The Commodore h-10

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “We may as well go and see,” said Essen, the moment they stood outside the closed door of the box. “It would not have been well to get up and go when the firing began. But the people will not know now that we left in haste.”

  Outside the theatre a troop of hussars sat their horses, while two grooms stood at the heads of two more horses, and Hornblower realized that he was committed to riding in his full-dress uniform. It was not the serious business it used to be, though; Hornblower thought with pleasure of his dozen reserve pairs of silk stockings stored away in Nonsuch. Essen climbed on to his horse, and Hornblower followed his example. The bright full moon filled the square with light, as, with the escort following, they trotted clattering over the cobbles. Two turns and a moderate descent brought them to the big floating bridge that spanned the Dwina; the roadway across the pontoons drummed hollow beneath the horses’ hoofs. Across the river a road ran on the top of a high levée beside the water; on the far side the land was cut and seamed with ditches and ponds, around which twinkled innumerable camp-fires, and here Essen halted and gave an order which sent the hussar officer and half the escort riding ahead of them.

  “I have no desire to be shot by my own men,” explained Essen. “Sentries will be nervous, and riding into a village that has just suffered a night attack will be as dangerous as storming a battery.”

  Hornblower was too preoccupied to appreciate the point very much. His sword and his ribbon and star and his cocked hat added to his usual difficulty of retaining his seat on horseback, and he bumped ungracefully in his saddle, sweating profusely in the cool night, and grabbing spasmodically at items of his equipment whenever he could spare a hand from his reins. They were challenged repeatedly as they rode along, but despite Essen’s gloomy prognostication no jumpy sentry fired at them. Finally they drew up in reply to another challenge at a point where the dome of the church of Daugavgriva stood up black against the pale sky. With the cessation of the noise of the horses’ hoofs a fresh sound claimed Hornblower’s attention; a wailing clamour coloured by high agonized screams; a whole chorus of groans and cries. The sentry passed them through, and they rode forward into the village, and as they did so the groans and screams were explained, for they passed on their left the torch-lit field where the wounded were being treated—Hornblower had a glimpse of a naked writhing body being held down on a table while the surgeons bent over it in the glare of the torches like the familiars of the Inquisition, while the whole field was carpeted with writhing and groaning wounded. And this had been a mere outpost skirmish, a trifling matter of a few hundred casualties on either side.

  They dismounted at the door of the church and Essen led the way in, returning the salute of the bearded grenadiers at the door. Candles made a bright pool of light in the midst of the surrounding gloom, and at a table there sat a group of officers drinking tea from a samovar which hissed beside them. They rose as the Governor entered, and Essen made the introductions.

  “General Diebitch, Colonel von Clausewitz—Commodore Sir Hornblower.”

  Diebitch was a Pole, Clausewitz a German—the Prussian renegade Hornblower had heard about previously, an intellectual soldier who had decided that true patriotism lay in fighting Bonaparte regardless of which side his country nominally assisted. They made their report in French; the enemy had attempted at moonrise to storm the village without preparation, and had been bloodily repulsed. Prisoners had been taken; some had captured an outlying cottage and had been cut off in the counter-attack, and there were other isolated prisoners from various units who had fallen into Russian hands at other points of the perimeter of the village.

  “They have already been questioned, sir,” said Diebitch. Hornblower had the feeling that it would be an unpleasant experience to be a prisoner submitted to questioning at the hands of General Diebitch.

  “Their statements were useful, sir,” added Clausewitz, producing a sheet of notes. Each prisoner had been asked what was his battalion, how many men there were in it, how many battalions in his regiment, what was his brigade and division and army corps. Clausewitz was in a fair way by now to reconstituting the whole organization of the French part of the attacking army and to estimate its numbers fairly accurately.

  “We know already the strength of the Prussian corps,” said Essen, and there was a moment’s awkwardness while everyone avoided meeting Clausewitz’s eye, for he had brought in that information.

  “It is only half an hour before dawn, sir,” interposed Diebitch with more tact than could have been expected of a man of his countenance. “Would you care to climb to the dome and see for yourself?”

  The sky was brighter still by the time they had climbed the narrow stone stair in the thickness of the wall of the church and emerged into the open gallery that encircled it. The whole of the flat marshy countryside was revealed for their inspection, the ditches and the lakes, and the little Mitau river winding its way down from the far distance, through the village almost under the side of the church, to lose itself at the very angle where the vast Dwina entered the bay. The line of breastworks and abattis thrown up by the garrison to defend the left bank of the Dwina was plainly traced, and beyond them could be seen the scanty works which were all that the invaders had bothered to construct up to the moment. The smoke of a thousand cooking-fires drifted over the country.

  “In my opinion, sir,” said Clausewitz deferentially, “if the enemy should decide to proceed by regular siege that is where he will begin. He will trace his first parallel there, between the river and that pinewood and sap forward against the village, establishing his batteries on that neck of land there. After three weeks’ work he could expect to bring his batteries forward on to the glacis and deliver a regular assault. He must effect the reduction of this village before proceeding to the attack on the town.”

  “Perhaps,” said Essen.

  Hornblower could not imagine a Napoleonic army 60,000 men in full march for St. Petersburg condescending to spend three weeks in siege operations against an outwork without trying first every extemporary method, like the brusque assault of last night. He borrowed a telescope from one of the staff, and devoted his time to examining the maze of waterways and marshes that stretched before him, and then, walking round the dome along the gallery, he turned his attention the view of Riga, with its spires, beyond the huge river. Far off, well down the channel, he could just see the masts of his own squadron, where it swung at anchor at the point where the river blended with the Gulf. Tiny specks of ships, minute in their present surroundings and yet of such vast importance in the history of the world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hornblower was asleep in his cabin in the Nonsuch when the alarm was given. Even while he was asleep—or perhaps it may be granted that he woke occasionally without knowing it—his subconscious mind had been taking note of conditions. At least, when he woke fully, he was already vaguely aware of the changes that had occurred during the night. His sleeping, or half-awakened, mind had noted the veering of the wind that had swung Nonsuch round to her anchor, and the brief sharp rain squalls that had pelted down on the deck. Certainly he had awakened to the sharp cry of the watch on deck, and had heard the footsteps overhead of the midshipman of the watch running to him with the news. He was fully awake by the time the midshipman pounded on the door and burst in.

  “Rocket from Raven, sir.”

  “Very good,” said Hornblower, swinging his legs out of his cot.

  Brown, the good servant, was already in the cabin—God only knew how he had picked up the warning—with a lighted lantern to hang on the deck beam above, and he had trousers and coat ready for Hornblower to pull over his nightshirt. Hornblower rushed up to the dark quarter-deck, cannoning into another hurrying figure as he did so.

  “Damn your eyes,” said the figure, in Bush’s voice, and then, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  The ship was alive with the twittering of the pipes as the hands were summoned from their hammocks, and the main-deck resounded with the dr
umming of bare feet. Montgomery, officer of the watch, was at the starboard rail.

  “Raven sent up a rocket, sir, two minutes back. Bearin’ sou’-by-east.”

  “Wind’s west-by-north,” decided Bush, looking down into the tiny light of the binnacle.

  A westerly wind and a dark blustery night; ideal conditions for Macdonald to try and push a force across the river mouth. He had twenty big river barges, into which he could cram 5,000 men and a few guns; if he once managed to push a force of that size across the river the Russian position would be hopelessly turned. On the other hand, if he were to lose a force of that size—5,000 men killed or drowned or prisoners—it would be a staggering blow which might well give him pause and so gain time for the Russians. A fortified position, in the final analysis, was only a means of gaining time. Hornblower hoped most passionately that the French flotilla had been allowed to thrust its head well into the noose before Cole in the Raven gave the alarm.

  A shout from the mast-head claimed his attention.

  “Gunfire to loo’ard, sir!”

  From the deck they could just see a pinpoint of flame stab the darkness far to the westward, and then another one.

  “That’s too far to the west’ard,” said Hornblower to Bush.

  “I’m afraid it is, sir.”

  At anchor on the very edge of the shoals in that direction was the Raven; it was her light draught that had dictated her position there. Vickery in Lotus guarded the other bank of the river, while Nonsuch perforce still lay anchored in the fairway. All the armed boats of the squadron were rowing guard in the mouth of the river—a navy cutter with a three-pounder could be counted on to deal with a river barge, even if the latter did carry 300 soldiers. But from the direction of the gunfire it looked as if Vickery had given the alarm prematurely. Another gun flashed to leeward; the wind prevented them from hearing the sound of it.

  “Call my barge,” ordered Hornblower. He felt he could not stay here in useless suspense.

  The boat pushed off from the Nonsuch, the men tugging at the oars to move the boat in the teeth of the wind. Brown, in the darkness beside Hornblower, felt his captain’s restlessness and anxiety.

  “Pull, you b—!” he shouted at the rowers. The boat crawled forward over the tossing water, with Brown standing in the sternsheets with his hand on the tiller.

  “’Nother gun, sir. Right ahead,” he reported to Hornblower.

  “Very good.”

  A tedious quarter of an hour followed, while the boat lurched and pitched over the steep little waves, and the hands slaved away at the oars. The wash of the seas overside and the groaning of the oars against the thole-pins made a monotonous accompaniment to Hornblower’s racing thoughts.

  “There’s a whole lot o’ guns firin’ now, sir,” reported Brown.

  “I can see them,” replied Hornblower. The darkness was pierced by shot after shot; it was evident that the guard-boats were all clustered round a single victim. “There’s Raven, sir. Shall I make for her?”

  “No. Steer for the firing.”

  The dark shape of the sloop was just visible ahead; Brown put his helm over a little to lay the barge on a course that would take her past the sloop at a cable’s length distance, heading for the gunfire. They had drawn up abeam of the sloop when there came a flash and a roar from her side, and a shot howled close overhead.

  “Jesus!” said Brown. “Ain’t the fools got eyes in their heads?”

  Presumably the sloop had hailed the passing boat, and, receiving no reply—the hail being carried away by the wind—had incontinently fired. Another shot came from the Raven, and someone in the barge squawked with dismay. It was demoralizing to be fired upon by one’s own side.

  “Turn towards her,” ordered Hornblower. “Burn a blue light.”

  At any moment the sloop might fire a full broadside, with every chance of blowing the barge out of the water. Hornblower took the tiller while Brown wrestled, cursing under his breath, with flint and steel and tinder. The hand pulling at the stroke said something to try to quicken his movements.

  “Shut your mouth!” snapped Hornblower.

  Everything was in a muddle, and the men knew it. Brown caught a spark on the tinder, jabbed the fuse of the blue light upon it, and then blew the fuse into a glow. A moment later the firework burst into an unearthly glare, lighting up the boat and the water round it, and Hornblower stood up so that his features and his uniform should be visible to the sloop. It was poor revenge to think of the consternation in the Raven when they saw that they had been firing on their own Commodore. Hornblower went up the sloop’s side in a state of cold fury. Cole was there to receive him, of course.

  “Well, Mr. Cole?”

  “Sorry I fired on you, sir, but you didn’t answer my hail.”

  “Did it occur to you that with this wind blowing I could not hear you?”

  “Yes, sir. But we know the French are out. The boats fired on them an hour back, and half my crew is away in the boats. Supposing I were boarded by two hundred French soldiers? I couldn’t take chances, sir.”

  It was no use arguing with a man as jumpy and as nervous as Cole evidently was.

  “You sent up the alarm rocket?”

  “Yes, sir. I had to inform you that the bridges were at sea.”

  “You did that the first moment you knew?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  “Did it occur to you that you would alarm the French as well?”

  “I thought that was what you wanted, sir.”

  Hornblower turned away in disgust. The man in his excitement had clean forgotten every order given him.

  “Boat approaching from to wind’ard, sir,” reported someone, his white shirt just visible in the gathering dawn. Cole ran forward excitedly, with Hornblower striding after him, catching up to him as he stood at the knightheads staring at the boat.

  “Boat ahoy!” yelled Cole through his speaking trumpet.

  “Aye aye” came the answering hail downwind. That was the correct reply for an approaching boat with officers on board. She was a ship’s cutter under a dipping lugsail; as Hornblower watched she took in the sail with considerable clumsiness and came dropping down to the sloop under oars. Level with the bow she turned, clumsily again, and headed in to lie alongside the sloop. Hornblower could see she was crammed with men.

  “Soldiers!” suddenly exclaimed Cole, pointing at the boat with an excited forefinger. “Stand to your guns, men! Sheer off, there!”

  Hornblower could see shakoes and crossbelts; it must be just the kind of vision Cole’s imagination had been toying with all through the night. A reassuring English voice came back to them from overside.

  “Avast, there! This is Lotus’s cutter with prisoners.”

  It was Purvis’s voice without a doubt. Hornblower walked to the waist and looked down. There was Purvis in the stern, and British seamen in check shirts at the oars, but every inch of space was filled with soldiers, sitting in attitudes of apprehension or dejection. Right up in the eyes of the boat, round the boat’s gun, four red-coated marines held their muskets at the ready; that was the way Purvis had prepared to deal with any attempt by the prisoners to regain their freedom.

  “Let ‘em come up,” said Hornblower.

  They climbed the side, greeted by the grinning seamen as they reached the deck, and stared round in the growing light. Purvis swung himself up and touched his hat to Hornblower.

  “They’re all Dutchmen, I think, sir. Not Frogs. We got ‘em off the barge we caught. Had to fire into ‘em a long time—just shot the barge to pieces, us an’ the other boats. They’re following us, sir, with the other prisoners.”

  “You only caught one barge?”

  “Yes, sir. The others ran for home the moment the rocket went up. But we got two hundred prisoners, I should think, an’ we had to kill nigh on a hundred more.”

  One single barge taken, with two hundred men, when Hornblower had hoped for a dozen barges at least and three thousand
men! But Purvis in his innocence was obviously delighted with his capture.

  “Here’s one of their officers, sir.”

  Hornblower turned on the blue-coated man who was wearily climbing over the side.

  “Who are you, sir?” he asked in French, and after a moment’s hesitation the officer replied haltingly in the same language.

  “Lieutenant von Bulow, of the Fifty-first Regiment of Infantry.”

  “French infantry?”

  “Of the King of Prussia,” said the officer, sternly, with a Teutonic explosiveness in the word ‘Prusse’ which indicated his annoyance at the suggestion that he would be a Frenchman.

  So Macdonald had not risked French lives in this highly dangerous venture; that was to be expected, of course. Bonaparte had made war largely at the expense of his allies for the last ten years.

  “I will see that you are given refreshment,” said Hornblower, politely. “Please order your men to sit down against the rail there.”

  The officer barked the order. It was significant how at the first warning ‘achtung’ the dispirited soldiers came instantly to attention, standing stiff and straight. Most of them were wet and bedraggled, apparently having been in the water before surrendering. Hornblower gave orders for them to be fed, at the same time as the other boats came back downwind, each with its quota of prisoners. On the cramped decks of the Raven the two hundred prisoners made a fine show; Cole had the two foremost chase-guns run inboard and trained round upon them, a round of canister in each gun, the gun-captains posted with lighted matches ready to fire into them. Seamen, still grinning, went along their ranks handing out bread and beer.