The Commodore h-10

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “I have despatches,” said Lord Wychwood, fumbling in the breast of his tunic, “from our Ambassador at Stockholm for you, sir.”

  “Let us go to my cabin, sir,” said Hornblower. He darted a glance at Basse.

  “You have already made the acquaintance of Baron Basse, I understand? He has messages for you, too.”

  “Then perhaps the Baron will be kind enough to come below as well. If you gentlemen will be kind enough to allow me to precede you, I will show the way.”

  Braun interpreted ceremoniously as Hornblower headed the procession. In the darkened cabin Brown hastened to bring lamps and brought forward chairs; Wychwood lowered himself into his with all the caution demanded by his tight overalls.

  “You’ve heard what Boney’s done?” he began.

  “I have heard nothing recently.”

  “He sent 50,000 troops into Swedish Pomerania the moment he got the news of what you did off Stralsund.”

  “Indeed?”

  “They acted in their usual style. Vandamme was in command. He began by fining the municipality of Stralsund 100,000 francs for not greeting his arrival with the ringing of the church bells. He interrupted the service at the church of the Holy Ghost so as to lay hold of the communion plate. He seized the Governor-General and threw him into gaol. The troops were out of hand because the garrison of Rügen tried to oppose their crossing. There was looting and murder and rape all through Rügen. The Baron here escaped in a fishing-boat. All the other officials and the troops are prisoners.”

  “So Boney is at war with Sweden now?”

  Wychwood shrugged his shoulders; everyone in the Baltic seemed to shrug shoulders when it was a matter of having to make a downright statement regarding peace and war.

  “The Baron here can tell you about that,” said Wychwood. They turned their glances towards the Baron, who began a voluble explanation in Swedish; Braun, standing against the bulkhead, translated.

  “He says that the question of peace and war lies with the Crown Prince, His Royal Highness Charles John, who used to be known as Marshal Bernadotte. His Royal Highness is not in Sweden at the moment. He is visiting the Tsar in Russia.”

  “I expect that’s what these despatches I have for you are about, sir,” said Wychwood. He produced a large canvas envelope, heavily sealed, and handed it over. Hornblower tore it open and read the contents.

  Embassy of His Britannic Majesty at Stockholm

  May 20, 1812

  SIR,

  The bearer of this despatch, Colonel Lord Wychwood, First Guards, will inform you as to the political situation here. It is to be hoped that Bonaparte’s invasion of Swedish Pomerania will bring about a declaration of war on the part of the Swedish government. It is therefore necessary that all possible aid should be given to Swedish officials who wish to communicate with H.R.H. the Crown Prince. You are therefore directed and required to use all diligence and despatch to escort or convey any such officials on their way to Russia. You are further directed and required to make all use of this opportunity to enable Lord Wychwood to open communication with the Russian government so as to assure H.I.M. the Tsar of the full support of His Majesty’s forces by land and sea in the event of war between H. I. M. and the French government. You will further make all use of any opportunity which may present itself to you to further good relations between H.M. and H.I.M.

  Your obd’t servant,

  h. l. merry, H.B.M.’s Ambassador

  to the Court of Stockholm

  CAPTAIN SIR HORATIO HORNBLOWER, K.B.

  Commodore Commanding the British Squadron in the Baltic

  Hornblower read the orders through twice, carefully. There was an important decision to be made. Merry had no business giving orders, and especially had no business to give orders in the explicit ‘directed and required’ wording which was the cherished prerogative of his naval superiors. An Ambassador was an important official—to a naval officer in foreign waters the most important official after the Lords of Admiralty—but he could only request and advise, not give orders. If Hornblower should follow Merry’s instructions and the matter turn out ill he would have no excuse to plead to the Admiralty. Yet on the other hand Hornblower knew only too well that if he were to ignore Merry’s letter there would be bitter complaints sent to London.

  Hornblower recalled his Admiralty orders to himself; they gave him wide discretion as to how he should behave towards the northern powers. Merry’s letter relieved him of no responsibility. He could allow Wychwood and Basse to proceed in the Swedish brig, or he could convey them himself; the point at issue was whether the news of Bonaparte’s latest aggression should be conveyed by a British squadron or not. Bearers of bad tidings were always unpopular—a ridiculous detail to have to bear in mind, but an important one. The two potentates might feel exasperated at being reminded of the meddling British Navy, bringing trouble to everyone. On the other hand, the presence of a British squadron far up the Baltic, at the very gates of St. Petersburg, might be a salutary reminder of the length of England’s arm. Submission to Bonaparte or the part of Sweden and Russia must mean war, real actual war with England this time; Bonaparte would be satisfied with nothing less. The sight of British topsails on the horizon, the knowledge that war would mean instant blockade, instant capture of every ship that ventured out, constant harassing of all their shores, might be a powerful argument at their councils. Bonaparte might be at their frontiers, but England would be at their doors. Hornblower made his decision.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I think it is my duty to convey you to Russia in this squadron. I can offer you the hospitality of this ship, if you would be kind enough to accept it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite the fact that he was a peer and a guardsman, despite his little red moustache and his funny pop-eyes and his ludicrous appearance in uniform, Wychwood was a shrewd and experienced man of the world. At thirty-five he had visited two-thirds of the Courts of Europe, he was familiar with their intrigues, knew their weaknesses and their strengths, the military power of which they could dispose, their prejudices and their traditions. He sat (at Hornblower’s invitation) in Hornblower’s cabin while a brisk westerly wind sent the squadron rolling and pitching up the Baltic. Basse was incapacitated in his berth with seasickness, so that they were not embarrassed by his presence—Wychwood’s cheeks were a little pale as well, and his manner occasionally hinted at an inward preoccupation, but he controlled himself manfully.

  “Boney’s weakness,” said Wychwood, “is that he thinks all the opposition in the world can be dissolved by force. Often he’s right, of course; you have only to look back at his career to see that. But sometimes he is wrong. People would rather fight—would rather die—than be slaves to his will any longer.”

  “Spain showed that,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes. But with Russia it still may be different. Russia is the Tsar, much more definitely than Spain was the Bourbon monarchy. If Alexander chooses to submit to Boney’s threats, Russia will submit. Alexander’s swallowed insults enough already.”

  “He’s swallowed other things besides insults,” said Hornblower dryly.

  “Finland, you mean? That’s perfectly true. And all the other Baltic provinces, Lithuania and Courland and so on. You know better than I do how much difference that makes to the security of St. Petersburg—I find it hard to blame him for it. At home, of course, his attack on Finland roused a good deal of feeling. I hope they forget it if he becomes our ally.”

  “And what are the chances of that?”

  “God knows. If he can be sure of the Swedish alliance he may fight. And that depends on whether Bernadotte is willing to submit to having Pomerania taken away from him.”

  “Bonaparte made a false step there,” said Hornblower.

  “Yes, by God! The British colours are like a red rag to a bull to him. You have only to show them to get him to charge. The way you destroyed that ship—what was her name?—the Blanchefleur under his very nose must have dr
iven him crazy. If anything makes the Swedes fight, it’ll be that.”

  “Let’s hope it does,” said Hornblower, decidedly comforted.

  He knew he had taken a bold step when he went in to destroy the Blanchefleur; if the subsequent political repercussions should be unfavourable he might well be called to account. His only justification would be the final event; a more cautious man would have held back and contented himself with keeping the privateer under observation. Probably that would have resulted in her slipping clean away the first foggy night, to resume her ravages among British shipping, but no man could be held responsible for fog. And if Sweden became an active enemy all England would clamour for the head of the officer they deemed responsible. Yet come what might he could not but feel that he had taken the best course in proving that England had the power to strike and would not hesitate to use it. There were few occasions in history when timidity was wise.

  They were bringing further news to St. Petersburg, too. Wellington was on the offensive in Spain; in two desperate strokes he had cleared his front by storming Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and now was ready to strike into the heart of the Peninsula. The knowledge that a large part of Bonaparte’s army was hotly engaged in the South might bring firmness to the councils of the North.

  His brother-in-law was an Earl now—another victory or two would make him a Duke, reflected Hornblower. Barbara would be proud of him, and to Hornblower that was another reason for him to dread failure for himself; Barbara had a high standard of comparison. But she would understand. She would know how high were the stakes he was playing for in the Baltic—as high as those her brother was playing for in Spain; she would know what moral courage was needed to make the kind of decisions he had made. She would be considerate; and at that moment Hornblower told himself that he did not want his wife to have to be considerate on his account. The thought revolted him, drove him to make his excuses to Wychwood and plunge out on deck, into the pouring rain under the grey sky, to walk the quarter-deck while the other officers eyed him askance and kept well clear of him. There was not a soul in the squadron who had not heard that only fools crossed the Commodore’s hawse when he was walking the deck.

  The brisk wind was chill, even in late May, here in the North Baltic; the squadron pitched and rolled over the short steep waves, leaden-hued under the leaden sky, as it drove ever northward towards the Gulf of Finland, towards Russia, where the destiny of the world hung in the balance. The night was hardly darker than the sky, up here in the sixtieth degree of north latitude, when the sky cleared, for the sun was barely hidden below the horizon and the moon shone coldly in the twilight as they drove past Hoghland and hove to in sight of Lavansaari so as to approach Kronstadt after sunrise.

  Braun was on deck early, leaning against the rail, craning over in fact; that faint grey smear on the horizon to the northward was his native land, the Finland of lake and forest which the Tsar had just conquered and from which he was a hopeless exile. Hornblower noted the dejection of the poor devil’s pose and was sorry for him, even in the keen excitement of anticipation regarding the reception they might be accorded. Bush came bustling up, in all the glory of epaulettes and sword, darting eager glances over the deck and aloft to make quite sure that everything in the ship was ready to bear the inspection of an unfriendly power.

  “Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “I’d be obliged if you would square away for Kronstadt.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower would have liked to have asked if the arrangements for saluting were properly in train, but he forbore. He could trust Bush with any routine duty, and he had to be very careful not to interfere with the working of the ship. He was glad that so far he had never forgotten to make use of the polite forms of request when giving orders to Bush, who was his equal in substantive rank. ‘I’d be obliged’ and ‘if you please’ still came strangely enough to his lips as a preface to an order.

  He turned his back on the dawn and trained his glass aft on the squadron; they were squaring away and taking up their stations astern in succession, the two sloops, and then the two bomb-vessels, and the cutter last.

  “General signal,” he snapped, “’Keep better station’.”

  He wanted his squadron to come up the difficult channel in exact, regular order, like beads on a string. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Basse and Wychwood come on deck, and he ignored them.

  “Make that signal again,” he rasped, “with Harvey’s number.”

  Harvey was yawing slightly from her course; young Mound had better keep a sharp eye on his helmsman, or he would be in trouble. To starboard, where the wide shoals extended from the Oranienbaum shore, there were buoys to mark the limits of the channel, which serpentined back and forth in unpredictable fashion. If ever he had to penetrate this channel as an enemy he would find it a tricky business. There were the low grey fortifications of Kronstadt on the port bow; a turn in the channel sent the Nonsuch heading directly for them, so that in the event of fighting the fire of the guns there would enfilade the whole line. Then the channel swung back again, and then it straightened out so that all ships would be forced to pass close under the guns of Kronstadt. Through his glass Hornblower made out the blue and white flag of Imperial Russia flying above the grey walls.

  “Make the signal, ‘anchor’,” said Hornblower to the signal midshipman, and then he darted a meaning glance at Bush, who nodded. He had everything ready. The ship crept forward, closer and closer under the guns.

  “Haul down,” said Hornblower, and the signal to anchor came down in a flash, putting the order into force at that moment. Six cables roared through six hawseholes. In the six ships a thousand men poured aloft, and the canvas vanished as though by magic as the ships swung round to their cables.

  “Pretty fair,” said Hornblower to himself, realizing, with an inward smile at his own weakness, that no evolution could ever be carried out to his perfect satisfaction. Forward the saluting gun began to crash out its marks of respect for the Russian flag; Hornblower saw a puff of smoke from the fortress and then the sound of the first gun of the return salute reached his ears. Eleven guns; they recognized his broad pendant, then, and knew what compliments were due to a Commodore. Here came the doctor’s boat to give them pratique; the doctor was a man with a large black beard who spoke limping French. His visit was a good opportunity to test Braun’s ability to speak Russian—Braun translated with facility Hornblower’s declaration that there was no infectious disease on board. Everyone in the ship was a little excited at this visit to Russia, and crowded the side to look down at the Russian boat’s crew, seated in their boat with the bowman hooking on to the chains, but they appeared no different from any other boat’s crew—much the same kind of coloured shirts and ragged trousers and bare feet, and they handled their craft capably enough. It was Bush who drove the Nonsuch’s crew from the side; he was hotly indignant about their blatant curiosity and the noise they made.

  “Chattering like a herd of monkeys,” said Bush indignantly to the first lieutenant. “Making more noise than a tree full of jackdaws. What’ll these Russians think of us? Set the men to work and keep ‘em at it.”

  In these conditions of doubtful neutrality it would be best for the first contact with the shore to be made by Basse. At least ostensibly the squadron had come to Kronstadt merely to bring him with his news to the Swedish Crown Prince. Hornblower had his barge hoisted out and sent Basse away in it, and the boat returned without him but with no other information. Basse had landed at the jetty, and the barge, in accordance with Hornblower’s orders, had immediately returned. Apart from the salute and the doctor’s visit the Russian Empire chose to ignore the British squadron’s existence.

  “What sort of people do they think we are?” grumbled Bush, fretting, as usual, at inaction. Bush knew as well as Hornblower that in all matters of diplomacy it was best to display no eagerness at all, but he could not force himself to appear calm as Hornblower could. He gave a meaning glance at Hornblower
’s full uniform and ribbon and star, donned so as to be ready for any official occasion whatever; he wanted Hornblower to proceed on shore to call on the local governor and put the whole situation to the test, but Hornblower was obstinate. He was waiting for an invitation. England had survived the storm in Europe so far without a Russian alliance, and future relations would be simplified if Russia were to make the first advances now—provided she did make them. His squadron was present merely to bring Basse to report to Bernadotte; if the Russian Government chose to take advantage of his presence to approach him, well and good. Otherwise he would have to devise some other plan.

  “The telegraph hasn’t ceased working since Basse reached shore,” commented Bush, glass to eye. The three gaunt black arms of the semaphore on the top of the fortress were whirling busily round transmitting messages to the next station higher up the bay. Otherwise there was almost nothing to be seen; across the low land of the island were visible a few masts to mark the site of the naval dockyard; two or three merchant ships swung at anchor in that direction, and a few fishing-boats plied their trade.

  “There goes a boat!” said Montgomery suddenly.

  A smart pinnace was shooting out from the direction of the dockyard heading across the channel almost directly away from Nonsuch.

  “Russian Imperial colours,” said Bush. “Can anyone see who’s onboard?”

  But the pinnace was too far away for any details to be visible by telescope.

  “I think I can see gold lace,” said Carlin, doubtfully.

  “Much good that is,” said Bush. “A blind man would guess there was gold lace in a Russian navy pinnace at Kronstadt.”

  The pinnace passed away into the distance, quartering across the broad channel until her white sail dwindled to a speck.

  “Call me if anything happens, if you please, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.