Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  Then he opened the door, and there was no problem left; only horror, further horror. Grimes hung there, from a rope threaded through the hook that supported the lamp. He was swaying with the gentle motion of the ship, his feet dragging on the deck so that even his knees were almost on the deck too. There was a blackened face and protruding tongue—actually there was no likeness to Grimes at all in the horrible thing hanging there. Grimes had not the courage to face the landing operation, but when the realization had come to him, when the crew had displayed their feelings, he had yet had the determination to do this thing, to submit himself to this slow strangulation, falling with a small preliminary jerk from a cramped position crouching on the cot.

  In all the crew of the Hotspur Grimes had been the one man who as captain’s steward could find the necessary privacy to do this thing. He had foreseen the flogging or the hanging, he had suffered the scorn of his shipmates; there was bitter irony in the thought that the semaphore station which he had feared to attack had turned out to be defended by a helpless civilian and his wife.

  Hotspur rolled gently on the swell, and as she rolled the lolling head and the dangling arms swayed in unison, and the feet scraped over the deck. Hornblower shook off the horror that had seized him, drove himself to be clear-headed once more despite his fatigue and his disgust. He went to the door of the cabin; it was excusable that no sentry had yet been reposted there, seeing that the Hotspur’s marines had only just come on board.

  “Pass the word for Mr. Bush,” he said.

  Within a minute Bush hurried in, to pull up short as soon as he saw the thing.

  “I’ll have that removed at once, if you please, Mr. Bush. Put it over the side. Give it a burial, Christian burial, if you like.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Bush shut his mouth after his formal statement of compliance. He could see that Hornblower was in even less a conversational mood in this cabin than he had been when on deck. Hornblower passed into the chart-room and squeezed himself into the chair, and sat still, his hands motionless on the table. Almost immediately he heard the arrival of the working party Bush had sent. He heard loud amazed voices, and something like a laugh, all instantly repressed when they realized that he was next door. The voices died to hoarse whispers. There was a clump or two, and then a dragging noise and he knew the thing was gone.

  Then he got to his feet to carry out the resolution formed during his recent clarity of mind. He walked firmly into the cabin, a little like someone unwillingly going into a duel. He did not want to; he hated this place, but in a tiny ship like Hotspur he had nowhere else to go. He would have to grow used to it. He put aside the weak thought that he could move himself into one of the screened-off cabins in the ‘tween decks, and send, for instance, the warrant officers up here. That would occasion endless inconvenience, and—even more important—endless comment as well. He had to use this place and the longer he contemplated the prospect the less inviting it would be. And he was so tired he could hardly stand. He approached the cot; a mental picture developed in his mind’s eye of Grimes kneeling on it, rope round his neck, to pitch himself off. He forced himself coldly to accept that picture, as something in the past. This was the present, and he dropped on to the cot, shoes on his feet, cutlass-sheath at his side, sandbag in his pocket. Grimes was not present to help him with those.

  Chapter XI

  Hornblower had written the address, the date, and the word ‘Sir’ before he realized that the report would not be so easy to write. He was quite sure that this letter would appear in the Gazette, but he had been sure of that from the moment he had faced the writing of it. It would be a ‘Gazette Letter’, one of the few, out of the many hundreds of reports coming into the Admiralty, selected for publication, and it would be his first appearance in print. He had told himself that he would simply write a standard straightforward report along the time-honoured lines, yet now he had to stop and think, although stage fright had nothing to do with it. The publication of this letter meant that it would be read by the whole world. It would be read by the whole Navy, which meant that his subordinates would read it, and he knew, only too well, how every careless word would be scanned and weighed by touchy individuals.

  Much more important still; it would be read by all England, and that meant that Maria would read it. It would open a peephole into his life that so far she had never been able to look through. From the point of view of his standing with the Navy it might be desirable to let the dangers he had undergone he apparent, in a modest sort of way, but that would be in direct contradiction of the breezy lighthearted letter he intended to write to Maria. Maria was a shrewd little person, and he could not deceive her; to read the Gazette letter after his letter would excite her mistrust and apprehension at a moment when she was carrying what might well be the heir to the Hornblower name, with possibly the worst effects both on Maria and on the child.

  He faced the choice, and it had to be in favour of Maria. He would make light of his difficulties and dangers, and even then he could still hope that the Navy would read between the lines that which Maria in her ignorance would not guess at. He re-dipped his pen, and bit the end in a momentary mental debate as to whether all the Gazette Letters he had read had been written in the face of similar difficulties, and decided that was probably true of the majority. Well, it had to be written. There was no avoiding it—for that matter there was no postponing it. The necessary preliminary words, ‘In accordance with your orders’ set him off, started the flow. He had to remember all that he had to put in. ‘Mr. William Bush, my first lieutenant, very handsomely volunteered his services, but I directed him to remain in command of the ship.’ Later on it was no effort to write ‘Lieut. Charles Cotard, of HMS Marlborough, who had volunteered for the expedition, gave invaluable assistance as a result of his knowledge of the French language. I regret very much to have to inform you that he received a wound which necessitated amputation, and his life is still in danger.’ Then there was something else he had to put in. ‘Mr’—what was his first name?—‘Mr. Alexander Cargill, Master’s Mate, was allotted by me the duty of superintending the re-embarkation, which he carried out very much to my satisfaction.’ The next passage would satisfy Maria. ‘The Telegraph Station was seized by the party under my personal command without the slightest opposition, and was set on fire and completely destroyed after the confidential papers had been secured.’ Intelligent naval officers would have a higher opinion of an operation carried through without loss of life than of one which cost a monstrous butcher’s bill. Now for the battery; he had to be careful about this. ‘Captain Jones of the Royal Marines, having gallantly secured the battery, was unfortunately involved in the explosion of the magazine, and I much regret to have to report his death, while several other Royal Marines of his party are dead or missing.’ One of them had been as useful dead as alive. Hornblower checked himself. He still could not bear to remember those minutes by the magazine door. He went on with his letter. ‘Lieutenant Reid of the Royal Marines guarded the flank and covered the retreat with small loss. His conduct calls for my unreserved approbation.’

  That was very true, and pleasant to write. So was the next passage. ‘It is with much gratification that I can inform you that the battery is completely wrecked. The parapet is thrown down along with the guns, and the gun-carriages destroyed, as will be understood because not less than one ton of gunpowder was exploded in the battery.’ There were four thirty-two pounders in that battery. A single charge for one of these guns was ten pounds of powder, and the magazine, sunk deep below the parapets, must have contained charges for fifty rounds per gun as a minimum. A crater had been left where once the parapet stood.

  Not much more to write now. ‘The retreat was effected in good order. I append the list of killed, wounded, and missing.’ The rough list lay in front of him, and he proceeded to copy it out carefully; there were widows and bereaved parents who might derive consolation from the sight of those names in the Gazette. One seaman had be
en killed and several slightly wounded. He recorded their names and began a fresh paragraph. ‘Royal Marines. Killed. Captain Henry Jones. Privates—’ A thought struck him at this moment and he paused with his pen in the air. There was not only consolation in seeing a name in the Gazette; parents and widows could receive the back pay of the deceased and some small gratuity. He was still thinking when Bush came hurrying in the door.

  “Cap’n, sir. I’d like to show you something from the deck.”

  “Very well. I’ll come.”

  He paused for only a short while. There was a single name in the paragraph headed ‘Seamen killed’—James Johnson, Ordinary Seaman. He added another name. ‘John Grimes, Captain’s Steward’ and then he put down the pen and came out on deck.

  “Look over there, sir,” said Bush, pointing eagerly ashore and proffering his telescope.

  The landscape was still unfamiliar, with the semaphore gone and the battery—easily visible previously—replaced now by a mound of earth. But that was not what Bush was referring to. There was a considerable body of men on horseback riding along the slopes; through the telescope Hornblower could fancy he could detect plumes and gold lace.

  “Those must be generals, sir,” said Bush excitedly, “come out to see the damage. The commandant, and the governor, an’ the chief engineer, an’ all the rest of ‘em. We’re nearly in range now, sir. We could drop down without their noticing, run out the guns smartly, full elevation, and—we ought to hit a target that size with one shot in a broadside at least, sir.”

  “I think we could,” agreed Hornblower. He looked up at the wind-vane and over at the shore. “We could wear ship and—”

  Bush waited for Hornblower to complete his speech, but the end never came.

  “Shall I give the order, sir?”

  There was another pause.

  “No,” said Hornblower at last. “Better not.”

  Bush was too good a subordinate to protest, but his disappointment showed plainly enough, and it was necessary to soften the refusal with an explanation. They might kill a general, although the odds were that it would merely be an orderly dragoon. On the other hand they would be drawing most forcible attention to the present weakness of this portion of coast.

  “Then they’ll be bringing field batteries,” went on Hornblower, “only nine-pounders, but—”

  “Yes, sir. They might be a nuisance,” said Bush in reluctant agreement. “Do you have anything in mind, sir?”

  “Not me. Him,” said Hornblower. All operations of the Inshore Squadron were Pellew’s responsibility and should be to Pellets credit. He pointed towards the Inshore Squadron where Pellew’s broad pendant flew.

  But the broad pendant was to fly there no longer. The boat that took Hornblower’s report to the Tonnant returned not only with stores but with official dispatches.

  “Sir,” said Orrock, after handing them over. “The Commodore sent a man with me from the Tonnant who carries a letter for you.”

  “Where is he?”

  He seemed a very ordinary sort of seaman, dressed in the standard clothes of the slop chest. His thick blond pigtail, as he stood hat in hand, indicated that he had long been a seaman. Hornblower took the letter and broke the seal.

  My dear Hornblower,

  It is with infinite pain to myself that I have to confirm the news, conveyed to you in the official despatches, that your latest report will also be the last that I shall have the pleasure of reading. My flag has come, and I shall hoist it as Rear-Admiral commanding the squadron assembling for the blockade of Rochefort. Rear Admiral Wm. Parker will take over the command of the Inshore Squadron and I have recommended you to him in the strongest terms although your actions speak even more strongly for you. But Commanding officers are likely to have their favourites, men with whom they are personally acquainted. We can hardly quarrel on this score, seeing that I have indulged myself in a favourite whose initials are H.H.! Now let us leave this subject for another even more personal.

  I noted in your report that you have had the misfortune to lose your steward, and I take the liberty to send you James Doughty as a substitute. He was steward of the late Captain Stevens of the Magnificent, and he has been persuaded to volunteer for the Hotspur. I understand that he has had much practical experience in attending to gentlemen’s needs, and I hope you will find him suitable and that he will look after you for many years. If during that time you are reminded of me by his presence I shall be well satisfied.

  Your sincere friend,

  Ed. Pellew

  Even with all his quickness of mind it took Hornblower a little while to digest the manifold contents of this letter after reading it. It was all bad news; bad news about the change of command, and just as bad, although in a different way, that he was being saddled with a gentleman’s gentleman who would sneer at his domestic arrangements. Yet if there was anything that a naval career taught anybody, it was to be philosophic about drastic changes.

  “Doughty?” said Hornblower.

  “Sir.”

  Doughty looked respectful, but there might be something quizzical in his glance.

  “You’re going to be my servant. Do your duty and you have nothing to fear.”

  “Yes, sir. No, sir.”

  “You’ve brought your dunnage?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “The First Lieutenant will detail someone to show you where to sling your hammock. You’ll share a berth with my clerk.”

  The captain’s steward was the only ordinary seaman in the ship who did not have to sleep in the tiers.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Then you can take up your duties.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  It was only a few minutes later that Hornblower, in his cabin, looked up to find a silent figure slipping in through the door; Doughty knew that as a personal servant he did not knock if the sentry told him the captain was alone.

  “Have you had your dinner, sir?”

  It took a moment to answer that question, at the end of a broken day following an entirely sleepless night. During that moment Doughty looked respectfully over Hornblower’s left shoulder. His eyes were a startling blue.

  “No, I haven’t. You’d better see about something for me,” replied Hornblower.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The blue eyes looked round the cabin and found nothing.

  “No. There are no cabin stores. You’ll have to go to the galley. Mr. Simmonds will find something for me.” The ship’s cook, as a warrant officer, rated the ‘Mr’ in front of his name. “No. Wait. There are two lobsters somewhere in this ship. You’ll find ‘em in a barrel of seawater somewhere on the booms. And that reminds me. Your predecessor has been dead for nearly twenty-four hours and that water hasn’t been changed. You must do that. Go to the officer of the watch with my compliments and ask him to put the wash-deck pump to work on it, That’ll keep one lobster alive while I have the other.”

  “Yes, sir. Or you could have this one hot tonight and the other one cold tomorrow if I boil them both now, sir.”

  “I could,” agreed Hornblower without committing himself.

  “Mayonnaise,” said Doughty. “Are there any eggs in this ship, sir? Any salad oil?”

  “No there are not!” rasped Hornblower. “There are no cabin stores whatever in this ship except those two damned lobsters.”

  “Yes, sir. Then I’ll serve this one with drawn butter and I’ll see what I can do tomorrow, sir.”

  “Do whatever you damned well like and don’t trouble me,” said Hornblower.

  He was working into a worse and worse temper. He not only had to storm batteries but he also had to remember about keeping lobsters alive. And Pellew was leaving the Brest fleet; the official orders he had just read gave details about salutes to the new flags tomorrow. And tomorrow this damned Doughty and his damned mayonnaise, whatever that was, would be pawing over his patched shirts.

  “Yes, sir,” said Doughty, and disappeared as quietly as he had enter
ed.

  Hornblower went out on deck to pace off his bad temper. The first breath of the delightful evening air helped to soothe him; so, too, did the hurried movement of everyone on the quarterdeck over to the lee side so as to leave the weather side to him. For him there was as much space as heart could desire—five long strides forward and aft—but all the other officers had now to take the air under crowded conditions. Let ‘em. He had to write out his report to Pellew three times, the original draught, the fair copy, and the copy in his confidential letter book. Some captains gave that work to their clerks, but Hornblower would not do so. Captain’s clerks made a practice of exploiting their confidential position; there were officers in the ship who would be glad to hear what their captain said about them, and what the future plans might be. Martin would never have the chance. He could confine himself to muster-rolls and returns of stores and the other nuisances that plagued a captain’s life.

  Now Pellew was leaving them, and that was a disaster. Earlier today Hornblower had actually allowed his mind to dally with the notion that some day he might know the inexpressible joy of being ‘made Post’, of being promoted to Captain. That called for the strongest influence, in the Fleet and in the Admiralty. With Pellew’s transfer he had lost a friend in the Fleet. With Parry’s retirement he had lost a friend in the Admiralty—he did not know a single soul there. His promotion to Commander had been a fantastic stroke of luck. When Hotspur should be paid off there were three hundred ambitious young Commanders all with uncles and cousins and all anxious to take his place. He could find himself rotting on the beach on half-pay. With Maria. With Maria and the child. The reverse side of the penny was no more attractive than the front.

  This was not the way to work off the gloom that threatened to engulf him. He had written Maria a letter to be proud of, reassuring, cheerful, and as loving as he had found it possible to make it. Over there was Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating, refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained nervous condition allowed him to believe. It took a full hour of pacing to convince him fully of this. At the end of that time the comfortably monotonous exercise had slowed down his overactive mind. He was healthily tired now, and the moment he thought about it he knew he was ravenously hungry. He had seen Doughty flitting about the deck more than once, for however lost in distraction Hornblower might be he nevertheless took instant note, consciously or subconsciously, of everything that went on in the ship. He was growing desperately impatient, and night had entirely closed in, when his pacing was intercepted.