The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  ‘One moment, please, Mr Bush. You ought to know I’m busy. Yes, Mr Carron?’

  Bush was the only man in the ship who would dare to intrude at that moment, and he only if he thought the matter urgent.

  ‘You had better leave within the hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was hoping you might sup with me this evening.’

  ‘Duty before pleasure, although I thank you. I’ll cross the bay now and make the arrangements with the Spanish authorities. The land breeze will start to make before long, and that will take you out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Make every preparation for weighing anchor. You know of the twenty-four hour rule?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Under the rules of neutrality a ship of one contending nation could not leave a neutral harbour until one whole day after the exit of a ship of another contending nation.

  ‘The Dons may not enforce it on the Félicité, but they’ll certainly enforce it on you if you give them the opportunity. Two-thirds of Félicité’s crew are in the taverns of Cadiz at this moment, so you must take your chance now. I’ll be here to remind the Dons about the twenty-four hour rule if she tries to follow you. I might delay her at least. The Dons don’t want to offend us while the flota’s still at sea.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir.’

  Carron was already rising to his feet, with Hornblower following his example.

  ‘Call the Consul’s boat,’ said Hornblower as they emerged on to the quarter-deck. Bush still had something to say, but Hornblower still ignored him.

  And even when Carron had left there was still an order for Bush with which to distract him.

  ‘I want the small bower hove in, Mr Bush, and heave short on the best bower.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir—’

  ‘I want this done in silence, Mr Bush, No pipes, no orders that Félicité can hear. Station two safe men at the capstan with old canvas to muffle the capstan pawls. I don’t want a sound.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. But—’

  ‘Go and attend to that yourself personally, if you please, Mr Bush.’

  No one else dare intrude on the captain as he strode the quarter-deck in the warm night. Nor was it long before the pilot came on board; Carron had certainly succeeded in hastening the slow process of the Spanish official mind. Topsails sheeted home, anchor broken out, Hotspur glided slowly down the bay again before the first gentle puffs of the nightly land breeze, with Hornblower narrowly watching the pilot. It might be a solution of the Spaniard’s problem if Hotspur were to take the ground as she went to sea, and Hornblower determined that should not happen. It was only after the pilot had left them and Hotspur was standing out to the south westward that he had a moment to spare for Bush.

  ‘Sir! Doughty’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  It was too dark on the quarter-deck for Hornblower’s face to be seen, and he tried his best to make his voice sound natural.

  ‘Yes, sir. He must have nipped out of the stern window of your cabin, sir. Then he could have lowered himself into the water by the rudder-pintles, right under the counter where no one could see him, and then he must have swum for it, sir.’

  ‘I’m extremely angry about this, Mr Bush. Somebody will smart for it.’

  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘Well, Mr Bush?’

  ‘It seems you left him alone in the cabin when the Consul came on board, sir. That’s when he took his chance.’

  ‘You mean it’s my fault, Mr Bush?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir, if you want to put it that way.’

  ‘M’m. Maybe you’re right, even if I do say it.’ Hornblower paused, still trying to be natural. ‘God, that’s an infuriating thing to happen. I’m angry with myself. I can’t think how I came to be so foolish.’

  ‘I expect you had a lot on your mind, sir.’

  It was distasteful to hear Bush standing up for his captain in the face of his captain’s self-condemnation.

  ‘There’s just no excuse for me. I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘I’ll mark him as “R” on the ship’s muster, sir.

  ‘Yes. You’d better do that.

  Cryptic initials in the ship’s muster rolls told various stories – ‘D’ for ‘discharged,’ ‘D D’ for ‘dead,’ and ‘R’ for ‘run’ – deserted.

  ‘But there’s some good news, too, Mr Bush. In accordance with my orders I must tell you, Mr Bush, in case of something happening to me, but none of what I’m going to say is to leak out to the ship’s company.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Treasure; prize money, doubloons and dollars. A Spanish treasure fleet. If there were anything that could take Bush’s mind off the subject of Doughty’s escape from justice it was this.

  ‘It’ll be millions, sir!’ said Bush.

  ‘Yes. Millions.’

  The seamen in the five ships would share one quarter of the prize money – the same sum as would be divided between five captains – and that would mean six hundred pounds a man. Lieutenants and masters and captains of marines would divide one-eighth. Fifteen thousand pounds for Bush, at a rough estimate.

  ‘A fortune, sir!’

  Hornblower’s share would be ten of those fortunes.

  ‘Do you remember, sir, the last time we captured a flota? Back in ’99, I think it was, sir. Some of our Jacks when they got their prize money bought gold watches an’ fried ’em on Gosport Hard, just to show how rich they were.’

  ‘Well, you can sleep on it, Mr Bush, as I’m going to try to do. But remember, not a word to a soul.’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’

  The project might still fail. The flota might evade capture and escape into Cadiz; it might have turned back; it might never have sailed. Then it would be best if the Spanish government – and the world at large – did not know that such an attempt had ever been contemplated.

  These thoughts, and these figures, should have been stimulating, exciting, pleasant, but tonight, to Hornblower, they were nothing of the sort. They were Dead Sea fruit, turning to ashes in the mouth. Hornblower snapped at Bailey and dismissed him; then he sat on his cot, too low spirited even to be cheered by the swaying of the cot under his seat to tell him that Hotspur was at sea again, bound on a mission of excitement and profit. He sat with drooping head, deep in depression. He had lost his integrity, and that meant he had lost his self-respect. In his life he had made mistakes, whose memory could still make him writhe, but this time he had done far more. He had committed a breach of duty. He had connived at – he had actually contrived – the escape of a deserter, of a criminal. He had violated his sworn oath, and he had done so from mere personal reasons, out of sheer self-indulgence. Not for the good of the service, not for his country’s cause, but because he was a soft-hearted sentimentalist. He was ashamed of himself, and the shame was all the more acute when his pitiless self-analysis brought up the conviction that, if he could relive those past hours he would do the same again.

  There were no excuses. The one he had used, that the Service owed him a life after all the perils he had run, was nonsense. The mitigating circumstance that discipline would not suffer, thanks to the new exciting mission, was of no weight. He was a self-condemned traitor; worse still, he was a plausible one, who had carried through his scheme with deft neatness that marked the born conspirator. That first word he had thought of was the correct one; integrity, and he had lost it. Hornblower mourned over his lost integrity like Niobe over her dead children.

  XXII

  Captain Graham Moore’s orders for the disposition of the frigate squadron so as to intercept the flota were so apt that they received even Hornblower’s grudging approval. The five ships were strung out on a line north and south to the limit of visibility. With fifteen miles between ships and with the northernmost and southernmost ships looking out to their respective horizons a stretch of sea ninety miles wide could be covered. During daylight they beat or ran towards America; duri
ng the night they retraced their course towards Europe, so that if by misfortune the flota should reach the line in darkness the interval during which it could be detected would be by that much prolonged. The dawn position was to be in the longitude of Cape St Vincent – 9° west – and the sunset position was to be as far to the west of that as circumstances should indicate as desirable.

  For this business of detecting the needle of the flota in the haystack of the Atlantic was a little more simple than might appear at first sight. The first point was that by the cumbrous law of Spain the flota had to discharge its cargo at Cadiz, and nowhere else. The second point was that the direction of the wind was a strong indication of the point of the compass from which the flota might appear. The third point was that the flota, after a long sea passage, was likely to be uncertain of its longitude; by sextant it could be reasonably sure of its latitude, and could be counted on to run the final stages of its course along the latitude of Cadiz – 36° 30’ north – so as to make sure of avoiding the Portuguese coast on the one hand and the African coast on the other.

  So that in the centre of the British line, squarely on latitude 36° 30’ north, lay the Commodore in the Indefatigable, with the other ships lying due north and due south of him. A flag signal by day or a rocket by night would warn every ship in the line of the approach of the flota, and it should not be difficult for the squadron to concentrate rapidly upon the signalling ship, a hundred and fifty miles out from Cadiz with plenty of time and space available to enforce their demands.

  An hour before dawn Hornblower came out on deck, as he had done every two hours during the night – and every two hours during all the preceding nights as well. It had been a clear night and it was still clear now.

  ‘Wind nor’east by north, sir,’ reported Prowse. ‘St Vincent bearing due north about five leagues.’

  A moderate breeze; all sail to the royals could be carried, although the Hotspur was under topsails, stealing along close-hauled on the port tack. Hornblower trained his telescope over the starboard beam, due south, in the direction where Medusa should be, next in line; Hotspur, as befitted her small importance, was the northernmost ship, at the point where it was least likely for the flota to appear. It was not quite light enough yet for Medusa to be visible.

  ‘Mr Foreman, get aloft, if you please, with your signal book.’

  Of course every officer and man in Hotspur must be puzzled about this daily routine, this constant surveillance of a single stretch of water. Ingenious minds might even guess the true objective of the squadron. That could not be helped.

  ‘There she is, sir!’ said Prowse. ‘Beating sou’ by west. We’re a little ahead of station.’

  ‘Back the mizzen tops’l, if you please.’

  They might be as much as a couple of miles ahead of station – not too unsatisfactory after a long night. It was easy enough to drop back to regain the exact bearing, due north from Medusa.

  ‘Deck, there!’ Foreman was hailing from the main-topmast-head. ‘Medusa’s signalling. “Commodore to all ships.” ’

  Medusa was relaying the signal from Indefatigable out of sight to the southward.

  ‘Wear ship,’ went on Foreman. ‘Course west. Topsails.’

  ‘Mr Cheeseman, kindly acknowledge.’

  Cheeseman was the second signal officer, learning his trade as Foreman’s deputy. ‘Send the hands to the braces, Mr Prowse.’

  It must be a gratifying experience for Moore to manoeuvre a line of ships sixty miles long by sending up and hauling down flags.

  ‘Deck!’ There was a different tone in Foreman’s voice, not the tone of matter of fact routine. ‘Sail in sight on the port bow, nearly to windward, sir. Coming down before the wind, fast.’

  Hotspur was still waiting for Medusa’s signal to come down to indicate the exact moment to wear.

  ‘What do you make of her, Mr Foreman?’

  ‘She’s a ship of war, sir. She’s a frigate. She looks French to me, sir. She might be the Félicité, sir.’

  She might well be the Félicité, coming out from Cadiz. By now word could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea. Félicité would come out; she could warn, and divert, the flota, if she could get past the British line. Or she could hang about on the horizon until the flota should appear, and then interfere with the negotiations. Bonaparte could make great play in the Moniteur regarding the heroic French navy coming to the aid of an oppressed neutral fleet. And Félicité’s presence might have great weight in the scale should it come to a fight; a large French frigate and four large Spanish ones against one large British frigate, three small ones, and a sloop.

  ‘I’ll get aloft and have a look at her myself, sir.’ This was Bush, in the right place at the right time as usual. He ran up the ratlines with the agility of any seaman.

  ‘Signal’s down, sir!’ yelled Foreman.

  Hotspur should put up her helm at this moment, for all five ships to wear together.

  ‘No, Mr Prowse. We’ll wait.’

  On the horizon Medusa wore round. Now she was before the wind, increasing her distance rapidly from Hotspur on the opposite course.

  ‘That’s Félicité for certain, sir!’ called Bush.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bush. Kindly come down at once. Drummer! Beat to quarters. Clear for action. Mr Cheeseman, send this signal. “Have sighted French frigate to windward.” ’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Medusa’s going out of sight fast.’

  ‘Hoist it, anyway.’

  Bush had descended like lightning, to exchange glances for one moment with Hornblower before hurrying off to supervise clearing for action. For that moment there was an enquiring look in his eye. He alone in this ship beside Hornblower knew the objective of the British squadron. If Hotspur was parted from the other ships when the flota should be sighted she would lose her share of the prize money. But prize money was only one factor; the flota was a primary objective. Hotspur would disregard Medusa’s signals and turn aside from the objective, at her peril – at Hornblower’s peril. And Bush knew, too, the disparity of force between Hotspur and Félicité. A battle broadside to broadside could only end with half Hotspur’s crew dead and the other half prisoners of war.

  ‘Medusa’s out of sight, sir. She hasn’t acknowledged.’ This was Foreman, still aloft.

  ‘Very well, Mr Foreman. You can come down.’

  ‘You can see her from the deck, sir,’ said Prowse.

  ‘Yes.’ Right on the horizon the Frenchman’s topsails and topgallants were plainly in view. Hornblower found it a little difficult to keep them steady in the field of the telescope. He was pulsing with excitement; he could only hope that his face did not reveal him to be as anxious and worried as he felt.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir,’ reported Bush.

  The guns were run out, the excited guns’ crews at their stations.

  ‘She’s hauled her wind!’ exclaimed Prowse.

  ‘Ah!’

  Félicité had come round on the starboard tack, heading to allow Hotspur to pass far astern of her. She was declining battle.

  ‘Isn’t he going to fight?’ exclaimed Bush.

  Hornblower’s tensions were easing a little with this proof of the accuracy of his judgement. He had headed for Félicité with the intention of engaging in a scrambling long range duel. He had hoped to shoot away enough of the Félicité’s spars to cripple her so that she would be delayed in her mission of warning the flota. And the Frenchman had paralleled his thoughts. He did not want to risk injury with his mission not accomplished.

  ‘Put the ship about, if you please, Mr Prowse.’

  Hotspur tacked like a machine.

  ‘Full and bye!’

  Now she headed to cross Félicité’s bows on a sharply converging course. The Frenchman, in declining battle, had it in mind to slip round the flank of the British line so as to escape in the open sea and join the Spaniards ahead of the British, and Hornblower was heading him off. Hornblower watched the topsails on th
e horizon, and saw them swing.

  ‘He’s turning away!’

  Much good that would do him. Far, far beyond the topsails was a faint blue line on the horizon, the bold coast of Southern Portugal.

  ‘He won’t weather St Vincent on that course,’ said Prowse.

  Lagos, St Vincent, Sagres; all great names in the history of the sea, and that jutting headland would just baulk Félicité in her attempt to evade action. She would have to fight soon, and Hornblower was visualising the kind of battle it would be.

  ‘Mr Bush!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘I want two guns to bear directly astern. You’ll have to cut away the transoms aft. Get to work at once.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bush.’

  Sailing ships were always hampered in the matter of firing directly ahead or astern; no satisfactory solution of the difficulty had ever been found. Guns were generally so useful on the broadside that they were wasted on the ends of the ship, and ship construction had acknowledged the fact. Now the cry for the carpenter’s crew presaged abandoning all the advantages that had been wrung from these circumstances by shipbuilders through the centuries. Hotspur was weakening herself in exchange for a momentary advantage in a rare situation. Under his feet Hornblower felt the crack of timber and the vibration of saws at work.

  ‘Send the gunner aft. He’ll have to rig tackles and breechings before the guns are moved.’

  The blue line of the coast was now much more sharply defined; the towering headland of St Vincent was in plain view. And Félicité was hull-up now, the long, long, line of guns along her side clearly visible, run out and ready for action. Her main-topsail was a-shiver, and she was rounding-to. Now she was challenging action, offering battle.

  ‘Up helm, Mr Prowse. Back the main-tops’l.’

  Every minute gained was of value. Hotspur rounded-to as well. Hornblower had no intention of fighting a hopeless battle; if the Frenchman could wait he could wait as well. With this gentle breeze and moderate sea Hotspur held an advantage over the bigger French ship which was not lightly to be thrown away. Hotspur and Félicité eyed each other like two pugilists just stepping into the ring. It was such a beautiful day of blue sky and blue sea; it was a lovely world which he might be leaving soon. The rumble of gun trucks told him that one gun-carriage at least was being moved into position, and yet at this minute somehow he thought of Maria and of little Horatio – madness; he put that thought instantly out of his mind.