“That is so. The Empire cannot much longer endure.”
“I am glad to hear your opinion in the matter.”
“And when the Empire falls there will be peace, and when peace comes trade will recommence.”
“Without a doubt,” said Hornblower, still a little mystified.
“Profits will be enormous during the first few months. All Europe has for years been deprived of foreign produce. At this moment genuine coffee commands a price of over a hundred francs a pound.”
Now Lebrun was showing his hand, more involuntarily than voluntarily. There was a look of avarice in his face which told Hornblower much.
“All this is obvious, monsieur,” said Hornblower, non-committally.
“A firm which was prepared for the moment of peace, with its warehouses gorged with colonial produce ready to distribute, would greatly benefit. It would be far ahead of its competitors. There would be millions to be made. Millions.” Lebrun was obviously dreaming of the possibility of finding some of those millions in his own pocket.
“I have a great deal of business to attend to, monsieur,” said Hornblower. “Have the goodness to come to the point.”
“His Majesty of Great Britain might well allow his friends to make those preparations in advance,” said Lebrun, the words coming slowly; well they might, for they could take him to the guillotine if Bonaparte ever heard of them. Lebrun was offering to betray the Empire in exchange for commercial advantages.
“His Majesty would first need undeniable proof that his friends were his friends,” said Hornblower.
“A quid pro quo,” said Lebrun, thereby for the first time during the conversation putting Hornblower at a loss — the Frenchman’s pronunciation of Latin being quite unlike anything he was accustomed to, so that he had to grope about in his mind wondering what unaccustomed word Lebrun was using before at length he understood.
“You may tell me the nature of your offer, monsieur,” said Hornblower with solemn dignity, “but I can make no promises of any sort in return. His Majesty’s Government will probably refuse to bind themselves in any way whatsoever.”
It was curious how he found himself aping the ministerial manner and diction — it might have been his solemn brother-in-law, Wellesley, speaking. Maybe high politics had that effect on everyone; it was useful in this particular case, because it helped him to conceal his eagerness.
“A quid pro quo,” said Lebrun, again, thoughtfully. “Supposing the city of Le Havre declared itself against the Empire, declared itself for Louis XVIII?”
The possibility had occurred to Hornblower, but he had put it aside as being potentially too good to be true.
“Supposing it did?” he said cautiously.
“It might be the example for which the Empire is waiting. It might be infectious. Bonaparte could not survive such a blow.”
“He has survived many blows.”
“But none of this sort. And if Le Havre declared for the King the city would be in alliance with Great Britain. The blockade could not continue to apply. Or if it did a licence to import could be granted to the house of Momas Frères, could it not?”
“Possibly. Remember, I make no promises.”
“And when Louis XVIII was restored to the throne of his fathers he would look with kindness upon those who first declared for him,” said Lebrun. “The adjoint to Baron Momas might expect to find a great career open to him.”
“No doubt of that,” agreed Hornblower. “But — you have spoken of your own sentiments. Can you be sure of those of M. le Baron? And whatever may be M. le Baron’s sentiments, how can he be sure that the city would follow him should he declare himself?”
“I can answer for the Baron, I assure you, sir. I know — I have certain knowledge of his thoughts.”
Probably Lebrun had been spying on his master on behalf of the Imperial Government, and had no objection to applying his knowledge in another and more profitable cause.
“But the city? The other authorities?”
“The day you took me prisoner, sir,” said Lebrun, “there arrived from Paris some sample proclamations and advance notice of some Imperial decrees. The proclamations were to be printed — my last official act was to give the order — and next Monday the proclamations were to be posted and the decrees made public.”
“Yes?”
“They are the most drastic in the drastic history of the Empire. Conscription — the last of the class of 1815 is to be called, and the classes all the way back to that of 1802 are to be revised. Boys of seventeen, cripples, invalids, fathers of families, even those who have purchased exemption; they are all to be called.”
“France must have grown used to conscription.”
“France has grown weary of it, rather, sir. I have official knowledge of the number of deserters and the severity of the measures directed against them. But it’s not merely the conscription, sir. The other decrees are more drastic still. The taxes! The direct imposts, the indirect imposts, the droits réunis, and the others! Those of us who survive the war will be left beggars.”
“And you think publication of these decrees will rouse sufficient discontent to cause rebellion?”
“Perhaps not. But it would constitute an admirable starting-point for a determined leader.”
Lebrun was shrewd enough — this last remark was acute and might be true.
“But the other authorities in the town? The military governor? The Prefect of the Department?”
“Some of them would be safe. I know their sentiments as well as I know Baron Momas’. The others — a dozen well-timed arrests, carried out simultaneously, an appeal to the troops in the barracks, the arrival of British forces (your forces, sir), a heartening proclamation to the people, the declaration of a state of siege, the closing of the gates, and it would be all over. Le Havre is well fortified, as you know, sir. Only an army and a battering train could retake it, and Bonaparte has neither to spare. The news would spread like wildfire through the Empire, however Bonaparte tried to stop it.”
This man Lebrun had ideas and vision, whatever might be thought of his morals. That was a neat thumbnail sketch he had drawn of a typical coup d’état. If the attempt were successful the results would be profound. Even if it were to fail, loyalty throughout the Empire would be shaken. Treason was infectious, as Lebrun had said. Rats in a sinking ship were notoriously quick in following an example in leaving it. There would be little enough to risk losing in supporting Lebrun’s notions, and the gains might be immense.
“Monsieur,” said Hornblower, “so far I have been patient. But in all this time you have made me no concrete proposal. Words — nebulous ideas — hopes — wishes, that is all, and I am a busy man, as I told you. Please be specific. And speedy, if that is not too much trouble to you.”
“I shall be specific, then. Set me on shore — as an excuse I could be sent to arrange a cartel for the exchange of prisoners. Let me be able to assure M. le Baron of your instant support. In the three days before next Monday I can complete the arrangements. Meanwhile, you remain close in the vicinity with all the force you can muster. The moment we secure the citadel we shall send up the white flag, and the moment you see that you enter the harbour and overawe any possible dissentients. In return for this — a licence to Momas Frères to import colonial produce, and your word of honour as a gentleman that you will inform King Louis that it was I, Hercule Lebrun, who first suggested the scheme to you.”
“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower. He hardly ever made use of that sound now, after his wife had teased him about it, but it escaped from him at this moment of crisis. He had to think. He had to have time to think. The long conversation in the French which he was not accustomed to using had been exhausting. He lifted his voice in a bellow to the sentry outside the door.
“Pass the word for the armed guard to take this prisoner away.”
“Sir!” protested Lebrun.
“I will give you my decision in an hour,” said Hornblower. “Meanwhile
for appearance’s sake you must be treated harshly.”
“Sir! Remember to be secret! Remember not to utter a word! For God’s sake — !”
Lebrun had a very proper sense of the necessity for secrecy in planning a rebellion against such a potentate as Bonaparte. Hornblower took that into consideration as he went up on deck, there to pace up and down, thrusting the minor administrative problems out of his mind as he debated this, the greatest problem of all.
CHAPTER IX
The tricolour was still flying over the citadel — the fortress of Ste. Adresse — of Le Havre; Hornblower could see it through his glass as he stood on the deck of the Flame, which was creeping along under easy sail, just out of range of the shore batteries. He had decided, inevitably, to assist Lebrun in his scheme. He was telling himself again, at that very moment, and for the thousandth time, that there was much to gain whatever the result, and little enough to lose. Only Lebrun’s life, and perhaps Hornblower’s reputation. Heaven only knew what Whitehall and Downing Street would say when they heard of what he had been doing. No one had decided yet what to do about the government of France when Bonaparte should fall; certainly there was no unanimity of opinion regarding the restoration of the Bourbons. The Government could refuse to honour the promises he had made regarding import licences; they could come out with a bold announcement that they had no intention of recognising Louis XVIII’s pretensions; they could rap him over the knuckles very sharply indeed for most of his actions since recapture of the Flame.
He had used his powers to pardon forty mutineers, all the seamen and boys, in fact, that were in the crew of the latter vessel. He could plead sheer necessity as a defence for that decision; to keep the mutineers as well as the prisoners under guard, and to provide prize crews for the two prizes, would have called for the services of every man at his disposal. He would hardly have had enough to handle the vessels, and certainly he could have attempted nothing further. As it was, he had relieved himself of all these difficulties by a few simple decisions. Every Frenchman had been sent on shore in the Bonne Celestine under flag of truce, with Lebrun ostensibly to arrange for their exchange; the Indiaman had been manned by a minimum crew and sent with despatches to Pellew and the Mid-Channel Squadron, and he had been able to retain the two brigs, each at least sufficiently manned, under his own command. That had been a convenient way of getting rid of Chadwick, too — he had been entrusted with the despatches and the command of the Indiaman. Chadwick had been pale, as a result of two weeks’ confinement in the Black Hole, and two weeks’ imminent danger of hanging. There had been no evident pleasure in his red-rimmed eyes when he realised that his rescuer had been young Hornblower, once his junior in the gunroom of the Indefatigable and now his immeasurable superior. Chadwick had snarled a little on receiving his orders — only a little. He had weighed the despatches in his hand, presumably wondering what was said in them about himself, but discretion or long habit had their way, and he said, “Aye aye, sir,” and turned away.
By now those despatches should have passed through Pellew’s hands, and, their contents noted, might even be on their way to Whitehall. The wind had been fair for the Indiaman to have fetched the Mid-Channel Squadron off the Start — fair, too, for the reinforcements Hornblower had asked for to make their way to him. Pellew would send them, he knew. It was fifteen years since they had last met; nearly twenty years since Pellew had promoted him to a lieutenancy in the Indefatigable. Now Pellew was an admiral and a commander-in-chief, and he was commodore, but Pellew would be the loyal friend and the helpful colleague he had always been.
Hornblower glanced out to seaward, where, dim on the horizon, the Porta Coeli patrolled in the mist. She would halt the reinforcements before they could be sighted from the shore, for there was no reason why the authorities in Le Havre should be given the least chance to think that anything unusual portended, although it was not a vital matter. England had always flaunted her naval might in sight of the enemy, making the hostile coast her sea frontier — the Flame, here, wearing the White Ensign under the noses of the citizens of Le Havre, was no unusual sight to them. That was why he did not hesitate to stay here, with the tricolour on the citadel within range of his telescope.
“Keep a sharp lookout for any signal from the Porta Coeli,” he said sharply to the midshipman of the watch.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Porta Coeli, the Gate of Heaven; the Silly Porter was what the men called her. Hornblower had a vague memory of reading about the action which resulted in the strange name appearing in the Navy List. The first Porta Coeli had been a Spanish privateer — half pirate, probably — captured off Havannah. She had put up so fierce a resistance that the action had been commemorated by naming an English ship after her. The Tonnant, the Temeraire, most of the foreign names in the Navy List came there as a result of similar actions — if the war were to go on long enough there would be more ships in the Navy with foreign names than with English ones, and among the rival navies the converse might eventually become true. The French Navy boasted a Swiftsure; maybe the Americans would have a Macedonian on their Navy List in future years. He had not heard yet of a French Sutherland; Hornblower felt a sudden twinge of strange regret. He snapped his telescope shut and turned abruptly on his heel, walking fast as though to shake off the memories that assailed him. He did not like to think about surrendering the Sutherland, even though the court martial had so honourably acquitted him; and, strangely enough, the passage of time made his feelings of shame about the incident more acute instead of less. And his regrets about the Sutherland brought with them, inevitably, memories of Maria, now nearly three years in her grave. Memories of poverty and despair, of pinchbeck shoebuckles; of the pity and sympathy he had felt for Maria — a poor substitute for love, and yet the memory of it hurt intensely. The past was coming to life again in his mind, a resurrection as horrible as any other resurrection would be. He remembered Maria, snoring softly in her sleep beside him, and he remembered the sour smell of her hair; Maria, tactless and stupid, of whom he had been fond as one is fond of a child, although not nearly as fond as he was now of Richard. He was almost shaking with the memory when it abruptly faded out and was replaced by the memory of Marie de Graçay — why the devil was he thinking about her? The unreserved love that she gave him, her warmth and tenderness, the quickness of perception with which she understood his moods; it was insane that he should find himself hungering at this day for Marie de Graçay, and yet he was, even though it was hardly a week since he had left the arms of a loyal and understanding wife. He tried to think about Barbara, and yet the mental images he conjured up were instantly thrust again into the background by pictures of Marie. It would be better even to think about surrendering the Sutherland. Hornblower walked the deck of the Flame with ghosts at his side in the chill, bleak winter day. Men saw his face and shrank from crossing his path with greater care even than usual. Yet most of them thought Hornblower was only planning some further deviltry against the French.
It was late afternoon before the expected interruption came.
“Signal from Porta Coeli, sir! Eighteen — fifty-one — ten. That’s friendly ships in sight, bearing nor’west.”
“Very good. Ask their numbers.”
This must be the reinforcements sent by Pellew. The signal hands bent on the flags and hauled away at the halliards; it was several minutes before the midshipman noted the reply and translated it by reference to the list.
“Nonsuch, 74, Captain Bush, sir.”
“Bush, by God!”
The exclamation leaped uncontrolled from Hornblower’s lips; the devils that surrounded him were chased away as though by holy water at the thought of his old staunch matter-of-fact friend being only just over the horizon. Of course Pellew would send Bush if he were available, knowing the friendship that had so long existed between him and Hornblower.
“Camilla, 36, Captain Howard, sir.”
He knew nothing about Howard whatever. He looked at the list —
a captain of less than two years’ seniority. Presumably Pellew had selected him as junior to Bush.
“Very good. Reply — ‘Commodore to —’”
“Porta‘s still signalling, begging your pardon, sir. ‘Nonsuch to Commodore. Have — on board — three hundred — marines — above — complement’.”
Good for Pellew. He had stripped his squadron to give Hornblower a landing force that could make itself felt. Three hundred marines, and the Nonsuch‘s detachment as well, and a body of seamen. He could march five hundred men into Le Havre should the opportunity arise.
“Very good. Make ‘Commodore to Nonsuch and Camilla. Delighted to have you under my command’.”
Hornblower looked again over at Le Havre. He looked up at the sky, he gauged the strength of the wind, remembered the state of the tide, calculated the approach of night. Over there Lebrun must be bringing his plans to fruition, tonight if at all. He must be ready to strike his blow.
“Make ‘Commodore to all vessels. Join me here after dark. Night signal two lanterns horizontally at fore yard-arms’.”
“— fore yardarms. Aye aye, sir,” echoed the midshipman, scribbling on his slate.
It was good to see Bush again, to shake his hand in welcome as he hoisted himself in the darkness onto the Flame‘s deck. It was good to sit in the stuffy little cabin with Bush and Howard and Freeman as he told them about his plans for the morrow. It was wonderful to be planning action after that day of horrible introspection. Bush looked at him closely with his deep-set eyes.
“You’ve been busy, sir, since you came to sea again.”
“Of course,” said Hornblower.
The last few days and nights had been a turmoil; even after the recapture of the Flame the business of reorganisation, the sessions with Lebrun, the writing of the despatches had all been exhausting.
“Too busy, if you’ll pardon me, sir,” went on Bush. “It was too soon for you to resume duty.”
“Nonsense,” protested Hornblower. “I had almost a year’s leave.”
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