Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  ‘A damned good dinner,’ he said. ‘And you’re a damned good host, Ramsbottom. Wish there were more like you.’

  Hornblower shook hands.

  ‘It was very good of you to come, My Lord,’ said Ramsbottom. ‘I regret that I must take this opportunity to say goodbye to Your Lordship.’

  ‘You are sailing soon?’

  ‘In a couple of days, I expect, My Lord. I trust you will find your squadron exercises satisfactory.’

  ‘Thank you very much. Where will you head for now?’

  ‘I shall beat back through the Windward channel, My Lord. Perhaps I shall see something of the Bahamas.’

  ‘Be careful of your navigation there. I must wish you good luck and a pleasant voyage. I shall write to my wife and tell her of your visit.’

  ‘Please give Lady Hornblower my best wishes and respects, My Lord.’

  Ramsbottom’s good manners persisted to the end; he remembered to send round his cards ‘Pour prendre congé’ before he left, and mothers of unmarried daughters much regretted his leaving. Hornblower saw the Bride of Abydos in the early dawn reaching to the eastward to round Morant Point with the land breeze, and then forgot about her in the bustle of taking his squadron to sea for exercises.

  It never failed to raise a wry smile on his face when he looked about him at ‘His Majesty’s ships and vessels in the West Indies’ under his command. In war-time he would have had a powerful fleet; now he had three small frigates and a motley collection of brigs and schooners. But they would serve his purpose; in his scheme the frigates became three-deckers and the brigs seventy-fours and the schooners frigates. He had a van, a centre, and a rear; he cruised in formation ready to meet the enemy, with rasping reprimands soaring up his signal halliards when any ship failed to keep station; he cleared for action and he turned by divisions into fighting line ahead; he tacked to double on the imaginary enemy’s line. In pitch darkness he would burn blue lights with the signal ‘Enemy in sight’, so that a score of captains and a thousand seamen came tumbling from their beds to deal with the non-existent foe.

  Without warning he would hang out a signal putting the most junior lieutenants in command of their respective ships, and then he would plunge into intricate manoeuvres calculated to turn the anxious substantive captains, looking helplessly on, grey with anxiety – but those junior lieutenants might some day be commanding ships of the line in a battle on which the destiny of England might depend, and it was necessary to steel their nerves and accustom them to handle ships in dangerous situations. In the middle of sail drill he would signal ‘Flagship on fire. All boats away.’ He called for landing parties to storm nonexistent batteries on some harmless, uninhabited cay, and he inspected those landing parties once they were on shore, to the last flint in the last pistol, with a rigid disregard for excuses that made men grind their teeth in exasperation. He set his captains to plan and execute cutting-out expeditions, and he commented mordantly on the arrangements for defence and the methods of attack. He paired off his ships to fight single-ship duels, sighting each other on the horizon and approaching ready to fire the vital opening broadside; he took advantage of calms to set his men towing and sweeping in desperate attempts to overtake the ship ahead. He worked his crews until they were ready to drop, and then he devised further tasks for them to prove to them that they still had one more effort left in them, so that it was doubtful whether ‘Old Horny’ was mentioned more often with curses or with admiration.

  It was a toughened squadron that Hornblower led back to Kingston; but while Clorinda was still working up into the harbour a shore boat came pulling out to her, with on board an aide-de-camp of the Governor’s with a note for Hornblower.

  ‘Sir Thomas, would you have the kindness to call away my barge?’ asked Hornblower.

  There was much apparent need for haste, for the note from Government House said, briefly:

  My Lord,

  It is necessary that Your Lordship should attend here at the earliest possible moment to offer an explanation regarding the situation in Venezuela. Your Lordship is therefore requested and required to report to me immediately.

  Augustus Hooper, Governor.

  Hornblower naturally had no idea of what had happened in Venezuela for the last two weeks and more. He made no guess while the carriage took him up to Government House at its best pace, and in any case if he had tried he would never have succeeded in coming near to the truth.

  ‘What is all this, Hornblower?’ were the Governor’s opening words to him. ‘What authority have you for blockading the Venezuelan coast? Why was I not informed?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing of the sort,’ replied Hornblower, indignantly.

  ‘But – Damn it, man, I’ve the proof here. I’ve Dutchmen and Spaniards and half the nations of the earth here all protesting about it.’

  ‘I assure you, sir, I have taken no action on the Venezuelan coast. I have not been within five hundred miles of it.’

  ‘Then what does this mean?’ shouted the Governor. ‘Look here at this!’

  He held some papers up with one hand and slapped wildly at them with the other, so that Hornblower had some difficulty in taking them from him. Hornblower was bewildered already; he was more bewildered still as he read. One paper was an official dispatch in French, from the Dutch Governor of Curaçao; the other was larger and clearer, and he read it first. It was a big sheet of paper with bold writing.

  Whereas – it began – notice has been received by the Lords Commissioners for executing the office of the Lord High Admiral from the Right Honourable Viscount Castlereagh, one of His Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretaries of State, concerning the need to establish a Blockade of the Coast of His Most Catholic Majesty’s Dominion of Venezuela, and of the Islands pertaining to the Dominion of His Majesty the King of the Netherlands, namely and to wit Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire.

  Therefore I, Horatio Lord Hornblower, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the White Squadron, Commanding His Britannic Majesty’s ships and vessels in West Indian Waters,

  Hereby Proclaim that

  The Coast of the Continent of South America from Cartagena to the Dragon’s Mouth and

  The Dutch Islands aforesaid of Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire

  Are now in a state of blockade, and that

  Any vessel of whatever description, whether carrying materials of war or not, found attempting to enter any port harbour or roadstead within the Territory so defined, or

  Hovering with the intent to enter any such port harbour or roadstead

  Will be boarded and sent in for adjudication under His Britannic Majesty’s High Court of Admiralty and

  Will be condemned and seized without compensation to owners, freight owners, charterers, captain, or crew.

  Given under my hand this First Day of June 1821,

  Hornblower, Rear-Admiral

  Having read this document Hornblower was able to spare a second glance at the other. It was a vigorous protest from the Dutch Governor at Curaçao demanding explanations, apologies, the immediate withdrawal of the blockade, and exemplary compensation. Hornblower stared at Hooper in astonishment.

  ‘This is in legal form,’ he said, indicating the proclamation, ‘but I never signed it. This is not my signature.’

  ‘Then—?’ spluttered Hooper. ‘I thought you might be acting under secret orders from London.’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’ Hornblower stared at Hooper for another long second before the explanation came to him. ‘Ramsbottom!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s been posing as me, or as one of my officers at least. Is the Dutch officer who brought this available?’

  ‘He’s waiting in the next room. There’s a Spaniard there, too, sent over in a fishing boat by Morillo from La Guaira.’

  ‘Can we have them in, sir?’

  The Dutchman and the Spaniard were men full of indignation, which was not abated in the least by their presen
tation to the Admiral responsible, in their minds, for this trouble. The Dutchman spoke fluent English, and it was to him that Hornblower first addressed himself.

  ‘How was this proclamation delivered?’ he asked.

  ‘By one of your ships. By one of your officers.’

  ‘What ship?’

  ‘The brig-of-war Desperate.’

  ‘I have no such ship. There’s none in the Navy List. Who brought it?’

  ‘The captain.’

  ‘Who was he? What was he like?’

  ‘He was an officer. A Commander, with epaulettes.’

  ‘In uniform?’

  ‘In full uniform.’

  ‘Young? Old?’

  ‘Very young.’

  ‘Small? Slender? Handsome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hornblower exchanged a glance with Hooper.

  ‘And this brig, the Desperate. About a hundred and seventy tons, bowsprit steved nearly level, mainmast stepped rather far aft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That settles it, sir,’ said Hornblower to Hooper, and, to the Dutchman, ‘you’ve been fooled, I’m sorry to say. This man was an imposter. This proclamation is a forgery.’

  The Dutchman stamped with annoyance. He was unable to find words to express himself in a foreign tongue for some moments. Finally from his splutterings emerged a name, which he repeated until it was understandable.

  ‘The Helmond! The Helmond!’

  ‘What is the Helmond, sir?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘One of our ships. Your ship – this Desperate – captured her.’

  ‘A valuable ship?’

  ‘She has on board the guns for the Spanish Army. Two batteries of field artillery, guns, limbers, ammunition, everything.’

  ‘Piracy!’ exclaimed Hooper.

  ‘It sounds like it,’ said Hornblower.

  The Spanish officer had been standing by impatiently, apparently only half understanding the English conversation. Hornblower turned to him, and, after desperately trying to recapture his half-forgotten Spanish, entered upon a limping explanation. The Spaniard replied volubly, so volubly that more than once Hornblower had to ask him to speak more slowly. Ramsbottom had come sailing into La Guaira and had brought his precious proclamation with him. At the merest hint that the British Navy was instituting a blockade no ship had dared to stir on the South American coast, except for the Helmond. She had been badly needed. Bolivar was marching on Caracas: a battle was imminent on which depended the entire Spanish control of Venezuela. Morillo and the Spanish army were in need of artillery. Now not only were they left destitute, but with this news it could be taken as certain that those guns, those two batteries of field artillery, were in Bolivar’s hands. The Spanish officer wrung his hands in despair.

  Hornblower translated briefly for the Governor’s benefit, and Hooper shook his head in sympathy.

  ‘Bolivar has those guns. No doubt about it. Gentlemen, I much regret this occurrence. But I must impress upon you that His Majesty’s Government assumes no responsibility for it. If your chiefs took no steps to detect this impostor—’

  That touched off a new explosion. The British Government should make sure that no impostor wore its uniform or posed as an officer in its service. It called for all Hooper’s elephantine tact to quiet down the angry officers.

  ‘If you will permit me to consult with the Admiral, gentlemen, we may reach some satisfactory conclusion.’

  Alone with the Governor again Hornblower struggled with a smile; he had never outgrown his tendency to laugh during a crisis. There was something amusing in the thought that a cocked hat and a pair of epaulettes should change the course of a war; it was a tribute to the power of the Navy that a single tiny ship should exert such enormous pressure.

  ‘Ramsbottom and his Venezuelan mother!’ said Hooper. ‘It’s not merely piracy, it’s high treason. We shall have to hang him.’

  ‘M’m,’ said Hornblower. ‘He probably holds a privateering commission from Bolivar.’

  ‘But masquerading as a British officer? Forging official documents?’

  ‘That was a ruse of war. An American officer deceived the Portuguese authorities in Brazil in much the same way in 1812.’

  ‘I’ve heard some things about you, too,’ added Hooper with a grin.

  ‘No doubt, sir. In war a belligerent who believes what he’s told is a fool.’

  ‘But we’re not belligerents.’

  ‘No, sir. And we’ve suffered no loss. The Dutch and the Spaniards have only themselves to blame.’

  ‘But Ramsbottom’s a subject of His Majesty.’

  ‘Quite true, sir. But if he holds Bolivar’s commission he can do things as an officer of the revolutionary forces which he could not do as a private person.’

  ‘D’ye mean to suggest we ought to allow him to continue this blockade of his? Nonsense, man.’

  ‘Of course not, sir I’ll arrest him, and I’ll send his ship in for adjudication, at the first opportunity. But a friendly Power has asked you, sir, the representative of His Majesty, if you have instituted a blockade. You must do everything in your power to demonstrate the truth.’

  ‘Now for once you’re talking like a sensible man. We must send word at once to Curaçao and Caracas. That will be your immediate duty. You’d better go in person.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll sail with the land breeze. Have you any further instructions for me, sir?’

  ‘None whatever. What goes on on the high seas is your affair, not mine. You’re answerable to the Cabinet through the Admiralty. I don’t envy you, frankly.’

  ‘No doubt I’ll survive, sir. I’ll sail for La Guaira, and send another vessel to Curaçao. Perhaps if Your Excellency were to write official replies to the enquiries addressed to you they would be ready by the time I sail?’

  ‘I’ll draft ’em now.’ The Governor could not repress one further outburst. ‘This Ramsbottom – and his corned beef and caviare!’

  ‘He used a sprat to catch a mackerel, Your Excellency,’ said Hornblower.

  So it came about that the crew of H.M.S. Clorinda did not spend that night in the debauchery of Kingston as they had expected. Instead they worked until dawn completing with stores and water, so hard that they had no breath to spare to curse the Admiral who did these things to them. In the very first light of morning they warped their ship out with the aid of the faint puffs of the land breeze, and Clorinda, her Admiral’s flag flying at the mizzen, headed closehauled to the southeastward on her thousand-mile voyage to La Guaira. She had on board Brigadier-General Don Manuel Ruiz, Morillo’s representative, to whom Hornblower had offered a passage back to his headquarters. The man was in a fever to return and put an end to Ramsbottom’s blockade; it was clear that the royal forces in Venezuela were hard pressed. He had no thought for anything else during that voyage. The lovely sunset meant to him merely that another day had gone by without his reaching his destination. The gallant way in which Clorinda held her course, closehauled, shouldering the long rollers aside in showers of spray, held no fascination for him, for she was not flying before the wind at her best speed. At noon each day, when the ship’s position was pricked off on the chart, he would look long and despairingly, estimating by eye the further distance to be traversed. He had not had sufficient experience at sea to acquire the knack of resigning himself to the influence of forces beyond human control. When the wind drew southerly and foul, as it did for two days consecutively, he was clearly on the verge of accusing Hornblower of being in league with his enemies, and made no attempt to understand Hornblower’s soothing explanation that on the starboard tack on which Clorinda was compelled to lie they were making easting which might be invaluable in possible later eventualities. He resented the caution of Captain Fell which led to Clorinda’s shortening sail as they entered the dangerous proximity of Grand Cay, and at dawn next day he was climbing the foremast shrouds as high as he dared, looking out for the first sight of the mountains of Venezuela – and even then he did no
t recognise as land the blue streak which he saw.

  A shore boat came out to them before ever they dropped anchor, and there was an urgent conference on Clorinda’s quarterdeck between Ruiz and the officer it brought out.

  ‘My General is in Carabobo,’ said Ruiz to Hornblower. ‘A battle is going to be fought. Bolivar is marching on Puerto Cabello, and my General has taken the army to meet him.’

  ‘What is Ramsbottom and his ship?’

  Ruiz looked to the arrival for the information.

  ‘Near Puerto Cabello.’

  That was, of course, the likeliest place, a hundred miles or less to the westward, a roadstead where supplies might possibly be landed, and an ideal situation for intercepting all communications between Curaçao and La Guaira.

  ‘Then I shall head for Puerto Cabello,’ said Hornblower. ‘You can accompany me if you wish, Don Manuel. The wind is fair and I’ll land you there quicker than a horse would carry you.’

  Ruiz hesitated for a moment; he knew all about horses and he was suspicious about ships. But the advantage was so obvious that he accepted.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Hornblower. ‘Sir Thomas, we’ll hoist that anchor again, if you would be so kind. Set a course for Puerto Cabello.’

  Now Clorinda had the lusty trade wind on her quarter, her best point of sailing; she had her studding sails out and every possible stitch of canvas out, and she flew along. A horse at full gallop might go faster, but no horse could do as Clorinda was doing and maintain full speed for hour after hour, nor could any horse ever attain full speed on the mountain tracks of the Maritime Andes. Naturally, no amount of speed could satisfy Ruiz. With telescope to his eye he watched the distant coast go by until his weary eye was almost blind, and then he paced about the quarterdeck, trickles of sweat running down his forehead and cheeks as the sun, climbing to its noontide height, blazed vertically down on him. He turned a suspicious eye on Hornblower when the crew of Clorinda poured aloft to take in sail.