Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Delighted to see you, Hornblower,” said Pellew. “Genuinely delighted. There is much to say to you, for letters are always inadequate. But I must make the introductions. The Admiral has already made your acquaintance, I think?”

  Hornblower shook hands with Cornwallis, mumbling the same politenesses as he had already addressed to Pellew. Other introductions followed, names known to everyone who had read in the Gazette the accounts of naval victories; Grindall of the Prince, Marsfield of the Minotaur, Lord Henry Paulet of the Terrible, and half a dozen others. Hornblower felt dazzled, although he had just come in from the bright outer world. In all this array there was one other officer with a single epaulette, but he wore it on his right shoulder, proof that he, too, had attained the glorious rank of post captain, and had only to go on living to mount a second epaulette on attaining three years’ seniority, and—if long life was granted him—eventually to attain the unspeakable heights of flag rank. He was far higher above a commander than a commander was above a lowly lieutenant.

  Hornblower sat in the chair offered him, instinctively edging it backward so as to make himself, the most junior, the infinitely junior officer, as inconspicuous as possible. The cabin was finished in some rich material—damask, Hornblower guessed—with a colour scheme of nutmeg and blue unobtrusive and yet incredibly satisfying to the eye. Daylight poured in through a vast stern window, to glint upon the swaying silver lamps. There was a shelf of books, some in good leather bindings, but Hornblower’s sharp eye detected tattered copies of the Mariners’ Guide and the Admiralty publications for the coasts of France. On the far side were two large masses so draped as to be shapely and in keeping so that no uninitiated person could guess that inside were two eighteen-pounder carronades.

  “This must take you a full five minutes to clear for action, Sir Edward,” said Cornwallis.

  “Four minutes and ten seconds by stop-watch, sir,” answered Pellew, “to strike everything below, including the bulkheads.”

  Another steward, also in dazzling white ducks, entered at this moment and spoke a few words in a low tone to Pellew, like a well-trained butler in a ducal house, and Pellew rose to his feet.

  “Dinner, gentlemen,” he announced. “Permit me to lead the way.”

  A door, thrown open in the midships bulkhead, revealed a dining-room, an oblong table with white damask, glittering silver, sparkling glasses, while more stewards in white ducks were ranged against the bulkhead. There could be little doubt about precedence, when every captain in the Royal Navy had, naturally, studied his place in the captains’ list ever since his promotion; Hornblower and the single-epauletted captain were headed for the foot of the table when Pellew halted the general sorting-out.

  “At the Admiral’s suggestion,” he announced, “we are dispensing with precedence today. You will find your names on cards at your places.”

  So now every one began a feverish hunt for their names; Hornblower found himself seated between Lord Henry Paulet and Hosier of the Fame, and opposite him was Cornwallis himself.

  “I made the suggestion to Sir Edward,” Cornwallis was saying as he leisurely took his seat, “because otherwise we always find ourselves sitting next to our neighbours in the captains’ list. In blockade service especially, variety is much to be sought after.”

  He lowered himself into his chair, and when he had done so his juniors followed his example. Hornblower, cautiously on guard about his manners, still could not restrain his mischievous inner self from mentally adding a passage to the rules of naval ceremonial, to the lines of the rule about the officer’s head reaching the level of the main-deck—‘when the Admiral’s backside shall touch the seat of his chair—’.

  “Pellew provides good dinners,” said Lord Henry, eagerly, scanning the dishes with which the stewards were now crowding the table. The largest dish was placed in front of him, and when the immense silver dish cover was whipped away a magnificent pie was revealed. The pastry top was built up into a castle, from the turret of which flew a paper Union Jack.

  “Prodigious!” exclaimed Cornwallis. “Sir Edward, what lies below the dungeons here?”

  Pellew shook his head sadly. “Only beef and kidneys, sir. Beef stewed to rags. Our ship’s bullock this time, as ever, was too tough for ordinary mortals, and only stewing would reduce his steaks to digestibility. So I called in the aid of his kidneys for a beefsteak and kidney pie.”

  “But what about the flour?”

  “The Victualling Officer sent me a sack, sir. Unfortunately it had rested in bilge water, as could only be expected, but there was just enough at the top unspoiled for the pie-crust.” Pellew’s gesture, indicating the silver bread barges filled with ship’s biscuit, hinted that in more fortunate circumstances they might have been filled with fresh rolls.

  “I’m sure it’s delicious,” said Cornwallis. “Lord Henry, might I trouble you to serve me, if you can find it in your heart to destroy those magnificent battlements?”

  Paulet set to work with carving knife and fork on the pie, while Hornblower pondered the phenomenon of the son of a Marquis helping the son of an Earl to a steak and kidney pie made from a ration bullock and spoiled flour.

  “That’s a ragout of pork beside you, Captain Hosier,” said Pellew. “Or so my chef would call it. You may find it even saltier than usual, because of the bitter tears he shed into it. Captain Durham has the only live pig left in the Channel Fleet, and no gold of mine would coax it from him, so that my poor fellow had to make do with the contents of the brine tub.”

  “He has succeeded perfectly with the pie, at least,” commented Cornwallis. “He must be an artist.”

  “I engaged him during the Peace,” said Pellew, “and brought him with me on the outbreak of war. At quarters he points a gun on the starboard side lower-deck.”

  “If his aim is as good as his cooking,” said Cornwallis, reaching for his glass which a steward had filled, “then—confusion to the French!”

  The toast was drunk with murmured acclaim.

  “Fresh vegetables!” said Lord Henry ecstatically. “Cauliflower!”

  “Your quota is on the way to your ship at this moment, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis. “We try not to forget you.”

  “Hotspur’s like Uriah the Hittite,” said a saturnine captain at the end of the table whose name appeared to be Collins. “In the forefront of the battle.”

  Hornblower was grateful to Collins for that speech, because it brought home to him a truth, like a bright light, that he had not realized before; he would rather be on short commons in the forefront of the battle than back in the main body with plenty of vegetables.

  “Young carrots!” went on Lord Henry, peering into each vegetable dish in turn. “And what’s this? I can’t believe it!”

  “Spring greens, Lord Henry,” said Pellew. “We still have to wait for peas and beans.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “How do you get these chickens so fat, Sir Edward?” asked Grindall.

  “A matter of feeding, merely. Another secret of my chef.”

  “In the public interest you should disclose it,” said Cornwallis. “The life of a sea-sick chicken rarely conduces to putting on flesh.”

  “Well, sir, since you ask. This ship has a complement of six hundred and fifty men. Every day thirteen fifty-pound bread bags are emptied. The secret lies in the treatment of those bags.”

  “But how?” asked several voices.

  “Tap them, shake them, before emptying. Not enough to make wasteful crumbs, but sharply enough. Then take out the biscuits quickly, and behold! At the bottom of each bag is a mass of weevils and maggots, scared out of their natural habitat and with no time allowed to seek shelter again. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing that fattens a chicken so well as a diet of rich biscuit-fed weevils. Hornblower, your plate’s’ still empty. Help yourself, man.”

  Hornblower had thought of helping himself to chicken, but somehow—and he grinned at himself internally—this last speech diverted
him from doing so. The beefsteak pie was in great demand and had almost disappeared, and as a junior officer he knew better than to anticipate his seniors’ second helpings. The ragout of pork, rich in onions, was at the far end of the table.

  “I’ll make a start on this, sir,” he said, indicating an untouched dish before him.

  “Hornblower has a judgement that puts us all to shame,” said Pellew. “That’s a kickshaw in which my chef takes particular pride. To go with it you’ll need these puree potatoes, Hornblower.”

  It was a dish of brawn, from which Hornblower cut himself moderately generous slices, and it had dark flakes in it. There was no doubt that it was utterly delicious; Hornblower diving down into his general knowledge, came up with the conclusion that the black flakes must be truffle, of which he had heard but which he had never tasted. The puree potatoes, which he would have called mashed, were like no mashed potatoes he had ever sampled either on shipboard or in a sixpenny ordinary in England. They were seasoned subtly and yet to perfection—if angels ever ate mashed potatoes they would call on Pellew’s chef to prepare them. With spring greens and carrots—for both of which he hungered inexpressibly—they made a plateful, along with the brawn, of sheer delight. He found himself eating like a wolf and pulled himself up short, but the glance that he stole round the table reassured him, for the others were eating like wolves too, to the detriment of conversation, with only a few murmured words to mingle with the clash of cutlery.

  “Wine with you, sir.” “Your health, Admiral.” “Would you give the onions a fair wind, Grindall?” and so on.

  “Won’t you try the galantine, Lord Henry?” asked Pellew. “Steward, a fresh plate for Lord Henry.”

  That was how Hornblower learned the real name of the brawn he was eating. The ragout of pork drifted his way and he helped himself generously; the steward behind him changed his plate in the nick of time. He savoured the exquisite boiled onions that wallowed in the beatific sauce. Then like magic the table was cleared and fresh dishes made their appearance, a pudding rich with raisins and currants, jellies of two colours; much labour must have gone into boiling down the bullock’s feet and into subsequent straining to make that brilliant gelatine.

  “No flour for that duff,” said Pellew apologetically. “The galley staff has done its best with biscuit crumbs.”

  That best was as near perfection as mind could conceive; there was a sweet sauce with it, hinting of ginger, that made the most of the richness of the fruit. Hornblower found himself thinking that if ever he became a post captain, wealthy with prize money, he would have to devote endless thought to the organization of his cabin stores. And Maria would not be of much help he thought ruefully. He was still drifting along with thoughts of Maria when the table was swept clear again.

  “Caerphilly, sir?” murmured a steward in his ear. “Wensleydale? Red Cheshire?”

  These were cheeses that were being offered him. He helped himself at random—one name meant no more to him than mother—and went on to make an epoch-making discovery, that Wensleydale cheese and vintage port were a pair of heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux riding triumphantly as the climax of a glorious procession. Full of food and with two glasses of wine inside him—all he allowed himself—he felt vastly pleased with the discovery, rivalling those of Columbus and Cook. Almost simultaneously he made another discovery which amused him. The chased silver fingerbowls which were put on the table were very elegant; the last time he had seen anything like them was as a midshipman at a dinner at Government House in Gibraltar. In each floated a fragment of lemon peel, but the water in which the peel floated—as Hornblower discovered by a furtive taste as he dabbed his lips—was plain sea water. There was something comforting in that fact.

  Cornwallis’s blue eyes were fixed on him.

  “Mr. Vice, the King,” said Cornwallis.

  Hornblower came back from pink hazes of beatitude. He had to take a grip of himself, as when he had tacked Hotspur with the Loire in pursuit; he had to await the right moment for the attention of the company. Then he rose to his feet and lifted his glass, carrying out the ages old ritual of the junior officer present.

  “Gentlemen, the King,” he said.

  “The King!” echoed everyone present, and some added phrases like “God Bless him” and “Long may he reign” before they sat down again.

  “His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence,” said Lord Henry in conversational tone, “told me that during his time at sea he had knocked his head—he’s a tall man, as you know—so often on so many deck beams while drinking his father’s health that he seriously was considering requesting His Majesty’s permission, as a special privilege, for the Royal Navy to drink the royal health while sitting down.”

  At the other corner of the table Andrews, captain of the Flora, was going on with an interrupted conversation.

  “Fifteen pounds a man,” he was saying. “That’s what my Jacks were paid on account of prize money, and we were in Cawsand Bay ready to sail. The women had left the ship, not a bumboat within call, and so my men—the ordinary seamen, mind you—still have fifteen pounds apiece in their pockets.”

  “All the better when they get a chance to spend it,” said Marsfield.

  Hornblower was making a rapid calculation. The Flora would have a crew of some three hundred men, who divided a quarter of the prize money between them. The captain had one quarter to himself, so that Andrews would have been paid—on account, not necessarily in full—some four thousand five hundred pounds as a result of some lucky cruise, probably without risk, probably without a life being lost, money for seizing French merchant ships intercepted at sea. Hornblower thought ruefully about Maria’s latest letter, and about the uses to which he could put four thousand five hundred pounds.

  “There’ll be lively times in Plymouth when the Channel Fleet comes in,” said Andrews.

  “That is something which I wish to explain to you gentlemen,” said Cornwallis, breaking in on the conversation. There was something flat and expressionless about his voice, and there was a kind of mask-like expression on his good-tempered face, so that all eyes turned on him.

  “The Channel Fleet will not be coming in to Plymouth,” said Cornwallis. “This is the time to make that plain.”

  A silence ensued, during which Cornwallis was clearly waiting for a cue. The saturnine Collins supplied it.

  “What about water, sir? Provisions?”

  “They are going to be sent out to us.”

  “Water, sir?”

  “Yes. I have had four water-hoys constructed. They will bring us water. Victualling ships will bring us our food. Each new ship which joins us will bring us fresh food, vegetables and live cattle, all they can carry on deck. That will help against scurvy. I’m sending no ship back to replenish.”

  “So we’ll have to wait for the winter gales before we see Plymouth again, sir?”

  “Nor even then,” said Cornwallis. “No ship, no captain, is to enter Plymouth without my express orders. Do I have to explain why, to experienced officers like you?”

  The reasons were as obvious to Hornblower as to the others. The Channel Fleet might well have to run for shelter when southwesterly gales blew, and with a gale at southwest the French fleet could not escape from Brest. But Plymouth Sound was difficult; a wind from the eastward would delay the British fleet’s exits, prolong it over several days, perhaps, during which time the wind would be fair for the French fleet to escape, There were plenty of other reasons, too. There was disease; every captain knew that ships grew healthier the longer they were at sea. There was desertion. There was the fact that discipline could be badly shaken by debauches on shore.

  “But in a gale, sir?” asked someone. “We could get blown right up-Channel.”

  “No,” answered Cornwallis decisively. “If we’re blown off this station our rendezvous is Tor Bay. There we anchor.”

  Confused murmurings showed how this information was being digested. Tor Bay was an exposed uncomfortable anchor
age, barely sheltered from the west, but it had the obvious advantage that at the first shift of wind the fleet could put to sea, could be off Ushant again before the unwieldy French fleet could file out down the Goulet.

  “So none of us will set foot on English soil again until the end of the war, sir?” said Collins.

  Cornwallis’s face was transfigured by a smile. “We need never say that. All of you, any one of you, can go ashore…” the smile broadened as he paused, “the moment I set foot ashore myself.”

  That caused a laugh, perhaps a grudging laugh, but with an admiring echo. Hornblower, watching the scene keenly, suddenly came to a fresh realization. Collins’s questions and remarks had been very apt, very much to the point. Hornblower suspected that he had been listening to a prepared piece of dialogue, and his suspicions were strengthened by the recollection that Collins was First Captain under Cornwallis, somebody whom the French would call a Chief of Staff. Hornblower looked about him again. He could not help feeling admiration for Cornwallis, whose guileless behaviour concealed such unsuspected depths of subtlety. And it was a matter for self-congratulation that he had guessed the secret, he, the junior officer present, surrounded by all these captains of vast seniority, of distinguished records and of noble descent. He felt positively smug, a most unusual and gratifying feeling.

  Smugness and vintage port combined to dull his awareness of all the implications at first, and then suddenly everything changed. The new thought sent him sliding down an Avernus of depression. It brought about an actual physical sensation in the pit of his stomach, like the one he felt when Hotspur, close hauled, topped a wave and went slithering and rolling down the farther side. Maria! He had written so cheerfully saying he would be seeing her soon. There were only fifty days’ provisions and water left in Hotspur; fresh food would eke out the provisions, but little enough could be done (he had thought) regarding water. He had been confident that Hotspur would be making periodic calls at Plymouth for food and water and firewood. Now Maria would never have the comfort of his presence during her pregnancy. Nor would he himself (and the violence of this reaction surprised him) have the pleasure of seeing her during her pregnancy. And one more thing; he would have to write to her and tell her that he would not be keeping his promises, that there was no chance of their meeting. He would be causing her terrible pain, not only because her idol would be revealed to her as a man who could not, or perhaps even would not, keep his word.