen fifty-pound bread bags are emptied. The secret lies in the treatment of those bags.’
‘But how?’ asked several voices.
‘Tap them, shake them, before emptying. Not enough to make wasteful crumbs, but sharply enough. Then take out the biscuits quickly, and behold! At the bottom of each bag is a mass of weevils and maggots, scared out of their natural habitat and with no time allowed to seek shelter again. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing that fattens a chicken so well as a diet of rich biscuit-fed weevils. Hornblower, your plate’s still empty. Help yourself, man.’
The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 67
