Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  The Brigadier, when he came up Clorinda’s side, to be received with the appropriate compliments, was followed by another figure in cocked hat and epaulettes. Hornblower bowed and saluted and introduced himself.

  ‘I took the liberty of asking Captain Van der Maesen, of the Royal Netherlands Navy, to accompany me,’ said the Brigadier.

  ‘It is with much pleasure that I welcome Captain Van der Maesen on board,’ said Hornblower. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen will accompany me below. I regret very much that we will not be very comfortable, but, as you see, I have been exercising my crew in their duties.’

  A screen had been hurriedly run across the after part of the frigate, and the table and chairs replaced. The Brigadier sipped with increasing and astonished appreciation at the glass of wine offered him. Inevitably several minutes passed in desultory conversation – Spanish was the one language the three had in common – before the Brigadier began to discuss business.

  ‘You have a beautiful ship here, milord,’ he said. ‘I regret much to find you in company with a pirate.’

  ‘You mean the Bride of Abydos, señor?’

  ‘Naturally, milord.’

  Hornblower saw a trap opening before him.

  ‘You call her a pirate, señor?’

  ‘What do you call her, milord?’

  ‘I am waiting to hear your opinion, señor.’ It was important not to commit himself.

  ‘Her actions call for explanation, milord. She has captured and plundered a Dutch ship. That can be interpreted as an act of piracy. On the other hand it might be said she is operating under a so-called commission issued by the rebels in Venezuela. In the one case Captain Van der Maesen will seize her as a pirate. On the other, if she is a privateer, I will seize her as an enemy of my country.’

  ‘In neither case, señor, has a court of law determined her status. In the meanwhile, gentlemen, she is in my possession.’

  Hats were in the ring now. Hornblower met the eyes of the others with the least expression he could manage. Of one thing he was certain, that whatever might be eventually decided regarding the Bride of Abydos neither the British Government nor the British public would approve of his tamely allowing her to be taken out of his hands.

  ‘Milord, I have assured Captain Van der Maesen of my support in any action he may decide to take, and he has given me the same assurance.’

  The Dutch captain confirmed this with a nod and a half-intelligible sentence. Two to one, in other words; odds that Clorinda could not hope to face.

  ‘Then I hope, gentlemen, I hope very sincerely indeed, that you decide upon approving of my course of action.’

  It was the politest way of defying them that he could think of.

  ‘I find it very hard to believe, milord, that you extend the protection of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy to pirates, or to privateers in a war in which His Majesty is neutral.’

  ‘You may have noticed, señor, that the Bride of Abydos is flying His Britannic Majesty’s flag. Of course, you understand that as a naval officer I cannot permit that flag to be hauled down.’

  There it was, the ultimate defiance. Ten minutes from now and the guns might be firing. Ten minutes from now and this deck might be littered with dead and wounded. He might be dead himself. The Spaniard looked at the Dutchman and back to Hornblower.

  ‘We would much regret taking strong action, milord.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear that, señor. That confirms me in my decision. We can part the best of friends.’

  ‘But—’

  The Brigadier had not intended his last sentence to be interpreted as a sign of yielding. He had been uttering, he thought, a further threat. Hornblower’s interpretation of it left him speechless for a moment.

  ‘I am overjoyed to find that we are in agreement, gentlemen. Perhaps we can drink the healths of our sovereigns in another glass of this wine, señor – and may I take this opportunity of acknowledging the debt the rest of the world owes to your country for such an exquisite production?’

  By taking their withdrawal for granted he was giving them a chance of withdrawing gracefully. The bitter moment of admitting that they had been outfaced had come and gone before they had realised it. Once more the Spaniard and the Dutchman exchanged unavailing glances, and Hornblower seized the opportunity to pour more wine.

  ‘To His Most Catholic Majesty, señor. To His Majesty the King of the Netherlands.’

  He held his glass high. They could not refuse that toast, even though the Brigadier’s mouth still opened and shut as he struggled to find words for his emotions. Common politeness forced the Brigadier to complete the toast, as Hornblower waited, glass in hand.

  ‘To His Britannic Majesty.’

  They drank together.

  ‘This has been a delightful visit, gentlemen,’ said Hornblower. ‘Another glass? No? It cannot be that you are leaving so soon? But I expect you have many duties calling for your attention.’

  As the side boys, white-gloved, formed up at the entry port, and the bosun’s mates pealed upon their whistles, and the ship’s company, still at their guns, stood to attention, in compliment to the departing visitors, Hornblower could spare a moment to glance round. Those side boys and bosun’s mates and guns’ crews might be facing imminent death at this moment if that interview had taken a more stormy course. He deserved their gratitude, but of course he would never receive it. Shaking hands with the Brigadier he made the final clarification of the situation.

  ‘A prosperous voyage, señor. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again. I shall be sailing for Kingston as soon as the land breeze serves.’

  One of Barbara’s regular letters, received months later, helped to round off the incident.

  My dearest husband, (wrote Barbara as usual, and, as usual Hornblower read those words with a smile. There were several sheets to the letter, and the first sheet contained much of interest to Hornblower, but it was not until the second sheet that Barbara began her usual society and professional gossip.)

  Last night the Lord Chancellor was my left-hand partner at dinner, and he had much to say about the ‘Bride of Abydos’, and in consequence, to my great pleasure, much to say about my dear husband. The Spanish and Dutch governments, through their ambassador and minister, have naturally lodged protests with the Foreign Secretary, who has only been able to acknowledge receipt of the notes and to promise a further reply when the legal aspects of the case are made clear. And, in all the history of Admiralty law, said the Lord Chancellor, there never was a case as complicated as Ms one. The insurers plead negligence on the part of the assured (I hope that I have these technical terms right, my very dearest) because the captain of the ‘Helmond’ took no steps to verify the bona fides of the ‘Bride of Abydos’, and they further plead negligence on the part of the Dutch government because the capture took place within Dutch territorial waters off Bonaire, and the Dutchmen deny hotly both that they were negligent and that the capture was really within their territorial waters. Further, the actual plundering and detention took place in Spanish territorial waters. And there seem to be untold complications arising from the fact that you found the ‘Bride of Abydos’ abandoned by her crew – did you know, dearest, that it seems a matter of great legal importance as to whether her anchor was actually touching bottom or not? In any case, there has been no legal action in any court so far because no one seems to be able to decide which court has jurisdiction in the matter (I hope, dearest, you will give your wife all credit for listening attentively and taking note of these difficult expressions). Taking one thing with another, and allowing four months on the average for each necessary round trip to the West Indies to take evidence on commission, and taking into account demurrers and rebuttals and sur-rebuttals, the Lord Chancellor thinks that it will be thirty-seven years before any case reaches the House of Lords, and he went on to say, cackling into his soup, that our interest in the case will be greatly diminished by then.

  This is by no means all the news, dearest
. There is something further which would greatly distress me if it were not for the fact that I know my husband the Admiral will be delighted. Taking tea today with Lady Exmouth (I know how your dear eyes open wide with horror at women being in possession of such secrets) I heard that Their Lordships take a most favourable view of your attitude towards the Spanish and Dutch naval authorities – dearest, I am so delighted, even though I could never doubt it. It has already been decided to extend your command for the extra year, and my pleasure in knowing how pleased you will be at this compliment almost – quite – allays my sorrow at the thought of our further separation. Dearest, there is no woman who could love you – there is no woman on earth who could love any man as much as I love you, the truest, the bravest, the boldest, the cleverest – I must not write like this because there is still further news to add.

  This is that the Government has always, apparently, looked with favour at the attempt of the Spanish colonies to attain their independence, and with the greatest disfavour upon the decision of the Spanish government to attempt their reconquest with troops sent out from Europe. There have been hints that the other Powers, uneasy at the movement towards liberty, have been meditating giving military assistance to Spain in Spanish America. The victory at Carabobo, where poor Mr Ramsbottom and his guns played such a part, has made this intervention more unlikely. It is a great State secret, so great that over the teacups it is mentioned only in whispers, that the British Government meditates making a declaration that it will not permit military intervention in Spanish America. And it appears that our Government is in accord with the Americans over this, for it is believed that President Monroe is planning to issue a declaration regarding a similar doctrine, and discussions regarding it are taking place. So that my dearest husband finds himself at the centre of world affairs, as he has always been at the centre of his wife’s fondest affections.

  THE HURRICANE

  Hornblower came walking into his office at Admiralty House at half-past five o’clock in the morning exactly. Now that the summer was come there was just enough daylight at that time to transact business and it was a fairly cool moment as well. Gerard and Spendlove, his flag-lieutenant and secretary, were waiting for him there – it would have gone hard with them if they had not been – and they pulled themselves erect, without any clicking of heels (for in three years they had found that their chief discountenanced the practice) and they said ‘Good morning, My Lord,’ ‘Good morning, My Lord’ as if they were the two barrels of a shotgun.

  ‘Morning,’ said Hornblower. He had not had his breakfast coffee yet; otherwise he would have put ‘good’ in front of ‘morning’.

  He sat down at his desk, and Spendlove came to hover over his shoulder with a sheaf of papers while Gerard made the dawn report.

  ‘Weather conditions normal, My Lord. High water today at eleven-thirty. No arrivals during the night, and nothing in sight this morning from the signal station. No news of the packet, My Lord, and no news of Triton.’

  ‘A negative report if ever there was one,’ said Hornblower. The negatives in the last two phrases balanced each other; H.M.S. Triton was bringing out his successor to relieve him of his command at the end of his three years’ appointment, and Hornblower was not happy over the prospect of ceasing to be Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies; but the West India packet was bringing out his wife, whom he had not seen during all this time, and to whose arrival he was eagerly looking forward. She was coming out so as to make the return voyage to England with him.

  ‘The packet’s due any day, My Lord,’ said Gerard, soothingly.

  ‘Your business is to tell me things I don’t know, Mr Gerard,’ snapped Hornblower. It annoyed him to be soothed like a child, and it annoyed him still more that his personal staff should think him human enough to be anxious to see his wife. He looked over his shoulder at his secretary. ‘What do you have there, Spendlove?’

  Spendlove made a hasty rearrangement of the papers in his hand. Hornblower’s morning coffee was due at any moment, and Spendlove had something he did not want to show his chief until it had come and was half drunk at least.

  ‘Here are the dockyard returns to the thirty-first ultimo. My Lord,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t you say “to the end of last month?”’ demanded Hornblower, taking them from him.

  ‘Aye aye, My Lord,’ said Spendlove, passionately hoping the coffee would come soon.

  ‘Anything in these?’ asked Hornblower, glancing over them.

  ‘Nothing for your special attention, My Lord.’

  ‘Then why trouble me with them? Next?’

  ‘The warrants for the new gunner in Clorinda, My Lord, and for the dockyard cooper.’

  ‘Your coffee, My Lord,’ said Gerard at this moment, the relief in his voice perfectly apparent.

  ‘Better late than never,’ snapped Hornblower. ‘And for God’s sake don’t fuss round me. I’ll pour it for myself.’

  Spendlove and Gerard were busily making room on his desk for the tray to be put down, and Spendlove hastily withdrew his hand from the coffee-pot handle.

  ‘Too damned hot,’ said Hornblower, taking a sip. ‘It’s always too damned hot.’

  Last week the new system had been begun, whereby coffee was brought in to him after his arrival in his office, instead of awaiting him there, because he had complained then that it was always too cold, but neither Spendlove nor Gerard saw fit to remind him of this.

  ‘I’ll sign those warrants,’ said Hornblower. ‘Not that I think that cooper’s worth his salt. His barrels open up into birdcages.’

  Spendlove scattered sand from the caster over the wet ink of Hornblower’s signatures, and put the warrants aside. Hornblower took another sip of coffee.

  ‘Here’s your refusal of the Crichtons’ invitation, My Lord. In the third person, so your signature isn’t necessary.’

  If that had been said to him a little while before, Hornblower would have demanded why in that case he was being bothered with it, forgetful of his own standing order that nothing was to go out in his name without his seeing it. But even two sips of coffee had done their work.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, glancing over it, and taking up his cup again.

  Spendlove watched the level of the liquid sink in the cup, and judged the moment to be more propitious now. He laid a letter on the desk.

  ‘From Sir Thomas, My Lord.’

  Hornblower uttered a small groan as he picked it up; Captain Sir Thomas Fell of H.M.S. Clorinda was a fussy individual, and a communication from him usually meant trouble – unnecessary trouble, and therefore to be grudged. Not in this case, though. Hornblower read the official document and then craned over his shoulder at Spendlove.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s rather a curious case, I hear, My Lord,’ answered Spendlove.

  It was a ‘circumstantial letter’, a formal request from Captain Fell for a court martial to be held on Bandsman Hudnutt of the Royal Marines, for ‘wilful and persistent disobedience to orders’. Such a charge if substantiated meant death, or else such a flogging that death would be preferable. Spendlove was perfectly well aware that his admiral detested hangings and floggings.

  ‘The charges are preferred by the Drum-Major,’ commented Hornblower to himself.

  He knew the Drum-Major, Cobb, perfectly well, or at least as well as the peculiar circumstances permitted. As Admiral and Commander-in-Chief Hornblower had his own band, which was under the command of Cobb, holding warrant rank. Previous to all official occasions where music had to be provided Cobb reported to Hornblower for orders and instructions, and Hornblower would go through the farce of agreeing with the suggestions put forward. He had never publicly admitted that he could not tell one note from another; he could actually distinguish one tune from another by the jigginess or otherwise of the time. He was a little uneasy in case all this was more common knowledge than he hoped.

  ‘What d’you mean by “a curious case”, Spendlove?�
�� he asked.

  ‘I believe an artistic conscience is involved, My Lord,’ replied Spendlove, cautiously. Hornblower was pouring, and tasting, his second cup of coffee; that might have a bearing on the breaking of Bandsman Hudnutt’s neck, thought Spendlove. At the same time Hornblower was feeling the inevitable irritation resulting from having to listen to gossip. An Admiral in his splendid isolation never – or only rarely – knew as much about what was going on as his most junior subordinate.

  ‘An artistic conscience?’ he repeated. ‘I’ll see the Drum-Major this morning. Send for him now.’

  ‘Aye aye, My Lord.’

  He had received the one necessary clue, and need not demean himself by prying further unless the interview with Cobb should prove unfruitful.

  ‘Now let’s have that draft report until he comes.’

  Drum-Major Cobb did not arrive for some time, and his resplendent uniform when he did arrive hinted that he had taken care about his appearance; tunic and pantaloons were freshly ironed, his buttons glittered, his sash was exactly draped, his sword-hilt shone like silver. He was an enormous man with an enormous moustache, and he made an enormous entrance into the room, striding over the resounding floor as if he were twice as heavy as he actually was, clashing his boot-heels together as he halted before the desk and swept his hand upward in the salute fashionable at the moment among the Royal Marines.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Cobb,’ said Hornblower, mildly; the ‘Mr’, like the sword, was an indication that Cobb was a gentleman by virtue of his warrant even though he had risen from the ranks.

  ‘Good morning, My Lord.’ There was as much flourish in the phrase as there had been in the salute.

  ‘I want to hear about these charges against this bandsman – Hudnutt.’

  ‘Well, My Lord—’ A sideways glance from Cobb gave Hornblower a hint.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Hornblower to his staff. ‘Leave Mr Cobb alone with me.’