Captain Hornblower R. N.

by C. S. Forester

  Unless the inefficient had friends in high places; then it would be the friendless and the unfortunate who languished on half-pay. Hornblower knew himself to be friendless, and even though he had just been congratulating himself on his good fortune he always thought himself ultimately doomed to misfortune. He was on his way to take over a ship that someone else had fitted out, with officers and men he knew nothing of; those facts were sufficient basis on which his gloomy pessimism could build itself.

  Maria sighed and turned herself on the bench; Hornblower crept down to her to rearrange the heavy coat over her body.

  III

  At Brentford, in the early light of the winter’s morning, it was cold and damp and gloomy. Little Horatio whimpered ceaselessly; Maria was uncomfortable and weary, as she stood beside Hornblower while her trunk and Hornblower’s two sea chests were being hoisted out of the boat.

  “Is it far to Deptford, my dear?” she asked.

  “Far enough,” said Hornblower; between Brentford and Deptford lay the whole extent of London and much more besides, while the river on which they were to travel wound sinuously in wide curves, backwards and forwards. And they had arrived late, and the tide would barely serve.

  The wherrymen were soliciting for his custom.

  “Boat, sir? Sculls, sir? Oars, sir?”

  “Oars,” said Hornblower.

  It cost twice as much for a wherry rowed by two oarsmen as for one rowed by a single man with sculls, but with the ebbing tide it was worth it. Hornblower helped Maria and the baby down into the stern-sheets and looked on while the baggage was handed down.

  “Right, Bill. Give way,” said stroke-oar, and the wherry shot away from the slip out on to the grey river.

  “Ooh,” said Maria, a little afraid.

  The oars ground in the rowlocks, the boat danced on the choppy water.

  “They say the old King’s fair mazed, sir, at Lord Nelson’s death,” said stroke, with a jerk of his hand towards Kew, across the river. “That’s where he lives, sir. In the Palace there.”

  “Yes,” said Hornblower; in no mood to discuss the King or Lord Nelson or anyone else.

  The wind was brisk and westerly; had it been easterly the river would have been far more choppy, and their progress would be delayed, so there was something at least to be said in favour of this grey world.

  “Easy, ’Arry,” said bow, and the wherry began to round the bend.

  “Hush, baby. Don’t you like the nasty boat?” said Maria to little Horatio, who was making it plain that Maria had guessed at the truth of the matter.

  “Nipper’s cold, likely,” volunteered stroke.

  “I think he is,” agreed Maria.

  The boatman and Maria fell into conversation, to Hornblower’s relief; he could immerse himself in his thoughts then, in his hopes and his apprehensions—the latter predominating—about his ship that awaited him down river. It would only be an hour or two before he would go on board. Ship, officers and crew were all unknown to him.

  “The Dook lives there, ma’am,” said the boatman, through little Horatio’s yells, “an’ you can see the Bishop’s Palace through the trees.”

  This was Maria’s first visit to London; it was convenient that they should have a loquacious boatman.

  “See the pretty houses,” said Maria, dancing the baby in her arms. “Look at the pretty boats.”

  The houses were getting thicker and thicker; they shot bridge after bridge, and the boat traffic on the river was growing dense, and suddenly Hornblower became aware they were at London’s edge.

  “Westminster, ma’am,” said the boatman. “I used to ply on the ferry here until they built the bridge. A ha’penny toll took the bread out of the mouths of many an honest boatman then.”

  “I should think so, indeed,” said Maria, sympathetically. By now she had forgotten the dignity of her position as a captain’s wife.

  “White’all Steps, ma’am, and that ’ere’s the Strand.”

  Hornblower had taken boat to Whitehall Steps often, during those bitter days of half-pay when he was soliciting employment from the Admiralty.

  “St Paul’s, ma’am.”

  Now they were really within the City of London. Hornblower could smell the smoke of the coal fires.

  “Easy, ’Arry,” said bow again, looking back over his shoulder. Boats, lighters, and barges covered the surface of the river, and there was London Bridge ahead of them.

  “Give way, ’ard,” said bow, and the two oarsmen pulled desperately through a gap in the traffic above the bridge. Through the narrow arches the tide ran fast; the river was piled up above the constriction of the bridge. They shot down through the narrow opening.

  “Goodness!” said Maria.

  And here was the greatest port in the world; ships at anchor, ships discharging cargo, with only the narrowest channel down the centre. North country collier brigs, Ramsgate trawlers, coasters, grain ships, with the grey tower looking down on them.

  “The Pool’s always a rare sight, ma’am,” said stroke. “Even wi’ the war an’ all.”

  All this busy shipping was the best proof that Bonaparte across the water was losing his war against England. England could never be conquered while the Navy dominated the sea, strangling the continental powers while allowing free passage to British commerce.

  Below the Pool lay a ship of war, idly at anchor, topmasts sent down, hands at work on stages overside painting. At her bows was a crude figurehead of a draped female painted in red and white; in her clumsily carved hands she carried a large pair of gilded shears, and it was those which told Hornblower what the ship was, before he could count the eleven gunports aside, before they passed under her stern and he could read her name, Atropos. He choked down his excitement as he stared at her, taking note of her trim and her lines, of the petty officer of the anchor watch—of everything that in that piercing moment he could possibly observe.

  “Atropos, twenty-two,” said stroke-oar, noting Hornblower’s interest.

  “My husband is captain of her,” said Maria proudly.

  “Indeed, sir?” answered stroke, with a new respect that must have been gratifying to Maria.

  Already the boat was swinging round; there was Deptford Creek and Deptford Hard.

  “Easy!” said bow. “Give way again. Easy!”

  The boat rasped against the shore, and the journey from Gloucester was over. No, not over, decided Hornblower preparing to disembark. There was now all the tedious business before them of getting a lodging, taking their baggage there, and settling Maria in before he could get to his ship. Life was a succession of pills that had to be swallowed. He paid the boatman under Maria’s watchful eye; fortunately a riverside lounger came to solicit custom, and produced a barrow on which he piled the luggage. Hornblower took Maria’s arm and helped her up the slippery Hard as she carried the baby.

  “Glad I’ll be,” said Maria, “to take these shoes off. And the sooner little Horatio is changed the better. There, there, darling.”

  Only the briefest walk, luckily, took them to the “George”. A plump landlady received them, running a sympathetic eye over Maria’s condition. She took them up to a room while a maid under her vigorous urgings sped to get hot water and towels.

  “There, my poppet,” said the landlandy to little Horatio.

  “Ooh,” said Maria, sitting down on the bed and already beginning to take off her shoes.

  Hornblower was standing by the door waiting for his sea chests to be brought up.

  “When are you expecting, ma’am?” asked the landlady.

  It seemed not a moment before she and Maria were discussing mid-wives and the rising cost of living—the latter subject introduced by Maria’s determination to chaffer over the price of the room. The pot-man and the riverside lounger carried the baggage up and put it down on the floor of the room, interrupting the discussion. Hornblower took out his keys and knelt eagerly at his chest.

  “Horatio, dear,” said Maria, “we’re s
peaking to you.”

  “Eh—what?” asked Hornblower absently over his shoulder.

  “Something hot, sir, while breakfast is preparing?” asked the landlady. “Rum punch? A dish o’ tea?”

  “Not for me, thank you,” said Hornblower.

  He had his chest open by now and was unpacking it feverishly.

  “Cannot that wait until we’ve had breakfast, dear?” asked Maria. “Then I could do it for you.”

  “I fear not, ma’am,” said Hornblower, still on his knees.

  “Your best shirts! You’re crumpling them,” protested Maria.

  Hornblower was dragging out his uniform coat from beneath them. He laid the coat on the other chest and searched for his epaulette.

  “You’re going to your ship!” exclaimed Maria.

  “Of course, my dear,” said Hornblower.

  The landlady was out of the room and conversation could run more freely.

  “But you must have your breakfast first,” expostulated Maria.

  Hornblower made himself see reason.

  “Five minutes for breakfast, then, after I’ve shaved,” he said.

  He laid out his coat on the bed, with a frown at its creases, and he unlatched the japanned box which held his cocked hat. He threw off the coat he was wearing and undid, feverishly, his neckcloth and stock. Little Horatio decided at that moment to protest again against a heartless world, and Hornblower unrolled his housewife and took out his razor and addressed himself to shaving while Maria attended to the baby.

  “I’ll take Horatio down for his bread and milk, dear,” said Maria.

  “Yes, dear,” said Hornblower through the lather.

  The mirror caught Maria’s reflection, and he forced himself back into the world again. She was standing pathetically looking at him, and he put down his razor, and took up the towel and wiped the lather from his mouth.

  “Not a kiss since yesterday!” he said. “Maria, darling, don’t you think you’ve been neglecting me?”

  She came to his outheld arms; her eyes were wet, but the gentleness of his voice and the lightness of his tone brought a smile to her lips despite her tears.

  “I thought I was the neglected one,” she whispered.

  She kissed him eagerly, possessively, her hands at his shoulders, holding him to her swollen body.

  “I have been thinking about my duty,” he said to her, “to the exclusion of the other things I should have thought about. Can you forgive me, dearest?”

  “Forgive!” the smile and the tears were both more evident as she spoke. “Don’t say that, darling. Do what you will—I’m yours. I’m yours.”

  Hornblower felt a wave of real tenderness rise within him as he kissed her again; the happiness, the whole life, of a human creature depended on his patience and his tact. His wiping off of the lather had not been very effective; there were smears of it on Maria’s face.

  “Sweetness,” he said, “that makes you my very dearest possession.”

  And while he kissed her he thought of Atropos riding to her anchor out there in the river, and despised himself as a hypocritical unfaithful lover. But his concealment of his impatience brought its reward, for when little Horatio began to wail again it was Maria who drew back first.

  “The poor lamb!” she said, and quitted Hornblower’s arms to go and attend to him. She looked up at her husband from where she bent over the child, and smiled at him. “I must see that both of these men of mine are fed.”

  There was something Hornblower had to say, but it called for tact, and he fumbled in his mind before he found the right way to say it.

  “Dearest,” he said. “I do not mind if the whole world knows I have just kissed you, but I fear lest you would be ashamed.”

  “Goodness!” said Maria, grasping his meaning and hurrying to the mirror to wipe off the smears of lather. Then she snatched up the baby. “I’ll see that your breakfast is ready when you come down.”

  She smiled at him with so much happiness in her face, and she blew him a kiss before she left the room. Hornblower turned again to renew the lather and prepare himself for going on board. His mind was full of his ship, his wife, his child, and the child to be. The fleeting happiness of yesterday was forgotten; perhaps, not being aware that he was unhappy now, he could be deemed happy today as well, but he was not a man with a gift for happiness.

  With breakfast finished at last he took boat again at the Hard to go the short distance to his ship; as he sat in the stern-sheets he settled his cocked hat with its gold loop and button, and he let his cloak hang loose to reveal the epaulette on his right shoulder that marked him as a captain of less than three years’ seniority. He momentarily tapped his pocket to make sure that his orders were in it, and then sat upright in the boat with all the dignity he could muster. He could imagine what was happening in Atropos—the master’s mate of the watch catching sight of the cocked hat and the epaulette, the messenger scurrying to tell the first lieutenant, the call for sideboys and bosun’s mates, the wave of nervousness and curiosity that would pass over the ship at the news that the new captain was about to come on board. The thought of it made him smile despite his own nervousness and curiosity.

  “Boat ahoy!” came the hail from the ship.

  The boatman gave an inquiring glance at Hornblower, received a nod in return, and turned to hail back with a pair of lungs of leather.

  “Atropos!”

  That was positive assurance to the ship that this was her captain approaching.

  “Lay her alongside,” said Hornblower.

  Atropos sat low in the water, flush-decked; the mizzen chains were within easy reach of Hornblower where he stood. The boatman coughed decorously.

  “Did you remember my fare, sir?” he asked, and Hornblower had to find coppers to pay him.

  Then he went up the ship’s side, refusing, as far as his self-control would allow, to let the incident fluster him. He tried to conceal his excitement as he reached the deck amid the twittering of the pipes, with his hand to his hatbrim in salute, but he was not capable of seeing with clarity the faces that awaited him there.

  “John Jones, First Lieutenant,” said a voice. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  Then there were other names, other faces as vague as the names. Hornblower checked himself from swallowing in his excitement for fear lest it should be noticed. He went to some pains to speak in a tone of exactly the right pitch.

  “Call the ship’s company, Mr Jones, if you please.”

  “All hands! All hands!”

  The cry went through the ship while the pipes twittered and squealed again. There was a rush of feet, a bustling and a subdued murmur. Now there was a sea of faces before him in the waist, but he was still too excited to observe them in detail.

  “Ship’s company assembled, sir.”

  Hornblower touched his hat in reply—he had to assume that Jones had touched his hat to him, for he was not aware of it—and took out his orders and began to read.

  “Orders from the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, addressed to Captain Horatio Hornblower of His Majesty’s Navy.

  “You are hereby required—”

  He read them through to the end, folded them, and returned them to his pocket. Now he was legally captain of the Atropos, holding a position of which only a court martial—or an Act of Parliament—or the loss of the ship—could deprive him. And from this moment his half-pay ceased and he would begin to draw the pay of a captain of a sixth-rate. Was it significant that it was from this moment the mists began to clear from before his eyes? Jones was a lantern-jawed man, his close-shaven beard showing blue through his tan. Hornblower met his eyes.

  “Dismiss the ship’s company, Mr. Jones.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  This might have been the moment for a speech, Hornblower knew. It was even customary to make one. But he had prepared nothing to say; and he told himself it was better to say nothing. He had it in mind that
he would give a first impression of someone cold and hard and efficient and unsentimental. He turned to the waiting group of lieutenants; now he could distinguish their features, recognize that they were distinct individuals, these men whom he would have to trust and use for years in the future; but their names had escaped him completely. He had really heard nothing of them in those excited seconds after arriving on the quarterdeck.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to them. “We shall know each other better soon, I do not doubt.”

  There was a touching of hats and a general turning away of them all except Jones.

  “There’s an Admiralty letter waiting for you, sir,” said the latter.

  An Admiralty letter! Orders! The key to the future, which would reveal what was to be their fate—the words which might despatch him and the Atropos to China or Greenland or Brazil. Hornblower felt his excitement surge up again—it had hardly subsided in any case. Once more he checked himself from swallowing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones. I’ll read it as soon as I have leisure.”

  “Would you care to come below, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  The captain’s quarters in the Atropos were as minute as Hornblower had expected; the smallest possible day-cabin and night-cabin. They were so small that they were not bulkheaded off from one another; a curtain was supposed to be hung between them, but there was no curtain. There was nothing at all—no cot, no desk, no chair, nothing. Apparently Caldecott had made a clean sweep of all his belongings when he left the ship. There was nothing surprising about that, but it was inconvenient. The cabin was dark and stuffy, but as the ship was newly out of dry dock she had not yet acquired all the manifold smells which would impregnate her later.

  “Where are these orders?” demanded Hornblower, brusque with his suppressed excitement.

  “In my desk, sir. I’ll fetch ’em at once.”

  It could not be too quickly for Hornblower, who stood under the little skylight awaiting Jones’ return. He took the sealed package into his hand and stood holding it for a moment. This was an instant transition. The journey of the last twenty-four hours had been a longer period, but of the same kind—an interval between one kind of activity and another. The next few seconds would eventually transform the Atropos from an idle ship in the Thames to an active ship at sea, lookouts at the mast-heads, guns ready for action, peril and adventure and death only just over the horizon if not alongside. Hornblower broke the seal—the foul anchor of the Admiralty, the most inappropriate emblem conceivable for a nation that ruled the sea. Looking up, he met Jones’ eyes, as the first lieutenant waited anxiously to hear what their fate was to be. Hornblower knew that he should have sent Jones away before breaking the seal, but it was too late now. Hornblower read the opening lines—he could have announced beforehand what would be the first six words, or even the first twelve.