“Throw the damned thing overboard!” he ordered; the fact that he swore indicated his bad temper.
Then he looked round. Every soul on that crowded little quarter-deck was rigid, posed in unnatural attitudes, as if some Gorgon’s head had turned them all into stone, and then with his voice and his gesture they all came back to life again, to move and relax—it was as if time had momentarily stood still for everyone except himself. His bad temper was fanned by the delay, and he lashed out with his tongue indiscriminately.
“What are you all thinking about? Quartermaster, put your helm over! Mr. Bush! Just look at that mizzen tops’l yard! Send the hands aloft this minute! Splice that backstay! You, there! Haven’t you coiled those falls yet? Move, damn you!”
“Aye aye, sir! Aye aye, sir!”
The automatic chorus of acknowledgements had a strange note, and in the midst of the bustle Hornblower saw first Bush from one angle and then Prowse from another, both looking at him with strange expressions on their faces.
“What’s the matter with you?” he blazed out, and with the last word understanding came to him.
That extinguishing of the fuse appeared to them in monstrous disproportion, as something heroic, even perhaps as something magnificent. They did not see it in its true light as the obvious thing to do, indeed the only thing to do; nor did they know of the instinctive flash of action that had followed his observation of that remaining one-eighth of an inch of fuse. All there was to his credit was that he had seen and acted quicker than they. He had not been brave, and most certainly not heroic.
He returned the glance of his subordinates, and with all his senses still keyed up to the highest pitch he realized that this was the moment of the conception of a legend, that the wildest tales would be told later about this incident, and he was suddenly hideously embarrassed. He laughed, and before the laugh was finished he knew it was a self-conscious laugh, the motiveless laugh of an idiot, and he was angrier than ever with himself and with Chambers of the Naiad and with the whole world. He wanted to be away from all this, back in the approaches to Brest doing his proper work and not engaged in these hare-brained actions that did not forward the defeat of Bonaparte an iota.
Then another thought struck him, occasioned by the discovery that the fuse had burned a hole in his right hand glove. Those were the gloves Maria had given him on that dark morning when he had walked with her from the George to take Hotspur to sea.
Chapter XIX
In the Iroise, comfortably sheltered with the wind to the east of south, Hotspur was completing her stores again. This was the second time since her refitting in Plymouth that she had gone through this laborious process, refilling her casks from the water-hoys, replacing the empty beef and pork barrels from the victuallers, and coaxing all the small stores she could from the itinerant slop-ship that Cornwallis had put into commission. She had been six months continuously at sea, and was now ready for three more.
Hornblower watched with something of relief the slop-ship bearing away; that six months at sea had barely been sufficient to get his ship clear of all the plagues that had come on board at Plymouth; disease, bed bugs, fleas and lice. The bed bugs had been the worst; they had been hunted from one hiding place in the woodwork to another, scorched with smouldering oakum, walled in with the paint, time after time, and each time that he had thought he had extirpated the pests some unfortunate seaman would approach his division officer and with a knuckling of his forehead would report, “Please, sir, I think I’ve got ‘em this time.”
He had seven letters from Maria to read—he had opened the last one already to make sure that she and little Horatio were well—and he had already completed this task when Bush came knocking at his door. Sitting at the chart-table Hornblower listened to what Bush had to report; trifles, only, and Hornblower wondered at Bush disturbing his captain about them. Then Bush produced something from his side pocket, and Hornblower, with a sigh, knew what had been the real object of this visit. It was the latest number of the Naval Chronicle, come on board with the mail; the wardroom mess subscribed to it jointly. Bush thumbed through the pages, and then laid the open magazine before him, a gnarled finger indicating the passage he had found. It only took Hornblower a couple of minutes to read it; Chambers’ report to Cornwallis on the affray off Aber Wrack, which apparently had been published in the Gazette to inform the public regarding the circumstances in which Grasshopper had been lost. Bush’s finger pointed again to the last four lines. ‘Captain Hornblower informs me that Hotspur suffered no casualties although she was struck by a five-inch shell which did considerable damage aloft but which fortunately failed to explode.’
“Well, Mr. Bush?” Hornblower put a stern lack of sympathy in his voice to warn Bush as much as he could.
“It isn’t right, sir.”
This routine of serving so close to home had serious disadvantages. It meant that in only two or three months the fleet would be reading what had appeared in the Gazette and the newspapers, and it was extraordinary how touchy men were about what was written about them. It could well be subversive of discipline, and Hornblower meant to deal with that possibility from the start.
“Would you kindly explain, Mr. Bush?”
Bush was not to be deterred. He blunderingly repeated himself. “It isn’t right, sir.”
“Not right? Do you mean that it wasn’t a five-inch shell?”
“No, sir. It…”
“Do you imply that it didn’t do considerable damage aloft?”
“Of course it did, sir, but…”
“Perhaps you’re implying that the shell really did explode?”
“Oh no, sir. I…”
“Then I fail to see what you are taking exception to, Mr. Bush.”
It was highly unpleasant to be cutting and sarcastic with Mr. Bush, but it had to be done. Yet Bush was being unusually obstinate.
“‘T’isn’t right, sir. ‘T’isn’t fair. ‘T’isn’t fair to you, sir, or the ship.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Bush. What d’you think we are? Actresses? Politicians? We’re King’s officers, Mr. Bush, with a duty to do, and no thought to spare for anything else. Never speak to me again like this, if you please, Mr. Bush.”
And there was Bush looking at him with bewildered eyes and still stubborn.
“‘T’isn’t fair, sir,” he repeated.
“Didn’t you hear my order, Mr. Bush? I want to hear no more about this. Please leave this cabin at once.”
It was horrible to see Bush shamble out of the cabin, hurt and depressed. The trouble with Bush was that he had no imagination; he could not envisage the other side. Hornblower could—he could see before his eyes at that moment the words he would have written if Bush had had his way. ‘The shell fell on the deck and with my own hands I extinguished the fuse when it was about to explode.’ He could never have written such a sentence. He could never have sought for public esteem by writing it. Moreover, and more important, he would scorn the esteem of a public who could tolerate a man who would write such words. If by some chance his deeds did not speak for themselves he would never speak for them. The very possibility revolted him, and he told himself that this was not a matter of personal taste, but a well-weighed decision based on the good of the service; and in that respect he was displaying no more imagination than Bush.
Then he caught himself up short. This was all lies, all self-deception, refusal to face the truth. He had just flattered himself that he had more imagination than Bush; more imagination, perhaps, but far less courage. Bush knew nothing of the sick horror, the terrible moment of fear which Hornblower had experienced when that shell dropped. Bush did not know how his admired captain had had a moment’s vivid mental picture of being blown into bloody rags by the explosion, how his heart had almost ceased to beat—the heart of a coward. Bush did not know the meaning of fear, and he could not credit his captain with that knowledge either. And so Bush would never know why Hornblower had made so light of the incident of the shell, and wh
y he had been so irascible when it was discussed. But Hornblower knew, and would know, whenever he could bring himself to face facts.
There were orders being bellowed on the quarter-deck, a rush of bare feet over the planking, a clatter of ropes against woodwork, and Hotspur was beginning to lean over on a new course. Hornblower was at the cabin door bent on finding out what was the meaning of this activity which he had not ordered, when he found himself face to face with Young.
“Signal from the Flag, sir. ‘Hotspur report to Commander-in-chief’.”
“Thank you.”
On the quarter-deck Bush touched his hat.
“I put the ship about as soon as we read the signal, sir,” he explained.
“Very good, Mr. Bush.”
When a commander-in-chief demanded the presence of a ship no time was to be wasted even to inform the captain.
“I acknowledged the signal, sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Bush.”
Hotspur was turning her stern to Brest; with the wind comfortably over her quarter she was running out to sea, away from France. For the commander-in-chief to demand the attendance of his farthest outpost must be of significance. He had summoned the ship, not merely the captain. There must be something more in the wind than this gentle breeze.
Bush called the crew to attention to render passing honours to Parker’s flagship, the flagship of the Inshore Squadron.
“Hope he has as good a ship as us to replace us, sir,” said Bush, who evidently had the same feeling as Hornblower, to the effect that the departure was only the beginning of a long absence from the Iroise.
“No doubt,” said Hornblower. He was glad that Bush was bearing no malice for his recent dressing-down. Of course this sudden break in routine was a stimulant in itself, but Hornblower in a moment of insight realized that Bush, after a lifetime of being subject to the vagaries of wind and weather, could manage to be fatalistic about the unpredictable vagaries of his captain.
This was the open sea; this was the wide Atlantic, and there on the horizon was a long line of topsails in rigid order—the Channel Fleet, whose men and whose guns prevented Bonaparte from hoisting the Tricolor over Windsor Castle.
“Our number from the Commander-in-Chief, sir. ‘Pass within hail’.”
“Acknowledge. Mr. Prowse, take a bearing, if you please.”
A pleasant little problem, to set a course wasting as little time as possible, with Hibernia close-hauled under easy sail and Hotspur running free under all plain sail. It was a small sop to Prowse’s pride to consult him, for Hornblower had every intention of carrying out the manoeuvre by eye alone. His orders to the wheel laid Hotspur on a steadily converging course.
“Mr. Bush, stand by to bring the ship to the wind.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A big frigate was foaming along in Hibernia’s wake. Hornblower looked and looked again. That was the Indefatigable, once Pellew’s famous frigate—the ship in which he had served during those exciting years as midshipman. He had no idea she had joined the Channel Fleet. The three frigates astern of Indefatigable he knew at once; Medusa, Lively, Amphion, all veterans of the Channel Fleet. Bunting soared up Hibernia’s halliards.
“‘All captains,’ sir!”
“Clear away the quarter-boat, Mr. Bush!”
It was another example of how good a servant Doughty was, that he appeared on the quarter-deck with sword and boat cloak within seconds of that signal being read. It was highly desirable to shove off in the boat at least as quickly as the boats from the frigates, even though it meant that Hornblower had to spend longer pitching and tossing in the boat while his betters went up Hibernia’s side before him, but the thought that all this presaged some new and urgent action sustained Hornblower in the ordeal.
In the cabin of the Hibernia there was only one introduction to be made, of Hornblower to Captain Graham Moore of the Indefatigable. Moore was a strikingly handsome burly Scotsman; Hornblower had heard somewhere that he was the brother of Sir John Moore, the most promising general in the army. The others he knew, Gore of the Medusa, Hammond of the Lively, Sutton of the Amphion. Cornwallis sat with his back to the great stern window, with Collins on his left, and the five captains seated facing him.
“No need to waste time, gentlemen,” said Cornwallis abruptly. “Captain Moore has brought me despatches from London and we must act on them promptly.”
Even though he began with these words he spent a second or two rolling his kindly blue eyes along the row of captains, before he plunged into his explanations.
“Our Ambassador at Madrid—” he went on, and that name made them all stir in their seats; ever since the outbreak of war the Navy had been expecting Spain to resume her old role of ally to France.
Cornwallis spoke lucidly although rapidly. British agents in Madrid had discovered the content of the secret clauses of the treaty of San Ildefonso between France and Spain; the discovery had confirmed long cherished suspicions. By those clauses Spain was bound to declare war on England whenever requested by France, and until that request was made she was bound to pay a million francs a month into the French treasury.
“A million francs a month in gold and silver, gentlemen,” said Cornwallis.
Bonaparte was in constant need of cash for his war expenses; Spain could supply it thanks to her mines in Mexico and Peru. Every month waggon-loads of bullion climbed the Pyrenean passes to enter France. Every year a Spanish squadron bore the products of the mines from America to Cadiz.
“The next flota is expected this autumn, gentlemen,” said Cornwallis. “Usually it brings about four millions of dollars for the Crown, and about the same amount on private account.”
Eight millions of dollars, and the Spanish silver dollar was worth, in an England cursed by paper currency, a full seven shillings. Nearly three million pounds.
“The treasure that is not sent to Bonaparte,” said Cornwallis, “will largely go towards re-equipping the Spanish navy, which can be employed against England whenever Bonaparte chooses. So you can understand why it is desirable that the flota shall not reach Cadiz this year.”
“So it’s war, sir?” asked Moore, but Cornwallis shook his head.
“No. I am sending a squadron to intercept the flota, and I expect you’ve already guessed that it is your ships that I’m sending, gentlemen. But it is not war. Captain Moore, the senior officer, will be instructed to request the Spaniards to alter course and enter an English port. There the treasure will be removed and the ships set free. The treasure will not be seized. It will be retained by His Majesty’s Government as a pledge, to be returned to His Most Catholic Majesty on the conclusion of a general peace.”
“What ships are they, sir?”
“Frigates. Ships of war. Three frigates, sometimes four.”
“Commanded by Spanish naval officers, sir?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll never agree, sir. They’ll never violate their orders just because we tell ‘em to.”
Cornwallis rolled his eyes up to the deck-beams above and then down again.
“You will have written orders to compel them.”
“Then we’ll have to fight them, sir?”
“If they are so foolish as to resist.”
“And that will be war, sir.”
“Yes. His Majesty’s Government is of the opinion that Spain without eight million dollars is less dangerous as an open enemy than she would be as a secret enemy with that money available. Is the situation perfectly clear now, gentlemen?”
It was instantly obvious. It could be grasped even more quickly than the problem in simple mental arithmetic could be solved. Prize money; one-quarter of three million pounds for the captains—something approaching eight hundred thousand pounds each. An enormous fortune; with that sum a captain could buy a landed estate and still have sufficient left over to provide an income on which to live in dignity when invested in the Funds. Hornblower could see that every one of the four other captains was working ou
t that problem too.
“I see you all understand, gentlemen. Captain Moore will issue his orders to you to take effect in case of separation, and he will make his own plans to effect the interception. Captain Hornblower—” every eye came round “—will proceed immediately in Hotspur to Cadiz to obtain the latest information from His Britannic Majesty’s Consul there, before joining you at the position selected by Captain Moore. Captain Hornblower, will you be kind enough to stay behind after these gentlemen have left?”
It was an extremely polite dismissal of the other four, whom Collins led away to receive their orders, leaving Hornblower face to face with Cornwallis. Cornwallis’s blue eyes, as far as Hornblower knew, were always kindly, but apart from that they were generally remarkably expressionless. As an exception, this time they had an amused twinkle.
“You’ve never made a penny of prize money in your life, have you Hornblower?” asked Cornwallis.
“No, sir.”
“It seems likely enough that you will make several pennies now.”
“You expect the Dons to fight, sir?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Only a fool would think otherwise, and you’re no fool, Hornblower.”
An ingratiating man would say “Thank you, sir,” to that speech, but Hornblower would do nothing to ingratiate himself.
“Can we fight Spain as well as France, sir?”
“I think we can. Are you more interested in the war than in prize money, Hornblower?”
“Of course, sir.”
Collins was back in the cabin again, listening to the conversation.
“You’ve done well in the war so far, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis. “You’re on the way towards making a name for yourself.”
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