Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Do pictures interest monsieur very much?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hornblower politely.

  ‘The picture gallery in this palace is very fine. You have not seen it yet?’

  ‘I have not yet had that pleasure.’

  ‘This evening, after the royal party has retired, I could show it to you. Unless you would rather join one of the card tables?’

  ‘I would much prefer to see pictures,’ said Hornblower. His laugh rang a little loud even in his own ears.

  ‘Then if, after the royal party has withdrawn, you are by the door on the far side of the room, I shall show you the way.’

  ‘That will be delightful, madame.’

  They were drinking toasts at the head of the table – for the first one everyone had to stand while they drank the health of the Prince of Sweden, and after that conversation perforce became disjointed with other toasts to be drunk, announced by a gigantic official with a colossal voice – Stentor with Hercules’ frame, said Hornblower to himself, pleased with the classical touch – who stood behind the Czar’s chair. Between toasts there was music; not orchestral music, but vocal music from an unaccompanied male choir, seemingly of hundreds of voices which filled the vast room with their din. Hornblower heard it with the faint but growing irritation of the completely tone-deaf. It was a relief when the music ceased and everyone stood once more while the royal party withdrew through a doorway near the head of the table, and no sooner had the door closed after them than the women went out too, ushered through the far door by Madame Kotchubey.

  ‘A bientôt,’ smiled the Countess, as she left him.

  The men began to gather in groups along the table while footmen hastened in with coffee and cordials; Wychwood, his bearskin still under his arm, made his way round to Hornblower. His face was redder than ever; his eyes, if it were possible, stuck out even farther from his head.

  ‘The Swedes’ll fight if Russia will,’ said Wychwood, in a grating whisper, ‘I have that direct from Basse, who was with Bernadotte all day.’

  Then he passed on and Hornblower heard his remarkable French being practised on a uniformed group higher up the table. The room was unbearably hot, presumably because of the infinity of candles alight in it; some of the men were already beginning to drift away through the door where the women had preceded them. Hornblower drank his coffee and rose to his feet, transferring his cocked hat once more from his knees to under his arm. The room he entered must have been the counterpart of the one in which the royal reception had been held, for it was domed too, and of similar proportions; Hornblower remembered the two domes he had seen when his carriage draw up to the palace. It was dotted with chairs and sofas and tables, round one of which a group of dowagers were already playing cards, and an elderly couple were playing backgammon at another. At the far end his eye instantly discerned the Countess, seated on a couch with her train spread beside her and her coffee cup and saucer in her hands, while she chatted with another woman; every line of the Countess’s attitude proclaimed girlish innocence.

  From the number of people already assembled it was clear that this was the meeting-place of the whole Court; presumably the hundreds of people who had perforce witnessed the royal reception from the gallery were permitted to descend and mingle with their betters after dining less elaborately. Young Mound was lounging towards him, his lean gangling body looking like an overgrown colt’s.

  ‘We have him in a side room aloft, sir,’ he reported. ‘He fainted with the loss of blood – we had to put a tourniquet on his arm to stop the bleeding. We bandaged him with half of Somers’ shirt, and Somers and Mr Hurst are keeping guard over him.’

  ‘Does anyone know about it?’

  ‘No, sir. We got him into the room without anyone seeing us. I poured a glass of liquor over his coat and from the stink of him anyone’ll think he’s drunk.’

  Mound was obviously a capable man in an emergency, as Hornblower had already suspected.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘The sooner we get him away the better, sir,’ said Mound, with a diffidence to be expected of a junior officer making suggestions to a senior.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Hornblower, ‘except that—’

  Hornblower was still having to think quickly. It would hardly be possible, in any case, to leave at once, the moment dinner was over. It would not be polite. And there was the Countess over there, presumably watching them. If they were to leave now, immediately after conferring together – and breaking an engagement with her – she would be full of suspicion, as well as of the fury of a woman scorned. They simply could not leave immediately.

  ‘We shall have to stay another hour at least,’ he said. ‘The conventions demand it. Go back and hold the fort for that time.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Mound restrained himself in the nick of time from coming to attention as with the habit of years he had grown accustomed to do when uttering those words – further proof of the clearness of his head. He nodded and wandered off as if they had been merely discussing the weather, and Hornblower allowed his slow legs to carry him over towards the Countess.

  She smiled at his approach.

  ‘Princess,’ she said, ‘you have not met Commodore Hornblower? The Princess de Stolp.’

  Hornblower bowed; the Princess was an elderly woman with a good deal left of what must have been marvellous beauty.

  ‘The Commodore,’ went on the Countess, ‘has expressed a desire to see the picture gallery. Would you care to come with us, Princess?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the Princess. ‘I fear I am too old for picture galleries. But go, my children, without me.’

  ‘I would not like to leave you alone, here,’ protested the Countess.

  ‘Even at my age, I can boast that I am still never left long alone, Countess. Leave me, I beg you. Enjoy yourselves, children.’

  Hornblower bowed again, and the Countess took his arm, and they walked slowly out. She pressed his arm, while footmen stood aside to allow them passage.

  ‘The Italian pictures of the Cinque Cento are in the far gallery,’ said the Countess as they came into the broad corridor. ‘Would you care to see the more modern ones first?’

  ‘As madame wishes,’ said Hornblower.

  Once through a door, once out of the ceremonial part of the palace, it was like a rabbit warren, narrow passages, innumerable staircases, an infinity of rooms. The apartment to which she led him was on the first floor; a sleepy maid who was awaiting her coming vanished into the room beyond as they came into the luxurious sitting-room. It was into the room beyond that the Countess called him, five minutes later.

  XIII

  Hornblower turned over in his cot with a groan; the effort of turning brought back the pain into his temples, although he moved very cautiously. He was a fool to have drunk so much – it was the first time he had had this sort of headache for half a dozen years. Yet it had been hard to avoid, just as everything else had been hard to avoid; he did not know what else he could have done, once events had him in their grip. He raised his voice and shouted for Brown – it hurt his head again to shout, and his voice was a hoarse croak. He heard the voice of the sentry at the door passing on the word, and with an infinity of effort he sat up and put his legs out of bed, determined that Brown should not find him prostrate.

  ‘Bring me some coffee,’ he said when Brown came in.

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower continued to sit on the edge of his cot. Overhead he heard the raucous voice of Hurst blaring through the skylight, apparently addressing a delinquent midshipman.

  ‘A fine young flibberty-gibbet you are,’ said Hurst. ‘Look at that brasswork! D’you call that bright? Where d’you keep your eyes? What’s your division been doing this last hour? God, what’s the Navy coming to, when warrants are given to young jackanapes who wouldn’t keep their noses clear with a marline-spike! You call yourself a King’s officer? You’re more like a winter’s day, sh
ort, dark, and dirty!’

  Hornblower took the coffee Brown brought in.

  ‘My compliments to Mr Hurst,’ he croaked, ‘and ask him kindly not to make so much noise over my skylight.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The first satisfaction that day was to hear Hurst cut his tirade abruptly short. Hornblower sipped at the scalding coffee with some degree of pleasure. It was not surprising that Hurst should be in a bad temper today. He had been through a harassing evening the night before; Hornblower remembered Hurst and Mound carrying Braun, unconscious and reeking with spirits, into the carriage at the palace door. Hurst had been strictly sober, but apparently the mental strain of keeping guard over a secret assassin in the Czar’s palace had been too much for his nerves. Hornblower handed his cup back to Brown to be refilled when Brown reappeared, and pulled his nightshirt over his head as he waited. Something caught his eye as he laid his nightshirt on his cot; it was a flea, leaping high out of the sleeve. In a wave of disgust he looked down at himself; his smooth round belly was pockmarked with flea-bites. That was a striking commentary on the difference between an Imperial palace and one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships of the line. When Brown returned with his second cup of coffee Hornblower was still cursing fiercely both at Imperial uncleanness and at the dreary prospect of the nuisance of having to rid himself of vermin to which he was peculiarly susceptible.

  ‘Take that grin off your face,’ snapped Hornblower, ‘or I’ll send you to the grating to see if you grin there!’

  Brown was not grinning; all that could be said about his expression was that he was too obviously not grinning. What irritated Hornblower was the knowledge that Brown was enjoying the superior and paternal state of mind of one who has not a headache while the man who is with him has.

  His shower-bath restored some of Hornblower’s peace of mind, and he put on clean linen, gave Brown orders for the disinfection of his clothes, and went up on deck, where the first person on whom he laid eyes was Wychwood, bleary-eyed and obviously with a far worse headache than he had himself. Yet the keen air of the Russian morning was invigorating and refreshing. The normal early-morning ship’s routine, the sight of the rows of men holystoning the decks, the pleasant swish of the water over the planking, were comforting and restorative as well.

  ‘Boat coming off to us, sir,’ reported a midshipman to the officer of the watch.

  It was the same pinnace as had taken them ashore yesterday, and it brought a naval officer with a letter in French –

  His Excellency the Minister of the Imperial Marine presents his compliments to Commodore Sir Hornblower. His Excellency has given orders for a water-boat to be alongside the Nonsuch at eleven o’clock this morning.

  A distinguished nobleman, M. le Comte du Nord, having expressed a desire to see one of His Britannic Majesty’s Ships, His Excellency proposes to trespass upon Sir Hornblower’s hospitality by visiting the Nonsuch at ten o’clock in company with the Comte du Nord.

  Hornblower showed the letter to Wychwood, who confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘That’s Alexander,’ he said. ‘He used the title of Comte du Nord when he was travelling on the continent as Czarevitch. He’ll be coming incognito, so that there’ll be no need for royal honours.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower dryly, a little nettled at this soldier giving him advice beyond what he was asked for. ‘But an Imperial Minister of Marine must rank with a First Lord of the Admiralty. That’ll mean nineteen guns and all the other honours. Midshipman of the watch! My compliments to the captain, and I shall be very obliged if he will be good enough to come on deck.’

  Bush heard the news with a low whistle, and instantly turned to sweep decks and rigging with his glance, anxious that his ship should be in the perfection of condition for this Imperial visit.

  ‘How can we take in water,’ asked Bush piteously, ‘and be in a fit state for the Czar to come on board, sir? What will he think of us? Unless we water the flotilla first.’

  ‘The Czar’s a man of sense,’ said Hornblower, briskly. ‘Let’s show him the hands at work. He doesn’t know the difference between the mizzen-stay and the flying jib-boom, but he’ll recognise efficient work if we show it to him. Start watering while he’s on board.’

  ‘And the food?’ asked Bush. ‘We’ll have to offer him something, sir.’

  Hornblower grinned at his anxiety.

  ‘Yes, we’ll offer him something.’

  It was typical of Hornblower’s contrary temperament that the more difficulties other people foresaw the more cheerful he became; the only person really capable of depressing Hornblower was Hornblower himself. His headache had left him completely, and he was positively smiling now at the thought of a busy morning. He ate his breakfast with appetite, and put on his full-dress uniform once more and came on deck to find Bush still fussing round the ship, with the crew all in clean white frocks and duck trousers, the accommodation ladder rigged, with hand-ropes as white as snow, the marines all pipeclayed and polished, the hammocks stowed in mathematical tiers. It was only when the midshipman of the watch reported a cutter approaching that he felt a little twinge of nervousness, a sudden catch in his breath, at the thought that the next few hours might have a decided bearing on the history of the world for years to come.

  The calls of the boatswain’s mates shrilled through the ship, and the ship’s company fell in by divisions, officers to the front with epaulettes and swords, and Hornblower at the quarterdeck rail looked down at the assembly. British seamen on parade could not possibly rival the Prussian Guard in exactitude and uniformity, and to drill them into any approach to it would be likely to expel from them the very qualities that made them the valuable men they were; but any thinking man, looking down the lines of intelligent, self-reliant faces, could not fail to be impressed.

  ‘Man the yards!’ ordered Bush.

  Another squeal from the pipes, and the topmen poured up the rigging in an orderly upward torrent, without a break in their speed as they hung back-downward from the futtock-shrouds, going hand-over-hand up the topgallant-shrouds like the trained gymnasts they were, running out along the yards like tight-rope walkers, each man taking up his position on the foot-ropes the moment he reached it.

  Various emotions warred in Hornblower’s breast as he watched. There was a momentary feeling of resentment that these men of his, the cream of the service, should be put through their paces like performing bears to gratify an Oriental monarch. Yet as the evolution was completed, when each man reached his place, as though by some magic a gust of wind had whirled a heap of dead leaves into the air and left them suspended in a pattern of exquisite symmetry, his resentment was swamped by artistic satisfaction. He hoped that Alexander, looking on, would have the sense to realise that these men could be relied upon to perform the same feat in any conditions, in a black night with a howling gale blowing, on a raging sea with the bowsprit stabbing at the invisible sky and the yardarms dipping towards the invisible sea.

  The boatswain, looking with one eye over the starboard rail, gave an infinitesimal jerk of his head. A little procession of officers was coming up the accommodation ladder. The boatswain’s mates put their calls to their lips. The sergeant-drummer of marines contrived to snap his fingers beside the seams of his trousers as he stood at attention, and the six side-drums roared out in a bold ruffle.

  ‘Present arms!’ bellowed Captain Norman, and the fifty muskets with fixed bayonets of the marines left the fifty scarlet shoulders and came down vertically in front of fifty rows of gleaming buttons, while the swords of the three marine officers swept in the graceful arc of the military salute.

  Alexander, followed by two aides-de-camp, came slowly on board side by side with the Minister of Marine to whom nominally all this ceremony was dedicated. He put his hand to his hat-brim while the pipes died away in a final squeal, the drums completed their fourth ruffle, the first gun of the salute banged out forward, and the fifes and drums of the marine band burst into ‘Hearts of O
ak’. Hornblower walked forward and saluted.

  ‘Good morning, Commodore,’ said the Minister of Marine. ‘Permit me to present you to the Comte du Nord.’

  Hornblower saluted again, his face as expressionless as he could manage it even while he fought down a smile at Alexander’s queer liking to be incognito.

  ‘Good morning, Commodore,’ said Alexander; with a shock Hornblower realised that he was speaking English of a sort. ‘I hope our little visit does not discommode you too much?’

  ‘Not in any way to compare with the honour done to the ship, sir,’ said Hornblower, wondering as he said it whether ‘sir’ was the right way to address a Czar incognito. Apparently it sufficed.

  ‘You may present your officers,’ said Alexander.

  Hornblower brought them up one by one, and they saluted and bowed with the uneasy stiffness to be expected of junior officers in the presence of a Czar of all the Russias, and an incognito one at that.

  ‘I think you can give orders to prepare the ship for watering now, Captain,’ said Hornblower to Bush, and then he turned back to Alexander. ‘Would you care to see more of the ship, sir?’

  ‘I would indeed,’ said Alexander.

  He lingered on the quarterdeck to watch the preparations begin. The topmen came pouring down from aloft; Alexander blinked in the sunlight with admiration as half a dozen hands came sliding down the mizzen-backstays and the mizzen-topsail halliards to land on their feet on the quarterdeck beside him. Under the petty officers’ urging the men ran hither and thither about their tasks; it was a scene of activity like a disturbed ants’ nest, but far more orderly and purposeful. The hatches were whipped off, the pumps made ready, tackles rigged at the yardarms, fenders dropped over the port side. Alexander stared at the sight of a half-company of marines tailing on to a fall and walking away with it in flat-footed rhythm.