Hornblower and the Atropos h-6

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Here it comes,” said the steersman under the tarpaulin.

  An underground spring here broke through the roof of the tunnel and tumbled roaring into the canal. The water fell down on them in deafening cataracts. It thundered upon the roofs of the cabins, quite drowning the cries of the women within. The weight of its impact pressed the tarpaulin upon him. Then the torrent eased; fell away to trickles, and then they were past it.

  “Only one more o’ those,” said the steersman in the stuffy darkness beside him. “It’s better arter a dry summer.”

  “Are you wet, Horatio?” asked Maria’s voice.

  “No, dear,” said Hornblower, the simple negative having the desired cushioning effect and smothering further expostulation.

  Actually his feet were wet, but after eleven years at sea that was not a new experience; he was much more concerned with the weariness of his legs. It seemed an age before the next trickling of water and the steersman’s “Here it comes” heralded the next deluge. They crawled on beyond it, and the steersman, with a grunt of relief, dragged the tarpaulin from off them. And with its removal Hornblower, twisting his neck, suddenly saw something far ahead. His eyes were by now accustomed to the darkness, and in that massive darkness, incredibly far away, there was something to be seen, a minute something, the size apparently of a grain of sand. It was the farther mouth of the tunnel. He worked away with his legs with renewed vitality. The tunnel opening grew in size, from a grain of sand to a pea; it assumed the crescentic shape to be expected of it; it grew larger still, and with its growth the light increased in the tunnel by infinitesimal gradations, until Hornblower could see the dark surface of the water, the irregularities of the tunnel roof. Now the tunnel was bricklined again, and progress was easier—and seemed easier still.

  “Easy all,” said the steersman with a final thrust.

  It seemed unbelievable to Hornblower that he did not have to work his legs any more, that he was emerging into daylight, that no more underground springs would cascade upon him as he lay suffocating under a tarpaulin. The boat slowly slid out of the tunnel’s mouth, and despite its slow progress, and despite the fact that outside the sun shone with only wintry brilliance, he was quite blinded for a while. The chatter of the passengers rose into a roar almost comparable with the sound of the underground spring upon the tarpaulin. Hornblower sat up and blinked round him. There was a horseholder on the towpath with a pair of horses; he caught the line the steersman tossed to him and between them they drew the boat to the bank. Many of the passengers were leaving at this point, and they began to swarm out at once with their packages and their chickens. Others were waiting to board.

  “Horatio,” said Maria, coming out of the firstclass cabin; little Horatio was awake now and was whimpering a little.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  Hornblower was conscious of Maria’s eyes taking in the disorder of his clothes. He knew that Maria would scold him, brush him down, treat him with the same maternal possessiveness as she treated his son, and he knew that at the moment he did not want to be possessed.

  “One moment, dear, if you will pardon me,” he said, and stepped nimbly out on to the towpath, joining himself to the conversation of the steersman and the horseholder.

  “Ne’er a man here,” said the latter. “An’ you won’t find one before Oxford, that I’ll warrant you.”

  In reply the steersman said much the same things as he had said to the other horseholder.

  “That’s how it is, an’ all,” said the horseholder philosophically, “you’ll have to wait for the trade.”

  “No spare men here?” asked Hornblower.

  “None, sir,” said the steersman, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I suppose, sir, you wouldn’t care to drive a pair o’ horses?”

  “Not I,” answered Hornblower hastily—he was taken sufficiently by surprise by the question to make no attempt to disguise his dismay at the thought of driving two horses in the manner of the injured Charlie; then he saw how to recover his dignity and keep himself safe from Maria’s ministrations, and he added: “But I’ll take the tiller.”

  “O’ course you could, sir,” answered the steersman. “Not the first time you’ve handled a tiller. Not by a long chalk An’ I’ll drive the nags, me an’ my jury fist an’ all.”

  He glanced down at the steel hook that replaced his missing hand.

  “Very well,” said Hornblower.

  “I’m grateful to you, sir, that I am,” said the steersman, and to emphasize his sincerity he swore a couple more oaths. “I’ve a contract on this here v’yage—that’s two chests o’ tea for’rard there, first o’ the China crop for Lunnon delivery. You’ll save me pounds, sir, an’ my good name as well. Grateful I am, by—”

  He emphasized his sincerity again.

  “That’s all right,” said Hornblower. “The sooner we start the sooner we arrive. What’s your name?”

  “Jenkins, sir.” Tom Jenkins, the steersman—now to be the postillion—tugged at his forelock, “main topman in the old Superb, Cap’n Keates, sir.”

  “Very well, Jenkins. Let’s start.”

  The horseholder tended to the business of attaching the horses’ towlines, and while Jenkins cast off the bowline, Hornblower cast off the stern one and stood by with a single turn round the bollard; Jenkins climbed nimbly into the saddle and draped the reins about his hook.

  “But, Horatio,” said Maria, “whatever are you thinking about?”

  “About arriving in London, my dear,” said Hornblower, and at that moment the whip cracked and the towlines tightened.

  Hornblower had to spring for the stern sheets, line in hand, and he had to grab for the tiller. Maybe Maria was still expostulating, but if she were, Hornblower was already far too busy to hear anything she said. It was impressive how quickly the Queen Charlotte picked up speed as the horses, suddenly breaking into a trot, pulled her bows up on to her bow wave. From a trot they changed to a canter, and the speed seemed fantastic—far faster, to Hornblower’s heated imagination, now that he was at the helm instead of being a mere irresponsible passenger. The banks were flying by; fortunately in this deep cut of the summit level the channel was straight at first, for the steering was not perfectly simple. The two towlines, one at the bow and one at the stern, held the boat parallel to the bank with the smallest use of the rudder—an economic employment of force that appealed to Hornblower’s mathematical mind, but which made the feel of the boat a little unnatural as he tentatively tried the tiller.

  He looked forward at the approaching bend with some apprehension, and as they neared it he darted his eyes from bank to bank to make sure he was holding in midchannel. And round the bend, almost upon them, was a bridge—another of these infernal canal bridges, built for economy, with the towpath bulging out under the arch, so that it was hard to sight for the centre of the greatly narrowed channel. Maria was certainly saying something to him, and little Horatio was undoubtedly yelling like a fury, but this was no moment to spare them either a glance or a thought. He steadied the boat round the bend. The hoofs of the lead horse were already ringing on the cobbles under the bridge. God! He was over too far. He tugged the tiller across. Too far the other way! He pushed the tiller back, straightening the boat on her course even as her bows entered the narrows. She turned, very nearly fast enough—her starboard quarter, just where he stood, hit with a solid thump against the elbow of the brickfaced canal side, but she had a thick rope rubbing strake there—presumably to meet situations of this sort—which cushioned the shock; it was not violent enough to throw the passengers off their benches in the cabin, although it nearly threw Hornblower, crouching low under the arch, on to his face. No time to think, not even though little Horatio had apparently been bumped by the shock and was now screaming even more wildly in the bows; the canal was curving back again and he had to guide the Queen Charlotte round the bend.

  Crackcrackcrackcrack—that was Jenkins with his whip—was not the speed already great en
ough for him? Round the bend, coming towards them, there was another canal boat, creeping peacefully along towed by a single horse. Hornblower realized that Jenkins’ four whip cracks were a signal, demanding a clear passage. He hoped most sincerely and fervently that one would be granted, as the canal boat hastened down upon the barge.

  The bargee at the tow horse’s head brought the beast to a standstill, edging him over into the hedge beside the towpath; the bargee’s wife put her tiller over and the barge swerved majestically, with her residual way, towards the reeds that lined the opposite bank; so between horse and barge the towrope sank to the ground on the towpath, and into the water in a deep bight. Over the towrope cantered Jenkins’ horses, and Hornblower headed the passage boat for the narrow space between the barge and the towpath. He could guess that the water beside the path was shallow; it was necessary to steer the passage boat to shave the barge as closely as possible, and in any case the bargee’s wife, accustomed to encountering skilled steersmen, had only left him the minimum of room. Hornblower was in a fair way towards panic as the passage boat dashed forward.

  Starboard—meet her. Port—meet her. He was giving these orders to himself, as he might to his coxswain; like a streak of lightning through the dark confusion of his mind flashed the thought that although he might give the orders he could not trust his clumsy limbs to execute them with the precision of a skilled helmsman. Into the gap now; the stern was still swinging and at the last moment he got the tiller over to check her. The barge seemed to flash by; out of the tail of his eye he was dimly aware of the bargee’s wife’s greeting, changing to surprise as she noted that the Queen Charlotte was being steered by a man quite unknown to her. Faintly to his ear came the sound of what she said, but he could distinguish no word—he had no attention to spare for compliments.

  They were through, in that flash, and he could breathe again, he could smile, he could grin; all was well in a marvellous world, steering a passage boat at nine miles an hour along the Thames and Severn Canal. But that was another yell from Jenkins: he was checking his horses, and there was the grey tower of a lockhouse ahead. The gates were open, the lockkeeper standing by them. Hornblower steered for them, greatly helped by the Queen Charlotte’s abrupt reduction in speed as her bow wave passed ahead of her. Hornblower grabbed for the stern rope, leaped for the bank, and miraculously kept his footing. The bollard was ten feet ahead; he ran forward and dropped a loop over it and took the strain. The ideal method was to take nearly all the way off the boat, let her creep into the lock, and stop her fully at the next bollard, but it was too much to hope that he could at his first attempt execute all this exactly. He let the line slip through his hands, watching the boat’s progress, and then took too sudden a pull at it. Line and bollard creaked; the Queen Charlotte swung her bows across the lock to bump them against the farther sides and she lay there half in and half out, helpless, so that the lockkeeper’s wife had to run along from the farther gates, lean over, shove the bows clear while seizing the bowline, and, with the line over her sturdy shoulder, haul the boat the final dozen yards into the lock—a clear waste of a couple of minutes. Nor was this all, for as they had now passed the summit level, this was a downward lock, and Hornblower had not readied his mind for this transition. He was taken by surprise when the Queen Charlotte subsided abruptly, with the opening of the gate paddles, along with the emptying water, and he had only just time to slack away the sternline, or else the boat might have been left hanging on it.

  “Ee, man, you know little about boats,” said the lockkeeper’s wife, and Hornblower’s ears burned with embarrassment. He thought of the examination he had passed in navigation and seamanship; he thought of how often he had tacked a monstrous ship of the line in heavy weather. That experience was not of much use to him here in inland Gloucestershire—or perhaps it was Oxfordshire by now and in any case the lock was empty, the gates opening, the towlines tightening, and he had to leap down six feet or more in a hurry into the already moving stern, remembering to take the sternline down with him. He managed it, clumsily as ever, and he heard the lockkeeper’s wife’s hearty laugh as he glided on below her; and she said something more, too, but he could pay no attention to it, as he had to grab for the tiller and steer the hurrying boat out under the bridge. And when he had first paid for their passages he had pictured to himself the leisurely life of the canal boatman!

  And, heavens and earth! Here was Maria beside him having made her way aft through the secondclass cabin.

  “How can you let these people be so insolent to you, dear?” she was asking. “Why don’t you tell them who you are?”

  “My dear—” began Hornblower, and then stopped.

  If Maria could not see the incongruity of a naval captain mishandling a canal boat it was hopeless to argue. Besides, he had no attention to spare for her, not with those cantering horses whisking the Queen Charlotte along like this.

  “And this all seems very unnecessary, dear,” went on Maria. “Why should you demean yourself like this? Is there all this need for haste?”

  Hornblower took the boat round a bend—he congratulated himself that he was getting the feel of the tiller now.

  “Why don’t you answer me?” went on Maria. “And I have our dinner waiting for us, and little Horatio—”

  She was like the voice of conscience—for that matter that was exactly what she was.

  “Maria,” snapped Hornblower. “Get for’rard! Get for’rard, I say. Go back to the cabin.”

  “But, my dear—”

  “Get for’rard!”

  Hornblower roared this out—here was another barge approaching and he could spare no time for the niceties of married life.

  “You are very heartless,” said Maria, “and in my condition, too.”

  Heartless, maybe, but certainly preoccupied. Hornblower pulled the tiller over, and Maria put her handkerchief to her eyes and flounced—as much of a flounce as was possible to her as she was—back into the second class cabin again. The Queen Charlotte shot neatly down the gap between the barge and the towpath, and Hornblower could actually spare enough attention to acknowledge with a wave of his hand the greeting of the bargee’s wife. He had time, too, now, for a prick of conscience about his treatment of Maria, but only a momentary one. He still had to steer the boat.

  Chapter II

  There was still plenty of daylight when they came out into the Thames valley and Hornblower, looking down to starboard, could see the infant river—not such an infant at its winter level—running below. Every turn and every lock brought the canal nearer to the stream, and at last they reached Inglesham, with Lechlade church steeple in view ahead, and the junction with the river. At Inglesham lock Jenkins left his horses and came back to speak to Hornblower.

  “There’s three staunches on the river next that we have to run, sir,” he said.

  Hornblower had no idea what a staunch was, and he very much wanted to know before he had to “run” them, but at the same time he did not want to admit ignorance. Jenkins may have been tactful enough to sense his difficulty; at least he gave an explanation.

  “They’re dams across the river, sir,” he told Hornblower. “At this time o’ year, with plenty of water, some o’ the paddles are kept out for good, at the towpath end o’ the staunch. There’s a fall o’ five or six feet.”

  “Five or six feet?” repeated Hornblower, startled.

  “Yes, sir. ‘Bout that much. But it isn’t a real fall, if you know what I mean, sir. Steep, but no more.”

  “And we have to run down it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s easy enough sir—at the top, leastways.”

  “And at the bottom?”

  “There’s an eddy there, sir, like as you’d expect. But if you hold her straight, sir, the nags’ll take you through.”

  “I’ll hold her straight,” said Hornblower.

  “O’ course you will, sir.”

  “But what the devil do they have these staunches on the river for?”


  “They keeps back the water for the mills—an’ the navigation, sir.”

  “But why don’t they have locks?”

  Jenkins spread his hand and his hock in a gesture of ignorance.

  “Dunno, sir. There’s locks from Oxford down. These ‘ere staunches are a plague. Takes six horses to get the old Queen Charlotte up ‘em, sometimes.”

  Hornblower’s thinking about the subject had not get progressed as far as thinking about how the staunches were passed upriver; and he was a little annoyed with himself at not having raised the point. But he managed to nod sagely at the information.

  “I daresay,” he said. “Well, it doesn’t concern us this voyage.”

  “No, sir,” said Jenkins. He pointed down the canal. “The first ‘un is half a mile below Lechlade Bridge, there. It’s well over on the port side. You can’t miss it, sir.”

  Hornblower hoped he was right about that. He took his place in the stern and seized the tiller with a bold attempt to conceal his misgivings, and he waved to the lockkeeper as the boat moved rapidly out of the lock—he was adept enough by now to be able to spare attention for that even with a gate to negotiate. They shot out on to the surface of the young river; there was plenty of current running in their direction—Hornblower noted the eddy at the point—but the speed of the horses gave them plenty of steerageway.

  Lechlade Bridge just ahead of them—the staunch was half a mile beyond, Jenkins said. Although the air was distinctly cold now Hornblower was conscious that his palms, as they rested on the tiller, were distinctly damp. To him now it appeared a wildly reckless thing to do, to attempt to shoot the staunch inexperienced as he was. He would prefer—infinitely prefer—not to try. But he had to steer through the arch of the bridge—the horses splashed fetlock deep there—and then it was too late to do anything about his change of mind. There was the line of the staunch across the stream, the gap in it plainly visible on the port side. Beyond the staunch the surface of the river was not visible because of the drop, but above the gap the water headed down in a steep, sleek slope, higher at the sides than in the middle; the fragments which floated on the surface were all hurrying towards it, like people in a public hall all pressing towards a single exit. Hornblower steered for the centre of the gap, choking a little with excitement; he could feel the altered trim of the boat as her bows sank and her stern rose on the slope. Now they were flying down, down. Below, the smooth slope narrowed down to a point, beyond which and on each side was the turbulent water of the eddy. He still had steerage way enough to steer down the point; as he felt the boat answer the helm he was momentarily tempted to follow up the mathematical line of thought presented by that situation, but he had neither time nor really the inclination. The bows hit the turbulent water with a jar and a splash; the boat lurched in the eddy, but next moment the towlines plucked them forward again. Two seconds’ careful steering and they were through the eddy and they were gliding over a smooth surface once more, foamstreaked but smooth, and Hornblower was laughing out loud. It had been simple, but so exhilarating that it did not occur to him to condemn himself for his earlier misgivings. Jenkins looked back, turning in his saddle, and waved his whip, and Hornblower waved back.