The Commodore h-10

by Cecil Scott Forester

  So Cole in the Raven was at least familiar with Gray’s Elegy, and whoever was responsible for the flag hoists on board her was ingenious enough to use the code hoist for ‘winds’. As Hornblower expected, he used the code hoist ‘lee’ for ‘lea’ as well, thereby saving one signal flag.

  “The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lee, sir,” reported the puzzled midshipman.

  “Very good. Acknowledge.”

  All these innumerable signals between battleship and sloops must be visible from the shore and exciting their interest. Hornblower sent up another signal under Lotus’s number—‘The ploughman homeward plods his weary way’—only to receive the puzzled reply ‘Signal not understood’. Purvis, the first lieutenant of the Lotus, at present in command, was obviously not very bright, or perhaps not very well read. What in the world, at that rate, he was making of all this, was beyond even Hornblower’s imagination, although the thought of it brought a smile to his lips.

  “Cancel the signal, then,” he ordered, “and substitute ‘Report immediately number of red-haired married men on board’.”

  Hornblower waited until the reply came; he could have wished that Purvis had not been so literal-minded and had been able to think up an answer which should combine the almost incompatible qualities of deference and wit, instead of merely sending the bald reply ‘Five’. Then he turned to business.

  “Signal to both sloops,” he ordered. “’Advance on boom in threatening manner avoiding action’.”

  In the dwindling daylight he watched the two vessels move down as though to attack. They wheeled, edged into the wind, and fell away again. Twice Hornblower saw a puff of smoke and heard, echoing over the water, the dull flat boom of a twenty-four-pounder as a gunboat tried the range. Then, while there was just light enough for the signal to be read, he hoisted ‘Discontinue the action after half an hour’. He had done all he could to attract the enemy’s attention to this end of the bay, the only exit. The garrison ought to be quite certain now that the raiding boats would attempt to escape by this route. Probably the garrison would anticipate a rush in the first light of dawn, assisted by an attack by the big ships from outside. He had done all he could, and it only remained now to go to bed and spend the rest of the night in tranquillity, if that were possible.

  Naturally, it was impossible, with the fate of a hundred and fifty seamen at stake, with his own reputation for good fortune and ingenuity at stake. Half an hour after he had got into bed Hornblower found himself wishing that he had ordered three junior officers to join him in a game of whist until dawn. He dallied with the idea of getting up and doing so now, but put it aside in the certainty that if he should do so now everyone would know that he had tried to go to sleep and had failed. He could only turn over stoically and force himself to stay in bed until dawn came to release him.

  When he came on deck the pearly mist of the Baltic morning was making the vague outline of visible objects vaguer yet. There was every promise of a fine day, wind moderate, backing a little. Bush was already on deck—Hornblower knew that, before he went up, because he had heard Bush’s wooden leg thumping over his head—and at first sight of him Hornblower hoped that his own face did not show the same signs of sleeplessness and anxiety. They had at least the effect of bracing him up to conceal his own anxiety as he returned Bush’s salute.

  “I hope Vickery’s all right, sir,” said Bush.

  The mere fact that Bush ventured to address Hornblower at this time in the morning after so many years of service under him was the best possible proof of his anxiety.

  “Oh yes,” said Hornblower, bluffly. “I’ll trust Vickery to get out of any scrape.”

  That was a statement made in all sincerity; it occurred to Hornblower as he made it—what he had often thought before—that worry and anxiety were not really connected with the facts of the case. He had done everything possible. He remembered his profound study of the charts, his careful reading of the barometer, his painstaking—and now clearly successful—attempts to predict the weather. If he were compelled to bet, he would bet that Vickery was safe, and moreover he would judge the odds to be at least three to one. But that did not save him from being anxious, all the same. What did save him was the sight of Bush’s nervousness.

  “With this breeze there can’t have been much surf, sir,” said Bush.

  “Of course not.”

  He had thought of that fifty times at least during the night, and he tried to look as if it had not been more than once. The mist was thin enough now to make the land just visible; the gunboats were still stationed along the boom, and he could see a belated guard-boat rowing along it.

  “The wind’s fair for the bomb-ketches, sir,” said Bush. “They ought to have picked Vickery up by now and be on their way towards us.”

  “Yes.”

  Bush turned a searching eye aloft to make sure that the lookouts were at their posts and awake. It was twelve miles down the Nehrung, the long spit of sand that divided the Haff from the Baltic, that Mound with the bomb-ketches was going to pick up Vickery and his men. Vickery was going to land in the darkness on the Nehrung, abandon his boats, cross the sandspit, and rendezvous with Mound an hour before dawn. With their shallow draught the ketches would be safe among the shoals, so that they could send in their boats and bring Vickery off. Vickery’s four ships’ boats would all be lost, but that was a small price to pay for the destruction he must have caused, and Hornblower hoped that, what with the distraction of his own demonstrations off Pillau, and what with the fact that the possibility of Vickery abandoning his boats might easily never occur to the enemy’s mind, Vickery would find no opposition on the Nehrung. Even if there were, the Nehrung was fifteen miles long and Vickery with a hundred and fifty determined men could be relied upon to break through any thin cordon of sentries or customs officials.

  Yet if all had gone well the bomb-ketches ought to be in sight very soon. The next few minutes would be decisive.

  “We couldn’t have heard gunfire in the bay yesterday, sir,” said Bush, “the wind being where it was. They may have met with any sort of armed vessel in the bay.”

  “So they may,” said Hornblower.

  “Sail ho!” yelled the masthead lookout. “Two sail on the port beam! It’s the bomb-ketches, sir.”

  They might possibly be coming back, having been unable to pick up Vickery, but it was unlikely that in that case they would have returned so promptly. Bush was grinning broadly, with all his doubts at an end.

  “I think, Captain,” said Hornblower, “you might put the helm down and go to meet them.”

  It would not be consonant with the dignity of a Commodore to hang out a signal of inquiry as the vessels closed to visual range, for it to be read the moment a telescope in the Harvey could distinguish the flags. But Nonsuch was making a good five knots, with the water lapping cheerfully under her bows, and Harvey was doing the same, so that it was only a matter of waiting a few more minutes.

  “Harvey’s signalling, sir,” reported the midshipman. He read the flags and hurriedly referred to the code book, “’seamen on board’, sir.”

  “Very good. Make ‘Commodore to Captain. Come on board with Mr. Vickery to make your report’.”

  There was not much longer to wait. As the two vessels came within hail they rounded-to, and Harvey’s gig dropped into the water and came bobbing across to Nonsuch. It was a weary Vickery who came up the side with Mound beside him; his face was grey, and below his eyes were marks like new scars as proof that he had not slept for three successive nights. He sat down gratefully when Hornblower gave him permission to do so as soon as they were in his cabin.

  “Well?” said Hornblower. “I’ll hear you first, Vickery.”

  “It went off very well, sir.” Vickery dragged a scrap of paper out of his pocket on which apparently he had kept notes. “There was no trouble going past the boom on the night of the 15th. We saw nothing of the enemy. At dawn on the 16th we were off the mouth of the Königsberg river. T
here we took and destroyed the—the Fried Rich, coaster, of Elbing, about two hundred tons, seven of a crew, with a cargo of rye and live pigs. We burned her, and sent the crew ashore in their own boat. Then we caught the—the—Blitzer, also of Elbing, about one hundred tons, laden with grain. We burned her, too. Then the Charlotte, of Danzig. She was ship-rigged, four hundred tons, twenty-five crew, laden with general cargo of military stores—tents, stretchers, horseshoes, ten thousand stand of small arms; we burned her. Then the Ritter Horse, powder barge, about seventy tons. We blew her up.”

  “We saw that, I think,” said Hornblower. “That was Nonsuch’scutter.”

  “Yes, sir. That was all at this end of the bay. Then we bore down to the westward. We caught the Weece Ross of Kolberg, two hundred tons. She carried four six-pounders and showed fight, but Montgomery boarded her over the bows and they threw down their arms. We had two men wounded. We burned her. Then there was—”

  “How many altogether?”

  “One ship, sir. Eleven sail of coasting vessels. Twenty-four barges. All destroyed.”

  “Excellent,” said Hornblower. “And then?”

  “By then it was nigh on dark, sir. I anchored on the north side of the bay until midnight. Then I ran over to the sandspit. We found two soldiers there, and made ‘em prisoners. ‘Twas easy enough crossing the spit, sir. We burned a blue light and made contact with the Harvey. They started taking us aboard at two a.m., and I was aboard at three, by the first light. I went back and burned the boats before I embarked, sir.”

  “Better still.”

  The enemy, then, had not even the sorry compensation of the capture of four ships’ boats in exchange for the frightful destruction Vickery had wrought. He turned to Mound.

  “I have nothing particular to report, sir. Those waters are shoal, without a doubt, sir. But I had no difficulty making my way to the rendezvous. After taking Mr. Vickery’s party on board we touched bottom, sir. We had nearly a hundred extra hands on board an’ must have been drawing nigh on a foot more water. But we got off all right. I had the men run from side to side to rock the vessel, an’ I threw all aback an’ she came off.”

  “I understand.”

  Hornblower looked at Mound’s expressionless face and smiled inwardly at his studied languid manner. Picking the way in the dark through the shoals to the rendezvous must have been something of an epic achievement. Hornblower could estimate the seamanship it called for, but it was not in the tradition to lay stress on difficulties surmounted. And a less reliable officer might have tried to suppress the fact that his ship had touched ground once. It was to Mound’s credit that he had not done so.

  “I shall call the attention of the Admiralty,” said Hornblower, trying his best to combat the pomposity which persisted in making itself heard in his voice, “to the conduct of both of you officers. I consider it excellent. I shall, of course, require reports from you immediately in writing.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Now that he was a Commodore Hornblower felt more sympathy towards senior officers who had been pompous to him; he was pompous himself—it was one way in which could be concealed the fact that he had been anxious.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hornblower was dining by himself. He had Gibbon securely wedged against the cheese-crock on the table before him, and his legs stretched out at ease under it. To-day he was indulging himself extraordinarily with a half-bottle of wine, and the sea pie from which he was about to help himself smelt most appetizing. It was one of those days when there was nothing wrong with the world at all, when he could allow himself to sway with the rhythm of the ship without any further thought, when food tasted good and wine delicious. He dug a spoon into the sea pie just at the moment when there was a knock on the door and a midshipman entered.

  “Clam in sight to wind’ard, sir,” he said.

  “Very good.”

  Hornblower proceeded to transfer the sea pie from the dish to his plate, and as he spread out his helping to allow it to cool his mind began to rouse itself. Clam would be bringing news; she had been left at St. Petersburg for the very purpose of waiting for news. Maybe Russia was at war with Bonaparte now. Or maybe Alexander had made the abject surrender which would be the only thing that could save him from war. Or maybe Alexander was dead, murdered by his officers as his father had been. It would be by no means the first time that a change in Russian policy had been ushered in by a palace revolution. Maybe—maybe anything, but the sea pie was growing cold. He applied himself to it, just as the midshipman knocked at the door again.

  “Clam signals ‘Have despatches for Commodore’, sir.”

  “How far off is she?”

  “Hull-up to wind’ard, sir. We’re running down to her.”

  “Make ‘Commodore to Clam. Send despatches on board as soon as practicable’.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was nothing surprising about Clam’s message; the surprise would have been if she carried no despatches. Hornblower found himself shovelling sea pie into his mouth as if the faster he ate it the faster the despatches would come. He checked himself and took sips of his wine, but neither wine nor food had any attraction for him. Brown came in and served him with cheese, and he munched and told himself he had dined well. Cocking his ear to the noises on the deck overhead he could guess there was a boat coming alongside, and directly afterwards one more knock on the door heralded the arrival of Lord Wychwood. Hornblower rose for him, offered him a chair, offered him dinner, took over the bulky canvas-wrapped despatch which Wychwood handed him, and signed a receipt for it. He sat with it on his knee for a moment.

  “Well,” said Wychwood, “it’s war.”

  Hornblower could not allow himself to ask, “War with whom?” He made himself wait.

  “Alexander’s done it, or rather Boney has. Boney crossed the Niemen with fifteen army corps ten days back. No declaration of war, of course. That’s not the sort of courtesy one would expect of two potentates who have been blackguarding each other in every sheet in every language in Europe. War was inevitable the moment Alexander sent back his answer a month ago—the day before you left us. Now we’ll see.”

  “Who’s going to win?”

  Wychwood shrugged.

  “I can’t imagine Boney being beaten. And from what I’ve heard the Russian Army did not show to advantage last year in Finland despite their reorganization. And Boney has half a million men marching on Moscow.”

  Half a million men; the largest army the world had seen since Xerxes crossed the Hellespont.

  “At least,” went on Wychwood, “it will keep Boney busy all this summer. Next year we’ll see—maybe he’ll lose so many men his people will bear it no longer.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Hornblower.

  He took out his penknife and ripped open his despatch.

  British Embassy,

  St. Petersburg

  June 24th, 1812.

  SIR,

  The bearer of this despatch, Colonel Lord Wychwood, will inform you of affairs in this country and of the state of war which now exists between His Imperial Majesty the Tsar and Bonaparte, You will, of course, take all necessary steps to render all the assistance in your power to our new ally. I am informed, and have reason to believe, that while the main body of Bonaparte’s army is marching on Moscow, a very considerable detachment, believed to consist of the Prussian army corps and a French corps d’armée, the whole under the orders of Marshal Macdonald, Duke of Tarentum, altogether some 60,000 men, has been directed on the northern route towards St. Petersburg. It is highly desirable that this army should be prevented from reaching its goal, and at the request of the Russian Imperial Staff I must call your attention to the possibility that your squadron may be able to give assistance at Riga, which the French must capture before continuing their march on St. Petersburg. I wish to add my own advice to that of the Russian staff, and to press upon you as urgently as possible that you should give assistance at Riga for as long as may be c
ompatible with your original orders.

  In virtue of the powers granted me under the terms of my instructions, I must inform you that I consider it important to the national safety that the cutter Clam, at present under your command, shall be despatched to England in order to carry with the utmost rapidity the news of the outbreak of war. I trust and hope that you will raise no objection.

  I have the honour to be, sir,

  Etc., etc.,

  cathcart, His Britannic Majesty’s Minister-Plenipotentiary

  and Ambassador Extraordinary to H. I. M

  “Cathcart’s a good man,” commented Wychwood, observing that Hornblower had completed his reading. “Both as a soldier and as a diplomat he’s worth two of Merry at Stockholm. I’m glad Wellesley sent him out.”

  Certainly this despatch was better worded than the last Hornblower had received, nor did Cathcart presume to give order to the Commodore.

  “You will be going on in Clam to England,” said Hornblower. “I must ask you to wait while I complete my own despatches for the Admiralty.”

  “Naturally,” said Wychwood.

  “It will only be a matter of minutes,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps Captain Bush will entertain you while you are waiting. Doubtless there are many letters awaiting carriage to England. Meanwhile, I am sending my secretary back to England in Clam too. I shall put in your charge the papers relative to his case.”

  Alone in his cabin, Hornblower opened his desk and found himself pen and ink. There was little enough to add to his official despatch. He read the last words—‘I wish most strongly to call Their Lordships’ attention to the conduct and professional ability of Commander William Vickery and Lieutenant Percival Mound.’ Then he began a new paragraph. ‘I am taking the opportunity of the departure of Clam to England to forward this letter to you. In accordance with the recommendation of His Excellency Lord Cathcart, I shall proceed at once with the rest of my squadron to render all the assistance in my power to the Russian forces at Riga.’ He thought for a moment of adding some conventional expression like ‘I trust this course of action will meet with Their Lordships’ approval’, and then put the notion aside. It meant nothing, was merely waste verbiage. He dipped his pen again and merely wrote, ‘I have the honour to be, Your obed’t servant, Horatio Hornblower, Captain and Commodore’.