12 Hornblower and the Crisis hh-12

by C. S. Forester

  The world wide commerce of England was conducted largely by bills of exchange. Claudius had taken advantage of the long intervals necessary between drawing and presentation to insert his forgeries into the stream, and only an error by a confederate had exposed him. Bills drawn in Beyrout and in Madras, so perfect that the very victims found it hard to dishonour them, were still coming in, and the financial world was shaken to its foundations, and, judging by this paragraph, the world of high society which had accepted him was similarly rent. Now Claudius was lodged in Newgate Gaol and his trial was imminent. Was it significant that Marsden had expressed interest in this fellow? Hornblower found it hard to believe it.

  At that moment his attention was caught by the sight of his own name in another paragraph. It was headed ‘Plymouth’ and after mentions of the comings and goings of ships came ‘Captain Horatio Hornblower, late of HM Sloop Hotspur, landed this morning from the waterhoy Princess and immediately took post to London’.

  It was quite ridiculous that such a triviality should improve the flavour of the gammon and spinach and fried eggs that the innkeeper set before him, but it was indeed the case. It put him in a good humour as he walked towards Whitehall. Marsden must be ready to discuss with him his promotion to Captain and to find a ship for him — the sooner this vital business was settled the better. He had no friends in high places now that Cornwallis had hauled down his flag, and Cornwallis’ recommendation could easily be shelved or even forgotten in order to make room for a favourite.

  It was inconceivable in the clear light of day, after a good night’s rest and with a full stomach, that Marsden could have in mind to take any further action on the wild plan to send false orders to Villeneuve. And yet — It was not so inconceivable; nor was it such a wild plan. The forgery would have to be very good, the substitution undetected. As Ferrol was at least ten days by courier from Paris there would be no chance of Villeneuve referring back for confirmation. And because it was inconceivable that the British government should do such a thing its success would be all the more likely if it were attempted.

  Here was the Admiralty. This morning he could say with assurance to the doorkeeper “I have an appointment with Mr Marsden” to the vast envy of a couple of suppliants who were seeking admission, and he could write ‘by appointment’ on the form on which he stated his business, and he was not left more than ten minutes in the waiting room, not more than three minutes after the clock had chimed eleven, before he was summoned into Marsden’s presence. Barrow was there as well and Dorsey too, and the sight of them warned Hornblower that the agenda of the meeting might include the inconceivable.

  But it was interesting to find that the First Secretary was human enough to spend a little time on preliminaries before plunging into business.

  “I’m sure you’ll be flattered to hear, Captain, that His Lordship holds practically identical opinions regarding Ferrol as you do.”

  “I’m very flattered, sir.” Lord Barham was not only First Lord, but he had been Comptroller of the Navy for many years and an Admiral commanding a fleet before that. He must have been responsible for the orders that had placed Calder across Villeneuve’s path.

  “His Lordship was both surprised and gratified at Mr Barrow’s familiarity with local conditions there,” went on Marsden. “Naturally Mr Barrow did not see fit to tell him he had just finished discussing them with you.”

  “Naturally not, sir,” agreed Hornblower. Then he braced himself; to speak called for resolution. “But perhaps in that case His Lordship would give favourable consideration to Admiral Cornwallis’ recommendation of me to post rank?”

  Now it was said. But not a flicker of expression was observable on the faces of the two Secretaries.

  “There is more urgent business at present,” said Marsden. “We are keeping someone waiting. Dorsey, kindly bring in the parson.”

  Dorsey walked across and opened the door, and after a moment a short square figure came waddling in; Hornblower had a glimpse of a uniformed marine outside before the door closed. The newcomer wore a black clerical gown and a clerical wig; but his clerical clothing was at variance with his bristling unshaven cheeks which bore half an inch of black stubble. It called for a second glance to see that his wrists wore handcuffs, and that a chain ran from the handcuffs to his waist.

  “This is the Reverend Doctor Claudius,” said Marsden. “Newly arrived from Newgate. His services have been lent to us by the courtesy of the Secretary of State for Home Affairs. Temporarily, at least.”

  Claudius looked round at them all with a varying expression which would offer an interesting study in psychology. He had bold black eyes, yet they were cunning and sly. There was fear in his pudgy face, yet there was defiance as well, and, besides, most interesting of all, there was curiosity, irrepressible even in the shadow of death. But Marsden wasted no time.

  “Claudius, you’ve been brought here to execute a forgery, if you can.”

  The pudgy face showed a sudden flash of understanding, and then instantly settled into an immobility which called forth Hornblower’s admiration.

  “Both politeness and convention,” said Claudius, “suggest that you address me as ‘Doctor’. I have not yet been unfrocked, and I am still a Doctor of Divinity.”

  “Rubbish, Claudius,” said Marsden.

  “I shouldn’t have expected politeness from underlings.”

  Claudius’ voice was an unpleasant one, harsh and grating, which might explain the ill success of his quest for a bishopric. But on the other hand Claudius had taken the offensive in this very first exchange — that letter from Bonaparte which Dorsey held recommended an unexpected counter-attack vigorously carried out even with an inferior force. But here in the Admiralty the enemy was commanded by a master of tactics.

  “Very well, Doctor,” said Marsden. “The dignity of a Doctor of Divinity demands all the respect we can accord it. Mr Dorsey, hand that document to the Doctor with the compliments of Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and ask the Doctor if as a result of his vast experience he thinks himself capable of making anything similar.”

  Claudius took the thing in his manacled hands, and his black eyebrows came together as he studied it.

  “Of French origin. That is plain. Apart from the language it is in the standard handwriting in use by French clerks. I had plenty of examples pass through my hands during the late peace.”

  “And the signature?”

  “An interesting piece of work. Written with a turkey quill, I should say. It would call for at least an hour’s practice before I could reproduce it. Now these seals —”

  “I made moulds,” said Dorsey.

  “I could see that. But they have been lifted from the paper with reasonable care. I must congratulate you on your acquirement of a difficult art. Now —”

  Claudius looked up from the paper and swept his audience with a searching glance.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have much more to say on this subject. But before I do so I need some assurance that my services will not go without recompense.”

  “You are having that already,” said Marsden. “Your trial has been postponed for a week.”

  “A week? I used to preach sermons on how speedily time passes from Sunday to Sunday. No, gentlemen. I need my life. I have a mortal objection to hanging, and that is not spoken in jest.”

  The situation was tense with drama. Hornblower looked round at the four faces — Marsden displaying the faintest possible hint of cynical amusement, Barrow a little taken aback, Dorsey displaying the proper indifference of a subordinate, and Claudius looking warily from one to another, like a condemned criminal in the Roman arena watching the lions close in on him. Barrow spoke first, addressing Marsden.

  “I’ll call in the guard, sir, shall I? We don’t need him.”

  There was yet no slackening in the tension.

  “Call in the guard!” said Claudius; there was a clank of iron as he waved his manacled hands. “Take me away, and hang me tomorrow! T
omorrow? A week hence? If it is coming, the sooner the better. You gentlemen may never know the truth of that statement. I still have charity enough to hope that you never will. But true it is. Hang me tomorrow.”

  Hornblower found it hard to decide whether Claudius was gambling or not, staking a week of life which might well be dear to him against the possibility of pardon. But in either case he could not help feeling a guilty twinge of admiration for the ugly little man, alone and helpless, fighting his last battle and refusing to lapse into a mere plea for mercy — especially when that, addressed to Marsden, would have been the least effective plea of all. Then Marsden spoke.

  “You will not hang,” he said.

  Ever since Claudius had been brought in the sky had been darkening. After a few days of sunny summer weather the inevitable thunderstorm of the Thames valley was building up and there was a low rumble of thunder following Marsden’s words. Hornblower was reminded of the thunder in the Iliad which confirmed the oath taken by Zeus.

  Claudius darted a piercing glance at Marsden.

  “Then we are agreed and I shall give you all the benefit of my experience,” he said.

  Hornblower felt another spurt of admiration; the little man had been content with the four simple words spoken by Marsden — he had not gone through any ceremony of exacting a formal promise; as a gentleman he had instantly accepted a gentleman’s word. He may even have been encouraged by the peal of confirmatory thunder.

  “Very well,” said Marsden, and Claudius plunged into his subject. Only a slight gulping and hesitation as he began betrayed the agonizing strain he had been through.

  “It is necessary first,” he said, “to point out that ambition may outreach itself. It is quite impossible to forge a long document in the handwriting of another and to achieve deception. I take it you have in mind a letter and not a mere few words? Then it would be better to make no attempt at exact reproduction. On the other hand carelessness would easily be fatal. This script, as I said, is the standard script used by French clerks — I fancy it is the one which used to be taught in Jesuit schools. There are French refugees in plenty. Have one of those write your letter.”

  “That’s very true, sir,” said Dorsey to Marsden.

  “And again,” went on Claudius, “have your French composed by a Frenchman. You gentlemen may pride yourselves on writing good French, grammatical French, but a Frenchman reading it would know it was not written by a Frenchman. I’ll go further than that, gentlemen. Give a Frenchman a passage in English and tell him to render it into French and a Frenchman will still be aware that all is not well when he reads it. You must have your French composed ab initio by Frenchmen, contenting yourselves with merely outlining what is to be said.”

  Hornblower caught Marsden nodding agreement. It was apparent that he was impressed, however little he wished to appear so.

  “Now, gentlemen,” went on Claudius. “With regard to details of a lower degree of sensibility. I take it you have in mind to send your forged letter to a naval, or possibly a military, man? In that case the task can be approached with more confidence. Business men, soulless bankers, hard headed merchants, with something more important to lose than other men’s lives, are likely to scrutinize documents more closely. But on the staff of a general there may always be some interfering underling wishing to call attention to himself. It is necessary to be quite perfect. This signature I am confident I can reproduce in perfection. This ink — I believe it can be matched in Chancery Lane; it will be necessary to make complete tests. This printed heading — you will need to have type specially cast in exact imitation. You will have less trouble in that respect than I encountered.”

  “Yes,” said Marsden, actually betrayed into speech.

  “But the paper —” went on Claudius, feeling its texture carefully with stubby but apparently sensitive fingers. “I will have to instruct you where to search for that, too. Would you be so kind, sir, as to hold the sheet up between my eyes and the light? This chain restricts my movements to an inconvenient degree. Thank you, sir. Yes, as I thought. I know that quality of linen, but there is a fortunate absence of watermark. It may not be necessary to have paper made de novo to match it. You may not appreciate the necessity for uniformity, gentlemen, unless you make use of your imagination. A single document may well be accepted, but you must think of a series. After receiving, let us say, six genuine documents, someone receives one spurious one. The recipent naturally lays them together in the course of the routine of his office. If one is markedly different from all the others — even if one is different in only a small degree — attention is clamorously called to it. Hinc illae lachrymae. And if that one has a content somewhat unusual — even though in other circumstances it might have passed — then the fat is in the fire, and Bow Street is called in. Et ego in arcadia vixi, gentlemen.”

  “Most illuminating,” said Marsden, and Hornblower knew enough about him now to realize that this was the equivalent of a long speech in praise.

  “Now I come to ‘lastly’ in my present sermon, gentlemen,” said Claudius as the lightning flashed again and the thunder rolled. “Even in the pulpit I could feel the relief in my congregation at that word ‘lastly’, so I will be brief. The method of delivery must conform to the method of all the other deliveries. Once again, the greatest care is necessary in allowing nothing to call particular attention to this one item out of all the others.”

  Claudius when he had entered the room had been of a sickly pallor under the bristling beard, and he was whiter still when he finished his lecture.

  “Perhaps, gentlemen, you would permit me to sit down?” he said. “I have not now the strength of which I used once to boast.”

  “Take him out, Dorsey,” snapped Marsden. “Give him a glass of wine. I dare say he’s hungry, too.”

  It may have been at the thought of food that Claudius recovered something of his unabashed self-assertion.

  “A beefsteak, gentlemen?” he said. “Might I hope for a beefsteak? For the past week empty dreams of a beefsteak have further embittered my nightmares of the rope.”

  “See that he has a beefsteak, Dorsey,” said Marsden.

  Claudius turned back, still wavering a little, but with something of a smile just visible on his bristly lips.

  “In that case, gentlemen, you can count on my heartiest exertions for my King, my Country, and my Self.”

  With the departure of Dorsey and Claudius, Marsden turned to face Hornblower again. The room was almost dark, at high noon, with the black thunder clouds overhead. A sudden lightning flash filled the room instantly followed by a clap of thunder, like a vast cannon shot, coming without warning and ending without reverberation.

  “His Lordship,” said Marsden in complete disregard of it, “has already approved in principle of the attempt being made. I consulted him this morning. Mr Barrow, I am sure, has in mind the French émigrés to attend to the composition and writing of the dispatch.”

  “I have, Mr Marsden,” said Barrow.

  “It will be necessary to recapture the style, of course, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “Undoubtedly, Captain,” agreed Barrow.

  “And the orders must be such that there is nothing patently impossible about them, too.”

  Marsden intervened.

  “Did your grandmother never learn to suck eggs, Captain?” he asked, in the same unvarying tone. It was a deft reminder that the Secretaries had had years of experience in the writing of orders, and Hornblower had the sense to smile.

  “I had forgotten how much practice she has had,” he said. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I was only anxious about the success of the plan.”

  Now the thunderstorm had burst. A breath of cooler air came stealing into the room, bearing with it the sound of torrential rain roaring down outside. Through the windows there was nothing to be seen but the rain.

  “Mr Barrow and Dorsey and Claudius can be trusted to deal with the details. The next point to consider is the landing.”
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  “That should be the simplest part of the whole operation, sir.”

  The Spanish Biscay coast extended for almost three hundred miles from the French frontier to Ferrol, sparsely populated and rugged. There were inlets innumerable. The Royal Navy, omnipresent at sea, could be relied upon to put a small party on shore undetected.

  “I am delighted that you think so, Captain,” said Marsden.

  There was a dramatic pause — a melodramatic pause. Hornblower looked from Marsden to Barrow and back again, and experienced an internal upheaval as he observed the glances they exchanged.

  “What have you in mind, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Is it not quite obvious, Captain, that you are the man best fitted to undertake this mission?”

  That was what Marsden said, in that same tone. Barrow spoke in his support.

  “You are acquainted with Ferrol, Captain. You have had some experience of Spain. You speak a little Spanish. You should have command.”

  That gave the cue for Marsden again.

  “You have no other command at present, Captain.”

  The significance of this particular remark was too obvious.

  “Really, gentlemen —” said Hornblower. For once he could not think quickly enough to word his protests.

  “It is not a duty you could be ordered to perform,” went on Marsden. “That is quite clear. It would be a purely voluntary mission.”

  To enter a hostile country in disguise would be to risk a shameful death. The gallows, the rope — but in Spain it would be the iron collar of the garotte. Strangulation. Convulsions, contortions, preceding death. No fighting service could ever order its officers to take that risk.

  “This Spaniard, Miranda, can be trusted, I am sure,” said Barrow. “And if a Frenchman is needed as well — your opinion on that point would be valuable, Captain — there are at least three who have already done important work for us.”