Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  ‘I would suggest that you take off your hat, sir,’ said Frere’s voice in his ear, ‘and show how much you appreciate the compliment.’

  He took off his hat and sat there in the afternoon sun, awkwardly in the sternsheets of the barge. He tried to smile, but he knew his smile to be wooden – he was nearer tears than smiles. The mists were closing round him again, and the deep-chested bellowing was like the shrill piping of children in his ears.

  The boat rasped against the wall. There was more cheering here, as they handed him up. People were thumping him on the shoulder, wringing his hand, while a blaspheming party of marines forced a passage for him to the post chaise with its horses restless amid the din, Then a clatter of hoofs and a grinding of wheels, and they were flying out of the yard, the postilion cracking his whip.

  ‘A highly satisfactory demonstration of sentiment, on the part of the public and of the armed forces of the Crown,’ said Frere, mopping his face.

  Hornblower suddenly remembered something, which made him sit up, tense.

  ‘Stop at the church!’ he yelled to the postilion.

  ‘Indeed, sir, and might I ask why you gave that order? I have the express commands of His Royal Highness to escort you to London without losing a moment.’

  ‘My wife is buried there,’ snapped Hornblower.

  But the visit to the grave was unsatisfactory – was bound to be with Frere fidgeting and fuming at his elbow, and looking at his watch. Hornblower pulled off his hat and bowed his head by the grave with its carved headstone, but he was too much in a whirl to think clearly. He tried to murmur a prayer – Maria would have liked that, for she was always pained by his free thinking. Frere clucked with impatience.

  ‘Come along, then,’ said Hornblower, turning on his heel and leading the way back to the post chaise.

  The sun shone gloriously over the countryside as they left the town behind them, lighting up the lovely green of the trees and the majestic rolling Downs. Hornblower found himself swallowing hard. This was the England for which he had fought for eighteen long years, and as he breathed its air and gazed round him he felt that England was worth it.

  ‘Damned lucky for the Ministry,’ said Frere, ‘this escape of yours. Something like that was needed. Even though Wellington’s just captured Almeida the mob was growing restive. We had a ministry of all the talents once – now it’s a ministry of no talent. I can’t imagine why Castlereagh and Canning fought that duel. It nearly wrecked us. So did Gambier’s affair at the Basque Roads. Cochrane’s been making a thorough nuisance of himself in the House ever since. Has it ever occurred to you that you might enter parliament? Well, it will be time enough to discuss that when you’ve been to Downing Street. It’s sufficient at present that you’ve given the mob something to cheer about.’

  Mr Frere seemed to take much for granted – for instance, that Hornblower was wholeheartedly on the government side, and that Hornblower had fought at Rosas Bay and had escaped from France solely to maintain a dozen politicians in office. It rather damped Hornblower’s spirits. He sat silent, listening to the rattle of the wheels.

  ‘H.R.H. is none too helpful,’ said Frere. ‘He didn’t turn us out when he assumed the Regency, but he bears us no love – the Regency Bill didn’t please him. Remember that, when you see him tomorrow. He likes a bit of flattery, too. If you can make him believe that you owe your success to the inspiring examples both of H.R.H. and of Mr Spencer Perceval you will be taking the right line. What’s this? Horndean?’

  The postilion drew the horses to a halt outside the inn, and ostlers came running with a fresh pair.

  ‘Sixty miles from London,’ commented Mr Frere. ‘We’ve just time.’

  The inn servants had been eagerly questioning the postilion, and a knot of loungers – smocked agricultural workers and a travelling tinker – joined them, looking eagerly at Hornblower in his blue and gold. Someone else came hastening out of the inn; his red face and silk cravat and leather leggings seemed to indicate him as the local squire.

  ‘Acquitted, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Naturally, sir,’ replied Frere at once. ‘Most honourably acquitted.’

  ‘Hooray for Hornblower!’ yelled the tinker, throwing his hat into the air. The squire waved his arms and stamped with joy, and the farm hands echoed the cheer.

  ‘Down with Boney!’ said Frere. ‘Drive on.’

  ‘It is surprising how much interest has been aroused in your case,’ said Frere a minute later. ‘Although naturally one would expect it to be greatest along the Portsmouth Road.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘I can remember,’ said Frere, ‘when the mob were howling for Wellington to be hanged, drawn and quartered – that was after the news of Cintra. I thought we were gone then. It was his court of inquiry which saved us as it happened, just as yours is going to do now. Do you remember Cintra?’

  ‘I was commanding a frigate in the Pacific at the time,’ said Hornblower, curtly.

  He was vaguely irritated – and he was surprised at himself at finding that he neither liked being cheered by tinkers nor flattered by politicians.

  ‘All the same,’ said Frere, ‘it’s just as well that Leighton was hit at Rosas. Not that I wished him harm, but it drew the teeth of that gang. It would have been them or us otherwise, I fancy. His friends counted twenty votes on a division. You know his widow, I’ve heard?’

  ‘I have that honour.’

  ‘A charming woman for those who are partial to that type. And most influential as a link between the Wellesley party and her late husband’s.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  All the pleasure was evaporating from his success. The radiant afternoon sunshine seemed to have lost its brightness.

  ‘Petersfield is just over the hill,’ said Frere. ‘I expect there’ll be a crowd there.’

  Frere was right. There were twenty or thirty people waiting at the Red Lion, and more came hurrying up, all agog to hear the result of the court martial. There was wild cheering at the news, and Mr Frere took the opportunity to slip in a good word for the government.

  ‘It’s the newspapers,’ grumbled Frere, as they drove on with fresh horses. ‘I wish we could take a lead out of Boney’s book and only allow ’em to publish what we think they ought to know. Emancipation – Reform – naval policy – the mob wants a finger in every pie nowadays.’

  Even the marvellous beauty of the Devil’s Punch Bowl was lost on Hornblower as they drove past it. All the savour was gone from life. He was wishing he was still an unnoticed naval captain battling with Atlantic storms. Every stride the horses were taking was carrying him nearer to Barbara, and yet he was conscious of a sick, vague desire that he was returning to Maria, dull and uninteresting and undisturbing. The crowd that cheered him at Guildford – market day was just over – stank of sweat and beer. He was glad that with the approach of evening Frere ceased talking and left him to his thoughts, depressing though they were.

  It was growing dark when they changed horses again at Esher.

  ‘It is satisfactory to think that no footpad or highwayman will rob us,’ laughed Frere. ‘We have only to mention the name of the hero of the hour to escape scot free.’

  No footpad or highwayman interfered with them at all, as it happened. Unmolested they crossed the river at Putney and drove on past the more frequent houses and along the dark streets.

  ‘Number Ten Downing Street, postie,’ said Frere.

  What Hornblower remembered most vividly of the interview that followed was Frere’s first sotto voce whisper to Perceval – ‘He’s safe’ – which he overheard. The interview lasted no more than ten minutes, formal on the one side, reserved on the other. The Prime Minister was not in a talkative mood apparently – his main wish seemed to be to inspect this man who might perhaps do him an ill turn with the Prince Regent or with the public. Hornblower formed no very favourable impression either of his ability or of his personal charm.

  ‘Pall Mall and th
e War Office next,’ said Frere. ‘God, how we have to work!’

  London smelt of horses – it always did, Hornblower remembered, to men fresh from the sea. The lights of Whitehall seemed astonishingly bright. At the War Office there was a young Lord to see him, someone whom Hornblower liked at first sight. Palmerston was his name, the Under Secretary of State. He asked a great many intelligent questions regarding the state of opinion in France, the success of the last harvest, the manner of Hornblower’s escape. He nodded approvingly when Hornblower hesitated to answer when asked the name of the man who had given him shelter.

  ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘You’re afraid some damned fool’ll blab it out and get him shot. Some damned fool probably would. I’ll ask you for it if ever we need it badly, and you will be able to rely on us then. And what happened to these galley slaves?’

  ‘The first lieutenant in the Triumph pressed them for the service, my lord.’

  ‘So they’ve been hands in a King’s ship for the last three weeks? I’d rather be a galley slave myself.’

  Hornblower was of the same opinion. He was glad to find someone in high position with no illusions regarding the hardships of the service.

  ‘I’ll have them traced and brought home if I can persuade your superiors at the Admiralty to give ’em up. I can find a better use for ’em.’

  A footman brought in a note which Palmerston opened.

  ‘His Royal Highness commands your presence,’ he announced. ‘Thank you, Captain. I hope I shall again have the pleasure of meeting you shortly. This discussion of ours has been most profitable. And the Luddites have been smashing machinery in the north, and Sam Whitbread has been raising Cain in the House, so that your arrival is most opportune. Good evening, Captain.’

  It was those last words which spoilt the whole effect. Lord Palmerston planning a new campaign against Bonaparte won Hornblower’s respect, but Lord Palmerston echoing Frere’s estimate of the political results of Hornblower’s return lost it again.

  ‘What does His Royal Highness want of me?’ he asked of Frere, as they went down the stairs together.

  ‘That’s to be a surprise for you,’ replied Frere archly.

  ‘You may even have to wait until tomorrow’s levee to find out. It isn’t often Prinny’s sober enough for business at this time in the evening. Probably he’s not. You may find tact necessary in your interview with him.’

  It was only this morning, thought Hornblower, his head whirling, that he had been sitting listening to the evidence at his court martial. So much had already happened today. He was surfeited with new experiences. He was sick and depressed. And Lady Barbara and his little son were in Bond Street, not a quarter of a mile away.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten o’clock. Young Pam keeps late hours at the War Office. He’s a glutton for work.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hornblower.

  God only knew at what hour he would escape from the palace. He would certainly have to wait until tomorrow before he called at Bond Street. At the door a coach was waiting, coachmen and footmen in the royal red liveries.

  ‘Sent by the Lord Chamberlain,’ explained Frere. ‘Kind of him.’

  He handed Hornblower in through the door and climbed after him.

  ‘Ever met His Royal Highness?’ he went on.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve been to Court?’

  ‘I have attended two levees. I was presented to King George in ’98.’

  ‘Ah! Prinny’s not like his father. And you know Clarence, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The carriage had stopped at a doorway brightly lit with lanterns; the door was opened, and a little group of footmen were awaiting to hand them out. There was a glittering entrance hall, where somebody in uniform and powder and with a white staff ran his eyes keenly over Hornblower.

  ‘Hat under your arm,’ he whispered. ‘This way, please.’

  ‘Captain Hornblower. Mr Hookham Frere,’ somebody announced.

  It was an immense room, dazzling with the light of its candles; a wide expanse of polished floor, and at the far end a group of people bright with gold lace and jewels. Somebody came over to them, dressed in naval uniform – it was the Duke of Clarence, pop-eyed and pineapple-headed.

  ‘Ah, Hornblower,’ he said, hand held out, ‘welcome home.’

  Hornblower bowed over the hand.

  ‘Come and be presented. This is Captain Hornblower, sir.’

  ‘Evenin’, Captain.’

  Corpulent, handsome, and dissipated, weak and sly, was the sequence of impressions Hornblower received as he made his bow. The thinning curls were obviously dyed; the moist eyes and the ruddy pendulous cheeks seemed to hint that His Royal Highness had dined well, which was more than Hornblower had.

  ‘Everyone’s been talkin’ about you, Captain, ever since your cutter – what’s its name, now? – came in to Portsmouth.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ Hornblower was standing stiffly at attention.

  ‘Yas. And, damme, so they ought to. So they ought to, damme, Captain. Best piece of work I ever heard of – good as I could have done myself. Here, Conyngham, make the presentations.’

  Hornblower bowed to Lady This and Lady That, to Lord Somebody and to Sir John Somebody-else. Bold eyes and bare arms, exquisite clothes and blue Garter-ribbons, were all the impressions Hornblower received. He was conscious that the uniform made for him by the Victory’s tailor was a bad fit.

  ‘Now let’s get the business done with,’ said the Prince. ‘Call those fellows in.’

  Someone was spreading a carpet on the floor, someone else was bearing in a cushion on which something winked and sparkled. There was a little procession of three solemn men in red cloaks. Someone dropped on one knee to present the Prince with a sword.

  ‘Kneel, sir,’ said Lord Conyngham to Hornblower.

  He felt the accolade and heard the formal words which dubbed him knight. But when he rose, a little dazed, the ceremony was by no means over. There was a ribbon to be hung over his shoulder, a star to be pinned on his breast, a red cloak to be draped about him, a vow to be repeated and signatures written. He was being invested as a Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, as someone loudly proclaimed. He was Sir Horatio Hornblower, with a ribbon and star to wear for the rest of his life. At last they took the cloak from his shoulders again and the officials of the order withdrew.

  ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you, Sir Horatio,’ said the Duke of Clarence, coming forward, his kindly imbecile face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hornblower. The broad star thumped his chest as he bowed again.

  ‘My best wishes, Colonel,’ said the Prince Regent.

  Hornblower was conscious of all the eyes turned on him at that speech; it was that which warned him that the Prince was not making a slip regarding his rank.

  ‘Sir?’ he said, inquiringly, as seemed to be expected of him.

  ‘His Royal Highness,’ explained the Duke, ‘has been pleased to appoint you one of his Colonels of Marines.’

  A Colonel of Marines received pay to the amount of twelve hundred pounds a year, and did no duty for it. It was an appointment given as a reward to successful captains, to be held until they reached flag rank. Six thousand pounds he had already, Hornblower remembered. Now he had twelve hundred a year in addition to his captain’s half pay at least. He had attained financial security at last, for the first time in his life. He had a title, a ribbon and star. He had everything he had ever dreamed of having, in fact.

  ‘The poor man’s dazed,’ laughed the Regent loudly, delighted.

  ‘I am overwhelmed, sir,’ said Hornblower, trying to concentrate again on the business in hand. ‘I hardly know how to thank your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Thank me by joining us at hazard. Your arrival interrupted a damned interesting game. Ring that bell, Sir John, and let’s have some wine. Sit here beside Lady Jane, Captain. Surely you want to play? Yes, I know ab
out you, Hookham. You want to slip away and tell John Walter that I’ve done my duty. You might suggest at the same time that he writes one of his damned leaders and has my Civil List raised – I work hard enough for it, God knows. But I don’t see why you should take the captain away. Oh, very well then, damn it. You can go if you want to.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine,’ said Frere, when they were safely in the coach again, ‘that you’d care to play hazard. I wouldn’t, not with Prinny, if he were using his own dice. Well, how does it feel to be Sir Horatio?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hornblower.

  He was digesting the Regent’s allusion to John Walter. This was the editor of the Times, he knew. It was beginning to dawn upon him that his investiture as Knight of the Bath and appointment as Colonel of Marines were useful pieces of news. Presumably their announcement would have some influence politically, too – that was the reason for haste. They would convince doubting people that the government’s naval officers were achieving great things – it was almost as much a political move to make him a knight as was Bonaparte’s scheme to shoot him for violating the laws of war. The thought took a great deal of the pleasure out of it.

  ‘I took the liberty,’ said Frere, ‘of engaging a room for you at the Golden Cross. You’ll find them expecting you; I had your baggage sent round. Shall I stop the coach there? Or do you want to visit Fladong’s first?’

  Hornblower wanted to be alone; the idea of visiting the naval coffee house tonight – for the first time in five years – had no appeal for him, especially as he felt suddenly selfconscious in his ribbon and star. Even at the hotel it was bad enough, with host and boots and chambermaid all unctuously deferential with their ‘Yes, Sir Horatio,’ and ‘No, Sir Horatio,’ making a procession out of lighting him up to his room, and fluttering round him to see that he had all he wanted, when all he wanted now was to be left in peace.