Lieutenant Hornblower h-2

by Cecil Scott Forester

  The red coats of the army, the blue coats of the navy, the bottlegreen and snuffcoloured coats of civilians; Bush and Hornblower made room for them before the fire after the introductions were made, and the coattails were parted as their wearers lined up before the flames. But the exclamations about the cold, and the polite conversation, died away rapidly.

  “Whist?” asked one of the newcomers tentatively.

  “Not for me. Not for us,” said another, the leader of the redcoats. “The TwentyNinth Foot has other fish to fry. We’ve a permanent engagement with our friend the Marquis in the next room. Come on, Major, let’s see if we can call a main right this time.”

  “Then will you make a four, Mr. Hornblower? How about your friend Mr. Bush?”

  “I don’t play,” said Bush.

  “With pleasure,” said Hornblower. “You will excuse me, Mr. Bush, I know. There is the new number of the Naval Chronicle on the table there. There’s a Gazette letter on the last page which might perhaps hold your interest for a while. And there is another item you might think important, too.”

  Bush could guess what the letter was even before he picked the periodical up, but when he found the place there was the same feeling of pleased shock to see his name in print there as keen as the first time he saw it: ‘I have the honour to be, etc., WM. BUSH.

  The Naval Chronicle in these days of peace found it hard, apparently, to obtain sufficient matter to fill its pages, and gave much space to the reprinting of these despatches. ‘Copy of a letter from ViceAdmiral Sir Richard Lambert to Evan Nepean, Esq., Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.’ That was only Lambert’s covering letter enclosing the reports. Here was the first one—it was with a strange internal sensation that he remembered helping Buckland with the writing of it, as the Renown ran westerly along the coast of Santo Domingo the day before the prisoners broke out. It was Buckland’s report on the fighting at Samaná. To Bush the most important line was ‘in the handsomest manner—under the direction of Lieutenant William Bush, the senior officer, whose report I enclose’. And here was his very own literary work, as enclosed by Buckland.

  HMS Renown, off the Santo Domingo. January 9th, 1802

  SIR,

  I have the honour to inform you…

  Bush relived those days of a year ago as he reread his own words: those words which he had composed with so much labour even though he had referred, during the writing of them to other reports written by other men so as to get the phrasing right.

  …I cannot end this report without a reference to the gallant conduct and most helpful suggestions of Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, who was my second in command on this occasion, and to whom in great part the success of the expedition is due.

  There was Hornblower now, playing cards with a post captain and two contractors.

  Bush turned back through the pages of the Naval Chronicle. Here was the Plymouth letter, a daily account of the doings in the port during the last month.

  ’Orders came down this day for the following ships to be paid off....’ ‘Came in from Gibraltar La Diana, 44, and the Tamar, 38, to be paid off as soon as they go up the harbour and to be laid up.’ ‘Sailed the Caesar, 80, for Portsmouth, to be paid off.’ And here was an item just as significant, or even more so: ‘Yesterday there was a large sale of serviceable stores landed from different men of war.’ The navy was growing smaller every day and with every ship that was paid off another batch of lieutenants would be looking for billets. And here was an item—‘This afternoon a fishing boat turning out of atwater jibed and overset, by which accident two industrious fishermen with large families were drowned.’ This was the Naval Chronicle, whose pages had once bulged with the news of the Nile and of Camperdown; now it told of accidents to industrious fishermen. Bush was too interested in his own concerns to feel any sympathy towards their large families.

  There was another drowning as a final item; a name—a combination of names—caught Bush’s attention so that he read the paragraph with a quickened pulse.

  Last night the jolly boat of His Majesty’s cutter Rapid, in the Revenue service, while returning in the fog from delivering a message on shore, was swept by the ebb tide athwart the hawse of a merchantman anchored off Fisher’s Nose, and capsized. Two seamen and Mr. Henry Wellard, Midshipman, were drowned. Mr. Wellard was a most promising young man recently appointed to the Rapid, having served as a volunteer in His Majesty’s ship Renown.

  Bush read the passage and pondered over it. He thought it important to the extent that he read the remainder of the Naval Chronicle without taking in any of it; and it was with surprise that he realised he would have to leave quickly in order to catch the carrier’s waggon back to Chichester.

  A good many people were coming into the Rooms now; the door was continually opening to admit them. Some of them were naval officers with whom he had a nodding acquaintance. All of them made straight for the fire for warmth before beginning to play. And Hornblower was on his feet now; apparently the rubber was finished, and Bush took the opportunity to catch his eye and give an indication that he wished to leave. Hornblower came over to him. It was with regret that they shook hands.

  “When do we meet again?” asked Hornblower.

  “I come in each month to draw my half pay,” said Bush. “I usually spend the night because of the carrier’s waggon. Perhaps we could dine—?”

  “You can always find me here,” said Hornblower. “But—do you have a regular place to stay?”

  “I stay where it’s convenient,” replied Bush.

  They both of them knew that meant that he stayed where it was cheap.

  “I lodge in Highbury Street. I’ll write the address down.” Hornblower turned to a desk in the corner and wrote on a sheet of paper which he handed to Bush “Would you care to share my room when next you come? My landlady is a sharp one. No doubt she will make a charge for a cot for you, but even so—”

  “It’ll save money,” said Bush, putting the paper in his pocket; his grin as he spoke masked the sentiment in his next words. “And I’ll see more of you.”

  “By George, yes,” said Hornblower. Words were not adequate.

  Jenkins had come sidling up and was holding Bush’s greatcoat for him to put on. There was that in Jenkins’ manner which told Bush that gentlemen when helped into their coats at the Long Rooms presented Jenkins with a shilling. Bush decided at first that he would be eternally damned before he parted with a shilling, and then he changed his mind. Maybe Hornblower would give Jenkins a shilling if he did not. He felt in his pocket and handed the coin over.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jenkins.

  With Jenkins out of earshot again Bush lingered, wondering how to frame his question.

  “That was hard luck on young Wellard,” he said, tentatively.

  “Yes,” said Hornblower.

  “D’you think,” went on Bush, plunging desperately, “he had anything to do with the captain’s falling down the hatchway?”

  “I couldn’t give an opinion,” answered Hornblower. “I’ didn’t know enough about it.”

  “But—” began Bush, and checked himself again; he knew by the look on Hornblower’s face that it was no use asking further questions.

  The Marquis had come into the room and was looking round in unobtrusive inspection. Bush saw him take note of the several men who were not playing, and of Hornblower standing in idle gossip by the door. Bush saw the meaning glance which he directed at Hornblower, and fell into sudden panic.

  “Goodbye,” he said, hastily.

  The black northeast wind that greeted him in the street was no more cruel than the rest of the world.

  Chapter XIX

  It was a short, hardfaced woman who opened the door in reply to Bush’s knock, and she looked at Bush even harder when he asked for Lieutenant Hornblower.

  “Top of the house,” she said, at last, and left Bush to find his way up.

  There could be no doubt about Hornblower’s pleasure at seeing
him. His face was lit with a smile and he drew Bush into the room while shaking his hand. It was an attic, with a steeply sloping ceiling; it contained a bed and a night table and a single wooden chair, but, as far as Bush’s cursory glance could discover, nothing else at all.

  “And how is it with you?” asked Bush, seating himself in the proffered chair, while Hornblower sat on the bed.

  “Well enough,” replied Hornblower—but was there, or was there not, a guilty pause before that answer? In any case the pause was covered up by the quick counterquestion. ‘ And with you?”

  “Soso,” said Bush.

  They talked indifferently for a space, with Hornblower asking questions about the Chichester cottage that Bush lived in with his sisters.

  “We must see about your bed for tonight,” said Hornblower at the first pause. “I’ll go down and give Mrs Mason a hail.”

  “I’d better come too,” said Bush.

  Mrs Mason lived in a hard world, quite obviously; she turned the proposition over in her mind for several seconds before she agreed to it.

  “A shilling for the bed,” she said. “Can’t wash the sheets for less than that with soap as it is.”

  “Very good,” said Bush.

  He saw Mrs Mason’s hand held out, and he put the shilling into it; no one could be in any doubt about Mrs Mason’s determination to be paid in advance by any friend of Hornblower’s. Hornblower had dived for his pocket when he caught sight of the gesture, but Bush was too quick for him.

  “And you’ll be talking till all hours,” said Mrs Mason. “Mind you don’t disturb my other gentlemen. And douse the light while you talk, too, or you’ll be burning a shilling’s worth of tallow.”

  “Of course,” said Hornblower.

  “Maria! Maria!” called Mrs Mason.

  A young woman—no, a woman not quite young—came up the stairs from the depths of the house at the call.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  Maria listened to Mrs Mason’s instructions for making up a truckle bed in Mr. Hornblower’s room.

  “Yes, Mother,” she aid.

  “Not teaching today, Maria?” asked Hornblower pleasantly.

  “No, sir.” The smile that lit her plain face showed her keen pleasure at being addressed.

  “OakApple Day? No, not yet. It’s not the King’s Birthday. Then why this holiday?”

  “Mumps, sir,” said Maria. “They all have mumps, except Johnnie Bristow.”

  “That agrees with everything I’ve heard about Johnnie Bristow,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes, sir,” said Maria. She smiled again, clearly pleased not only that Hornblower should jest with her but also because he remembered what she had told him about the school.

  Back in the attic again Hornblower and Bush resumed their conversation, this time on a more serious plane. The state of Europe occupied their attention.

  “This man Bonaparte,” said Bush. “He’s a restless cove.”

  “That’s the right word for him,” agreed Hornblower.

  “Isn’t he satisfied? Back in ‘96 when I was in the old Superb in the Mediterranean—that was when I was commissioned lieutenant—he was just a general. I can remember hearing his name for the first time, when we were blockading Toulon. Then he went to Egypt. Now he’s First Consul—isn’t that what he calls himself?”

  “Yes. But he’s Napoleon now, not Bonaparte any more. First Consul for life.”

  “Funny sort of name. Not what I’d choose for myself.”

  “Lieutenant Napoleon Bush,” said Hornblower. “It wouldn’t sound well.”

  They laughed together at the ridiculous combination.

  “The Morning Chronicle says he’s going a step farther,” went on Hornblower. “There’s talk that he’s going to call himself Emperor.”

  “Emperor!”

  Even Bush could catch the connotations of that title, with its claims to universal preeminence.

  “I suppose he’s mad?” asked Bush.

  “If he is, he’s the most dangerous madman in Europe.”

  “I don’t trust him over this Malta business. I don’t trust him an inch,” said Bush, emphatically. “You mark my words we’ll have to fight him again in the end. Teach him a lesson he won’t forget. It’ll come sooner or later—we can’t go on like this.”

  “I think you’re quite right,” said Hornblower. “And sooner rather than later.”

  “Then—” said Bush.

  He could not talk and think at the same time, not when his thoughts were as tumultuous as the ones this conclusion called up; war with France meant the reexpansion of the navy; the threat of invasion and the needs of convoy would mean the commissioning of every small craft that could float and carry a gun. It would mean the end of half pay for him; it would mean walking a deck again and handling a ship under sail. And it would mean hardship again, danger, anxiety, monotony—all the concomitants of war. These thoughts rushed into his brain with so much velocity, and in such a continuous stream, that they made a sort of whirlpool of his mind, in which the good and the bad circled after each other, each in turn chasing the other out of his attention.

  “War’s a foul business,” said Hornblower, solemnly. “Remember the things you’ve seen.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Bush; there was no need to particularize. But it was an unexpected remark, all the same. Hornblower grinned and relieved the tension.

  “Well,” he said, “Boney can call himself Emperor if he likes. I have to earn my half guinea at the Long Rooms.”

  Bush was about to take this opportunity to ask Hornblower how he was profiting there, but he was interrupted by a rumble outside the door and a knock.

  “Here comes your bed,” said Hornblower, walking over to open the door.

  Maria came trundling the thing in. She smiled at them.

  “Over here or over there?” she asked.

  Hornblower looked at Bush.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Bush.

  “I’ll put it against the wall, then.”

  “Let me help,” said Hornblower.

  “Oh no, sir. Please, sir, I can do it.”

  The attention fluttered her—and Bush could see that with her sturdy figure she was in no need of help. To cover he confusion she began to thump at the bedding, putting the pillows into the pillowslips.

  “I trust you have already had the mumps, Maria?” said Hornblower.

  “Oh yes, sir. I had them as a child, on both sides.”

  The exercise and her agitation between them had brought the colour into her cheeks. With blunt but capable hands she spread the sheet. Then she paused as another implication of Hornblower’s inquiry occurred to her.

  “You’ve no need to worry, sir. I shan’t give them to you if you haven’t had them.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that,” salt Hornblower.

  “Oh, sir,” said Maria, twitching the sheet into mathematical smoothness. She spread the blankets before she looked up again. “Are you going out directly, sir?”

  “Yes. I ought to have left already.”

  “Let me take that coat of yours for a minute, sir. I can sponge it and freshen it up.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have you go to that trouble, Maria.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble, sir. Of course not. Please let me, sir. It looks—”

  “It looks the worse for wear,” said Hornblower, glancing down at it. “There’s no cure for old age that’s yet been discovered.”

  “Please let me take it, sir. There’s some spirits of hartshorn downstairs. It will make quite a difference. Really it will.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, please, sir.”

  Hornblower reluctantly put up his hand and undid a button.

  “I’ll only be a minute with it,” said Maria, hastening to him. Her hands were extended to the other buttons, but a sweep of Hornblower’s quick nervous fingers had anticipated her. He pulled off his coat and she took it out of his hands.

  “You’
ve mended that shirt yourself,” she said, accusingly.

  “Yes, I have.”

  Hornblower was a little embarrassed at the revelation of the worn garment. Maria studied the patch.

  “I would have done that for you if you’d asked me, sir.”

  “And a good deal better, no doubt.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t saying that, sir. But it isn’t fit that you should patch your own shirts.”

  “Whose should I patch, then?”

  Maria giggled.

  “You’re too quick with your tongue for me,” she said. “Now, just wait here and talk to the lieutenant while I sponge this.”

  She darted out of the room and they heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs, while Hornblower looked half ruefully at Bush.

  “There’s a strange pleasure,” he said, “in knowing that there’s a human being who cares whether I’m alive or dead. Why that should give pleasure is a question to be debated by the philosophic mind.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bush.

  He had sisters who devoted all their attention to him whenever it was possible, and he was used to it. At home he took their ministrations for granted. He heard the church clock strike the half hour, and it called his thoughts to the further business of the day.

  “You’re going to the Long Rooms now?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you, I suppose, want to go to the dockyard? The monthly visit to the Clerk of the Cheque?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can walk together as far as the Rooms, if you care to. As soon as our friend Maria returns my coat to me.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Bush.

  It was not long before Maria came knocking at the door again.

  “It’s done,” she said, holding out the coat. “It’s nice and fresh now.”

  But something seemed to have gone out of her. She seemed a little frightened, a little apprehensive.

  “What’s the matter, Maria?” asked Hornblower, quick to feel the change of attitude.