Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  Braun would bear watching, thought Hornblower – that would be something more to bear in mind, as if he did not have enough worries or carry enough responsibility already. He could joke with Bush about the Swedes and the Russians, but secretly anxiety was gnawing at him. The Swedes might well be exasperated by the destruction of the Blanchefleur in Pomeranian waters. That might be the last straw; Bernadotte might at this very moment be contemplating wholehearted alliance with Bonaparte and war with England. The prospect of the enmity of Sweden as well as that of France might easily break down Russia’s resolution. English might find herself with the whole world in arms against her as a result of Hornblower’s action. A fine climax that would be to his first independent command. Those cursed brothers of Barbara’s would sneer in superior fashion at his failure.

  Hornblower shook himself with an effort out of this nightmare, to find that Braun was obviously still in his. The hatred in his eyes, the intensity of his expression were quite startling. And then someone knocked on the cabin door and Braun came out of his dream and slipped instantly into his old attitude of attentive deference.

  ‘Come in,’ shouted Hornblower.

  It was one of the midshipmen of the watch.

  ‘Mr Montgomery sent me with this signal from Raven, sir.’

  He held out the slate; it was scrawled with the words written on it by the signal officer.

  Have met Swedish vessel desirous of speaking with Commodore.

  ‘I’ll come on deck,’ said Hornblower. ‘Ask the captain if he’ll be kind enough to come too.’

  ‘The cap’n’s on deck, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Bush and Montgomery and half a dozen officers had their glasses trained towards the topsails of the Raven at her station far out on the port beam as the squadron swept up the Baltic. There was still an hour of daylight left.

  ‘Captain Bush,’ said Hornblower, ‘I’d be obliged if you would have the helm put up and run down towards her.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘And signal for the squadron to take up night stations, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Nonsuch heaved her ponderous self about, lying over as she took the wind abeam while the watch hauled aft on the starboard braces.

  ‘There’s a sail just astern of Raven, sir,’ said Montgomery. ‘Looks like a brig. A Swede from the cut of her tops’ls, sir. One of those Baltic traders you see in Leith Roads.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hornblower.

  It would not be long before he heard what the news was. It might well be – it probably would be – something desperately unpleasant. Some new load of responsibility for his shoulders, for certain, even if it told of no actual disaster. He found himself envying Montgomery his simple duties of officer of the watch, with nothing more to do than simply obey orders and keep an eye on the weather, with the blessed obligation of having to refer all important decisions to a superior. Hornblower made himself stand still on the quarterdeck, his hands clasped behind him, as Nonsuch and the brig approached each other, as first the brig’s courses and then her hull came up over the horizon. To the west the sky was a flaming crimson, but twilight lingered on as the brig came up into the wind.

  ‘Captain Bush,’ said Hornblower, ‘will you heave to, if you please? They are putting a boat overside.’

  He would not display vulgar curiosity by staring at the boat as it was launched, or by looking down into it as it came alongside; he paced peacefully up and down the quarterdeck in the lovely evening, looking in every direction save towards the boat, while the rest of the officers and the men chattered and stared and speculated. Yet Hornblower, for all his air of sublime indifference, turned to face the entry-port at the exact moment when the visitor was coming in over the side. The first thing Hornblower saw was a fore-and-aft cocked hat with a white plume that seemed familiar, and then under the hat appeared the heavy face and portly form of Baron Basse. He laid the hat across his chest to make his bow just as he had done before.

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ said Hornblower, saluting stiffly. He was handicapped by the fact that although he could remember Basse very well, and could have described him to perfection, he did not remember his name. He turned to the midshipman of the watch. ‘Pass the word for Mr Braun.’

  The Swedish gentleman was saying something, but what it was Hornblower could not imagine.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Hornblower, and Basse repeated what he said, with no more success at conveying his meaning. He began once more laboriously, but cut himself short when he saw Hornblower distractedly looking away from him towards the entry-port. Hornblower was doing his best to be polite, but he could see a bearskin headdress coming in at the entry-port, and that was too intriguing a sight for him possibly to withstand its attraction. A big bearskin cap with a red plume, a bristling red moustache, a scarlet tunic, a red sash, a profusion of gold lace, blue pantaloons with a red stripe, high boots, a sword whose golden hilt glowed strangely in the fading light; that was the uniform of the Guards, surely. The wearer of the uniform was undersized for a guardsman, but he certainly knew his ceremonial; his hand was at the salute to the quarterdeck as he came in through the entry-port, and then he strode forward on short legs and brought his heels together in a smart Guards salute to Hornblower.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘You are Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘May I introduce myself? I am Colonel Lord Wychwood, of the First Guards.’

  ‘Good evening,’ said Hornblower coolly. As Commodore he was decidedly senior to a Colonel, and he could afford to be cool while waiting on events. He supposed that he would soon hear the explanation of this arrival of a Colonel of the Grenadier Guards in full regimentals in the middle of the Baltic Sea.

  ‘I have despatches,’ said Lord Wychwood, fumbling in the breast of his tunic, ‘from our Ambassador at Stockholm for you, sir.’

  ‘Let us go to my cabin, sir,’ said Hornblower. He darted a glance at Basse.

  ‘You have already made the acquaintance of Baron Basse, I understand? He has messages for you, too.’

  ‘Then perhaps the Baron will be kind enough to come below as well. If you gentlemen will be kind enough to allow me to precede you, I will show the way.’

  Braun interpreted ceremoniously as Hornblower headed the procession. In the darkened cabin Brown hastened to bring lamps and brought forward chairs; Wychwood lowered himself into his with all the caution demanded by his tight overalls.

  ‘You’ve heard what Boney’s done?’ he began.

  ‘I have heard nothing recently.’

  ‘He sent fifty thousand troops into Swedish Pomerania the moment he got the news of what you did off Stralsund.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘They acted in their usual style. Vandamme was in command. He began by fining the municipality of Stralsund a hundred thousand francs for not greeting his arrival with the ringing of the church bells. He interrupted the service at the church of the Holy Ghost so as to lay hold of the communion plate. He seized the Governor-General and threw him into gaol. The troops were out of hand because the garrison of Rügen tried to oppose their crossing. There was looting and murder and rape all through Rügen. The Baron here escaped in a fishing-boat. All the other officials and the troops are prisoners.’

  ‘So Boney is at war with Sweden now?’

  Wychwood shrugged his shoulders; everyone in the Baltic seemed to shrug shoulders when it was a matter of having to make a downright statement regarding peace and war.

  ‘The Baron here can tell you about that,’ said Wychwood. They turned their glance towards the Baron, who began a voluble explanation in Swedish; Braun, standing against the bulkhead, translated.

  ‘He says that the question of peace and war lies with the Crown Prince, His Royal Highness Charles John, who used to be known as Marshal Bernadotte. His Royal Highness is not in Sweden at the moment. He is visiting the Czar in Russ
ia.’

  ‘I expect that’s what these despatches I have for you are about, sir,’ said Wychwood. He produced a large canvas envelope, heavily sealed, and handed it over. Hornblower tore it open and read the contents.

  EMBASSY OF HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY AT STOCKHOLM.

  20th May, 1812.

  SIR,

  The bearer of this despatch, Colonel Lord Wychwood First Guards, will inform you as to the political situation here. It is to be hoped that Bonaparte’s invasion of Swedish Pomerania will bring about a declaration of war on the part of the Swedish government. It is therefore necessary that all possible aid should be given to Swedish officials who wish to communicate with H.R.H. the Crown Prince. You are therefore directed and required to use all diligence and despatch to escort or convey any such officials on their way to Russia. You are further directed and required to make all use of this opportunity to enable Lord Wychwood to open communication with the Russian government so as to assure H.I.M. the Czar of the full support of His Majesty’s forces by land and sea in the event of war between H.I.M. and the French government. You will further make all use of any opportunity which may present itself to you to further good relations between H.M. and H.I.M.

  Your obed’t servant,

  H. L. MERRY, H.B.M.’s Ambassador

  to the Court of Stockholm.

  CAPTAIN SIR HORATIO HORNBLOWER, K.B.,

  Commodore Commanding the British Squadron in the Baltic.

  Hornblower read the orders through twice, carefully. There was an important decision to be made. Merry had no business giving orders, and especially had no business to give orders in the explicit ‘directed and required’ wording which was the cherished prerogative of his naval superiors. An Ambassador was an important official – to a naval officer in foreign waters the most important official after the Lords of Admiralty – but he could only request and advise, not give orders. If Hornblower should follow Merry’s instructions and the matter turn out ill he would have no excuse to plead to the Admiralty. Yet on the other hand Hornblower knew only too well that if he were to ignore Merry’s letter there would be bitter complaints sent to London.

  Hornblower recalled his Admiralty orders to himself; they gave him wide discretion as to how he should behave towards the northern powers. Merry’s letter relieved him of no responsibility. He could allow Wychwood and Basse to proceed in the Swedish brig, or he could convey them himself; the point at issue was whether the news of Bonaparte’s latest aggression should be conveyed by a British squadron or not. Bearers of bad tidings were always unpopular – a ridiculous detail to have to bear in mind, but an important one. The two potentates might feel exasperated at being reminded of the meddling British Navy, bringing trouble to everyone. On the other hand, the presence of a British squadron far up the Baltic, at the very gates of St Petersburg, might be a salutary reminder of the length of England’s arm. Submission to Bonaparte on the part of Sweden and Russia must mean war, real actual war, with England this time; Bonaparte would be satisfied with nothing less. The sight of British topsails on the horizon, the knowledge that war would mean instant blockade, instant capture of every ship that ventured out, constant harassing of all their shores, might be a powerful argument at their councils. Bonaparte might be at their frontiers, but England would be at their doors. Hornblower made his decision.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I think it is my duty to convey you to Russia in this squadron. I can offer you the hospitality of this ship, if you would be kind enough to accept it.’

  XI

  Despite the fact that he was a peer and a guardsman, despite his little red moustache and his funny popeyes and his ludicrous appearance in uniform, Wychwood was a shrewd and experienced man of the world. At thirty-five he had visited two-thirds of the Courts of Europe, he was familiar with their intrigues, knew their weaknesses and their strengths, the military power of which they could dispose, their prejudices and their traditions. He sat (at Hornblower’s invitation) in Hornblower’s cabin while a brisk westerly wind sent the squadron rolling and pitching up the Baltic. Basse was incapacitated in his berth with seasickness, so that they were not embarrassed by his presence – Wychwood’s cheeks were a little pale as well, and his manner occasionally hinted at an inward preoccupation, but he controlled himself manfully.

  ‘Boney’s weakness,’ said Wychwood, ‘is that he thinks all the opposition in the world can be dissolved by force. Often he’s right, of course; you have only to look back at his career to see that. But sometimes he is wrong. People would rather fight – would rather die – than be slaves to his will any longer.’

  ‘Spain showed that,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Yes. But with Russia it still may be different. Russia is the Czar, much more definitely than Spain was the Bourbon monarchy. If Alexander chooses to submit to Boney’s threats, Russia will submit. Alexander’s swallowed insults enough already.’

  ‘He’s swallowed other things besides insults,’ said Hornblower dryly.

  ‘Finland, you mean? That’s perfectly true. And all the other Baltic provinces, Lithuania and Courland and so on. You know better than I do how much difference that makes to the security of St Petersburg – I find it hard to blame him for it. At home, of course, his attack on Finland roused a good deal of feeling. I hope they forget it if he becomes our ally.’

  ‘And what are the chances of that?’

  ‘God knows. If he can be sure of the Swedish alliance he may fight. And that depends on whether Bernadotte is willing to submit to having Pomerania taken away from him.’

  ‘Bonaparte made a false step there,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Yes, by God! The British colours are like a red rag to a bull to him. You have only to show them to get him to charge. The way you destroyed that ship – what was her name? – the Blanchefleur under his very nose must have driven him crazy. If anything makes the Swedes fight, it’ll be that.’

  ‘Let’s hope it does,’ said Hornblower, decidedly comforted.

  He knew he had taken a bold step when he went in to destroy the Blanchefleur; if the subsequent political repercussions should be unfavourable he might well be called to account. His only justification would be the final event; a more cautious man would have held back and contented himself with keeping the privateer under observation. Probably that would have resulted in her slipping clean away the first foggy night, to resume her ravages among British shipping, but no man could be held responsible for fog. And if Sweden became an active enemy all England would clamour for the head of the officer they deemed responsible. Yet come what might he could not but feel that he had taken the best course in proving that England had the power to strike and would not hesitate to use it. There were few occasions in history when timidity was wise.

  They were bringing further news to St Petersburg, too. Wellington was on the offensive in Spain; in two desperate strokes he had cleared his front by storming Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and now was ready to strike into the heart of the Peninsula. The knowledge that a large part of Bonaparte’s army was hotly engaged in the South might bring firmness to the councils of the North.

  His brother-in-law was an Earl now – another victory or two would make him a Duke, reflected Hornblower. Barbara would be proud of him, and to Hornblower that was another reason for him to dread failure for himself; Barbara had a high standard of comparison. But she would understand. She would know how high were the stakes he was playing for in the Baltic – as high as those her brother was playing for in Spain; she would know what moral courage was needed to make the kind of decisions he had made. She would be considerate; and at that moment Hornblower told himself that he did not want his wife to have to be considerate on his account. The thought revolted him, drove him to make his excuses to Wychwood and plunge out on deck, into the pouring rain under the grey sky, to walk the quarterdeck while the other officers eyed him askance and kept well clear of him. There was not a soul in the squadron who had not heard that only fools crossed the Commodore’s hawse
when he was walking the deck.

  The brisk wind was chill, even in late May, here in the North Baltic; the squadron pitched and rolled over the short steep waves, leadenhued under the leaden sky, as it drove ever northward towards the Gulf of Finland, towards Russia, where the destiny of the world hung in the balance. The night was hardly darker than the day, up here in the sixtieth degree of north latitude, when the sky cleared, for the sun was barely hidden below the horizon and the moon shone coldly in the pale twilight as they drove past Hoghland and hove to in sight of Lavansaari so as to approach Kronstadt after sunrise.

  Braun was on deck early, leaning against the rail, craning over in fact; that faint grey smear on the horizon to the northward was his native land, the Finland of lake and forest which the Czar had just conquered and from which he was a hopeless exile. Hornblower noted the dejection of the poor devil’s pose and was sorry for him, even in the keen excitement of anticipation regarding the reception they might be accorded. Bush came bustling up, in all the glory of epaulettes and sword, darting eager glances over the deck and aloft to make quite sure that everything in the ship was ready to bear the inspection of an unfriendly power.

  ‘Captain Bush,’ said Hornblower, ‘I’d be obliged if you would square away for Kronstadt.’