Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower would have liked to have asked if the arrangements for saluting were properly in train, but he forbore. He could trust Bush with any routine duty, and he had to be very careful not to interfere with the working of the ship. He was glad that so far he had never forgotten to make use of the polite forms of request when giving orders to Bush, who was his equal in substantive rank. ‘I’d be obliged’ and ‘if you please’ still came strangely enough to his lips as a preface to an order.

  He turned his back on the dawn and trained his glass aft on the squadron; they were squaring away and taking up their stations astern in succession, the two sloops, and then the two bomb-vessels, and the cutter last.

  ‘General signal,’ he snapped, ‘“Keep better station”.’

  He wanted his squadron to come up the difficult channel in exact, regular order, like beads on a string. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Basse and Wychwood come on deck, and he ignored them.

  ‘Make that signal again,’ he rasped, ‘with Harvey’s number.’

  Harvey was yawing slightly from her course; young Mound had better keep a sharp eye on his helmsman, or he would be in trouble. To starboard, where the wide shoals extended from the Oranienbaum shore, there were buoys to mark the limits of the channel, which serpentined back and forth in unpredictable fashion. If ever he had to penetrate this channel as an enemy he would find it a tricky business. There were the low grey fortifications of Kronstadt on the port bow; a turn in the channel sent the Nonsuch heading directly for them, so that in the event of fighting the fire of the guns there would enfilade the whole line. Then the channel swung back again, and then it straightened out so that all ships would be forced to pass close under the guns of Kronstadt. Through his glass Hornblower made out the blue and white flag of Imperial Russia flying above the grey walls.

  ‘Make the signal “anchor”,’ said Hornblower to the signal midshipman, and then he darted a meaning glance at Bush, who nodded. He had everything ready. The ship crept forward, closer and closer under the guns.

  ‘Haul down,’ said Hornblower, and the signal to anchor came down in a flash, putting the order into force at that moment. Six cables roared through six hawseholes. In the six ships a thousand men poured aloft, and the canvas vanished as though by magic as the ships swung round to their cables.

  ‘Pretty fair,’ said Hornblower to himself, realising, with an inward smile at his own weakness, that no evolution could ever be carried out to his perfect satisfaction. Forward the saluting gun began to crash out its marks of respect for the Russian flag; Hornblower saw a puff of smoke from the fortress and then the sound of the first gun of the return salute reached his ears. Eleven guns; they recognised his broad pendant, then, and knew what compliments were due to a Commodore. Here came the doctor’s boat to give them pratique; the doctor was a man with a large black beard who spoke limping French. His visit was a good opportunity to test Braun’s ability to speak Russian – Braun translated with facility Hornblower’s declaration that there was no infectious disease on board. Everyone in the ship was a little excited at this visit to Russia, and crowded the side to look down at the Russian boat’s crew, seated in their boat with the bowman hooking on to the chains, but they appeared no different from any other boat’s crew – much the same kind of coloured shirts and ragged trousers and bare feet, and they handled their craft capably enough. It was Bush who drove the Nonsuch’s crew from the side; he was hotly indignant about their blatant curiosity and the noise they made.

  ‘Chattering like a herd of monkeys,’ said Bush indignantly to the first lieutenant. ‘Making more noise than a tree full of jackdaws. What’ll these Russians think of us? Set the men to work and keep ’em at it.’

  In these conditions of doubtful neutrality it would be best for the first contact with the shore to be made by Basse. At least ostensibly the squadron had come to Kronstadt merely to bring him with his news to the Swedish Crown Prince. Hornblower had his barge hoisted out and sent Basse away in it, and the boat returned without him but with no other information. Basse had landed at the jetty, and the barge, in accordance with Hornblower’s orders, had immediately returned. Apart from the salute and the doctor’s visit the Russian Empire chose to ignore the British squadron’s existence.

  ‘What sort of people do they think we are?’ grumbled Bush fretting, as usual, at inaction. Bush knew as well as Hornblower that in all matters of diplomacy it was best to display no eagerness at all, but he could not force himself to appear calm as Hornblower could. He gave a meaning glance at Hornblower’s full uniform and ribbon and star, donned so as to be ready for any official occasion whatever; he wanted Hornblower to proceed on shore to call on the local governor and put the whole situation to the test, but Hornblower was obstinate. He was waiting for an invitation. England had survived the storm in Europe so far without a Russian alliance, and future relations would be simplified if Russia were to make the first advances now – provided she did make them. His squadron was present merely to bring Basse to report to Bernadotte; if the Russian Government chose to take advantage of his presence to approach him, well and good. Otherwise he would have to devise some other plan.

  ‘The telegraph hasn’t ceased working since Basse reached shore,’ commented Bush, glass to eye. The three gaunt black arms of the semaphore on the top of the fortress were whirling busily round transmitting messages to the next station higher up the bay. Otherwise there was almost nothing to be seen; across the low land of the island were visible a few masts to mark the site of the naval dockyard; two or three merchant ships swung at anchor in that direction, and a few fishing-boats plied their trade.

  ‘There goes a boat!’ said Montgomery suddenly.

  A smart pinnace was shooting out from the direction of the dockyard heading across the channel almost directly away from Nonsuch.

  ‘Russian Imperial colours,’ said Bush. ‘Can anyone see who’s on board?’

  But the pinnace was too far away for any details to be visible by telescope.

  ‘I think I can see gold lace,’ said Carlin, doubtfully.

  ‘Much good that is,’ said Bush. ‘A blind man would guess there was gold lace in a Russian navy pinnace at Kronstadt.’

  The pinnace passed away into the distance, quartering across the broad channel until her white sail dwindled to a speck.

  ‘Call me if anything happens, if you please, Captain Bush,’ said Hornblower.

  He went off below to his cabin; Brown relieved him of his heavy full-dress coat with the epaulettes, and, once more alone, he began to fidget about the cabin. He opened the case of pistols which Barbara had given him, read the card inside it – the last word he had received from her – and shut the case again. He stepped out into the stern gallery and returned to the cabin. The realisation that he was worried annoyed him; he took down Archdeacon Coxe’s travels from the bookshelf and set himself seriously to read the Archdeacon’s intensely wearisome remarks about the condition of Russia, in the endeavour to inform himself more fully about the northern powers. But the words made sheer nonsense to him; he took up the slim volume of ‘Childe Harold’ instead.

  ‘Bombast and fustian,’ he said to himself, flipping through the pages.

  He heard six bells strike; it was still no later than eleven in the morning, and he could not possibly dine before two. He got up from his chair and made himself lie on his cot, shut his eyes and grimly clenched his hands and tried to force himself to doze. He could not possibly go up on deck again and walk up and down, as he wanted to – that would be a public admission that he was restless and nervous. The minutes passed on leaden feet; he felt he had never felt so caged and unhappy before in his life.

  Eight bells went, and he heard the watch relieved; it was like an eternity before he heard a bustle on the half-deck outside and someone knocked on the door. Hornblower settled himself in an attitude of complete relaxation on his cot.

  ‘Come in!’ he called, and he blinked and peered at the midshipman as
if he had just awakened from a sound sleep.

  ‘Boat heading towards us, sir,’ said the midshipman.

  ‘I’ll come up,’ said Hornblower. ‘Pass the word for my cox’n.’

  Brown helped him into his dress-coat, and he reached the deck while the boat was still some distance off.

  ‘The same pinnace that we saw before, sir,’ commented Hurst.

  The pinnace came into the wind, and took in her mainsail while the bowman hailed the ship in Russian.

  ‘Where’s Mr Braun?’ said Hornblower.

  The hail was repeated, and Braun translated.

  ‘He is asking permission to hook on to us, sir. And he says he has a message for you.’

  ‘Tell him to come alongside,’ said Hornblower. This dependence upon an interpreter always irritated him.

  The boat’s crew was smart, dressed in something like a uniform with blue shirts and white trousers, and in the stern-sheets, ready to mount the side, was an officer in military uniform, frogged across the breast in Hussar fashion. The Hussar came clumsily up the side, and glanced round, saluting the mass of gold lace which awaited him. Then he produced a letter, which he offered with a further explanation in Russian.

  ‘From His Imperial Majesty the Czar,’ translated Braun with a catch in his voice.

  Hornblower took the letter; it was addressed in French –

  M. LE CHEF D’ESCADRE LE CAPITAINE SIR HORNBLOWER, VAISSEAU BRITANNIQUE NOONSUCH.

  Apparently the Czar’s secretary, however competent he might be in other ways, was shaky regarding both British titles and spelling. The letter within was written in French as well – it was pleasant to be able to translate without Braun’s assistance

  THE IMPERIAL PALACE OF PETERHOF GRAND MARSHALATE OF THE IMPERIAL COURT.

  30th May, 1812.

  SIR,

  I am commanded by His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of All the Russias to express to you His Imperial Majesty’s pleasure at hearing of your arrival in His Imperial Majesty’s waters. His Imperial Majesty and His Royal Highness the Prince of Sweden further command you to dinner at this palace today at four o’clock accompanied by your staff. His Excellency the Minister of Marine has put at your disposal a boat which will convey you and your party direct to the quay, and the officer who conveys this letter to you will serve as your guide.

  Accept, sir, the assurances of my highest consideration,

  KOTCHUBEY, Grand Marshal of the Court.

  ‘I am invited to dinner with the Czar and Bernadotte,’ said Hornblower to Bush; he handed over the letter, and Bush looked at it wisely with his head on one side as if he could read French.

  ‘You’re going, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It would hardly be tactful to begin his first encounter with the Russian and Swedish authorities by refusing an Imperial and a royal command.

  Hornblower suddenly glanced round to find half the officers of the ship hanging on his words. This public discussion of his affairs was not in the least dignified, and detracted vastly from the pomp and mystery which should surround a Commodore. He had fallen sadly away from his old standards.

  ‘Have none of you anything better to do than stand about and gape?’ he bellowed, rounding on the herd. ‘I can find mastheads even for senior officers if necessary.’

  They began to slink away in gratifying fright, each one doing his best to avoid catching his eye as he glowered round him. That was a very desirable result. Then he became aware that the Hussar had yet another letter in his hand. He took it from him and glanced at the superscription.

  ‘Here, Colonel, this is for you,’ he said, handing it to Wychwood before turning back to Bush. ‘The Czar and Bernadotte are at Peterhof – the palace is marked on the chart, on the Oranienbaum shore over there. You will be in command in my absence, of course.’

  Bush’s face reflected a complexity of emotions; Hornblower knew that he was remembering other occasions when Hornblower had left him in command, to go on shore to beard a mad tyrant on the coast of Central America, or to undertake some harebrained adventure on the coast of France.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush.

  ‘I have to take my staff,’ said Hornblower. ‘Who do you think would care to dine with the Czar?’

  He could afford to be jocose with Bush, who held the same substantive rank as himself – especially after his recent assertion of his dignity.

  ‘You’ll need Braun, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Dinner with the Czar would be a notable experience for any young officer, something he would be able to yarn about for the rest of his life. Good service could be rewarded by an invitation; and at the same time some future Admiral might gain invaluable experience.

  ‘I’ll take Hurst,’ decided Hornblower; there were not the makings of an Admiral in the first lieutenant, but discipline demanded that he be included in the party. ‘And young Mound, if you’ll signal for him. And a midshipman. Who do you suggest?’

  ‘Somers is the brightest, sir.’

  ‘The fat one? Very good, I’ll take him. Have you been invited, too, Colonel?’

  ‘I have, sir,’ answered Wychwood.

  ‘We must be there at four. How long will it take to arrive?’

  He looked at the Hussar, who did not understand him, and then looked round for Braun, who had left the deck, which was perfectly infuriating. When Hornblower had turned on the idling crowd he had not meant Braun to go, of course. It was just like Braun with his mock-humble pose to take his chief literally. Hornblower angrily ordered the word to be passed for him, and fumed until he came up again; yet when he came there was small satisfaction to be derived from his services, for when Hornblower’s question was translated to the Hussar the latter merely raised his eyes to the sky and shrugged his shoulders before offering the information – translated by Braun – that it might be two hours and it might be four. As a soldier the Hussar would make no estimate of the time necessary for a journey by boat.

  ‘We mustn’t be late for a royal command, damn it,’ said Hornblower. ‘We’ll leave in half an hour.’

  Hornblower came punctually to the ship’s side to find the others awaiting him, young Somers’ plump cheeks empurpled with the constriction of his stock, Hurst and Mound uncomfortable in their full dress, Braun stiffly uniformed.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Hornblower.

  Young Somers went first in accordance with the age-old rule of the junior getting first into a boat, and Braun followed him. Braun’s lifted arm, as he went over the side, pulled up his tight coat for a moment, and his waistcoat with it. Something flashed momentarily into view at his waistband; something black – Hornblower’s eyes were resting on it at that moment. It must have been the butt of a pistol, the barrel of it pushed into the waistband of his breeches, round by his hip where the bulge would be least noticeable. The fellow was wearing his sword, of course. Hornblower began to wonder why he should take a pistol. But Mound and Hurst had followed him down by this time, and Wychwood was heaving himself over, in his scarlet tunic and bearskin. The Hussar should go next, so that the Commodore should descend last, but he was hanging back with misplaced politeness, bowing and making way for the Commodore.

  ‘After you, sir,’ said Hornblower to his deaf ears.

  Hornblower had positively to stamp his foot to compel the ignorant soldier to precede him, and then he swung himself over to the shrilling of the pipes of the boatswain’s mates and the rigid salutes of the ship’s officers. He dropped into the sternsheets, encumbered with his boat-cloak. There was a tiny cabin forward, where he joined Wychwood and Hurst. Mound and the warrant officers and the Hussar kept themselves discreetly in the stern. The coxswain yelled some strange order and the boat cast off, the lugsail was hoisted and they headed over to the Oranienbaum shore.

  From where he sat Hornblower could see Braun sitting stiffly in the sternsheets. That business of the pistol was rather curious. Presumably he had fears of attack or arrest on s
hore as a recent rebel, and wished to have the means to defend himself. But not even the Russians would lay hands on an English officer, in a British uniform. That was a big pistol butt; a black one too. Hornblower suddenly moved uneasily on his locker, uncrossed his knees and recrossed them. That was one of the pistols Barbara had given him the butt of which he had seen in Braun’s waistband. He remembered the shape of the ebony butt too well to be mistaken about it.

  The presence of a thief on board a ship was always upsetting and disturbing; theft was so easy and suspicion could be spread so wide, although that was not true in this case. It would still be a nasty business accusing Braun of the crime and punishing him for it. An English-made rifled pistol with percussion caps – presumably the very first of its kind to reach Russia – would command a fabulous price at the Russian Court. Braun could reasonably expect to obtain two or three hundred guineas for it. And yet even with all his prejudice against him he could not believe Braun capable of petty theft.

  The coxswain suddenly shouted a new order, and the pinnace came about on the other tack; the dipping lug with which she was equipped had to be taken in and reset when she tacked, and Hornblower watched the evolution with professional interest. The Russian sailors were smart and handy enough, but that was to be expected of the crew of the pinnace specially attached to the service of the Russian Admiralty. The Nonsuch was already far astern, hull down. A buoy made its appearance close alongside, and passed away astern, the rapidity of its passage proof of the speed the pinnace was making through the water.

  ‘We’re heading sou’west now, sir,’ commented Hurst; ‘we’re out of the fairway.’

  He climbed up out of the little cabin and peered ahead.

  ‘Land right ahead, sir,’ he reported, ‘but no sign of any palace.’

  ‘I know nothing about the Peterhof,’ remarked Wychwood. ‘I was in Czarskoe Selo and the old Winter Palace as a subaltern on Wilson’s staff before Tilsit. The Peterhof’s one of the lesser palaces; I expect they chose it for this meeting so that Bernadotte could arrive direct by sea.’