Captain Hornblower R. N.

  ‘Your cabin?’

  Hornblower laughed. Four broadsides from the Natividad had blasted their way through that cabin. The idea of Lady Barbara shutting herself up there struck him as being intensely funny. He laughed again, and then again, before checking himself in hurried mistrust as an abyss of hysteria opened itself before him. He controlled himself.

  ‘There is no cabin left for you, ma’am. I regret that the only course open to you is to go back whence you have come. There is no other place in the ship that can accommodate you at present.’

  Lady Barbara, looking up at him, thought of the cable tier she had just left. Pitch dark, with only room to sit hunched up on the slimy cable, rats squeaking and scampering over her legs; the ship pitching and rolling madly, and Hebe howling with fright beside her; the tremendous din of the guns, and the thunderous rumble of the gun trucks immediately over her head as the guns were run in and out; the tearing crash which had echoed through the ship when the mizzen mast fell; the ignorance of how the battle was progressing – at this very moment she was still unaware whether it had been lost or won or merely suspended: the stench of the bilge, the hunger and the thirst.

  The thought of going back there appalled her. But she saw the captain’s face, white with fatigue and strain under its tan, and she had noted that laugh with its hysterical pitch, abruptly cut off, and the grim effort that had been made to speak to her reasonably. The captain’s coat was torn across the breast, and his white trousers were stained – with blood, she suddenly realised. She felt pity for him, then. She knew now that to speak to him of rats and stinks and baseless fears would be ridiculous.

  ‘Very good, Captain,’ she said quietly, and turned to retrace her steps.

  The little negress set up a howl, and was promptly shaken into silence as Lady Barbara dragged her along.

  XVI

  ‘Ready now, sir,’ said Bush.

  The crew of the Lydia had worked marvellously. The guns were all secured now, and the main deck cleared of most of the traces of the fight. A sail stretched over the bottom of the ship had done much to check the inflow of water, so that now only twenty men were at work upon the pumps and the level in the well was measurably sinking. The sailmaster had his new sails ready, the boatswain his rigging, the carpenter his accessories. Already Harrison had his men at the windlass, and the mast lay ready for hoisting.

  Hornblower looked round him. All the mad effort put into the work to get it done speedily was wasted, for the gale still showed no signs of abating and with this present wind blowing it would be hopeless to try to beat over to the Natividad. He had driven his men hard – overdriven them – to lose no time, and now it was obvious that they might have done it all at their leisure. But the work might as well be completed now. He ran his eye over the waiting groups of men; each knew their duty, and there was an officer at each strategic point to see that orders were carried out.

  ‘Very good, Mr Bush,’ he said.

  ‘Hoist away, there!’ yelled Bush to the windlass crew.

  The windlass began to turn, the rope began to groan through the jears, and the mast rose, little by little, watched by every eye. The mad plunges of the ship threatened to ruin everything. There was danger of the masthead escaping from the ropes that held it; there was danger of the butt slipping away from the stump of the mizzen mast against which it rested. Everything had to be watched, every precaution taken, to see that neither of these possibilities developed. Bush watched the jears, while Gerard at the main masthead attended to the slings. Galbraith was in the mizzen chains on one side, Rayner on the other. Boatswain and carpenter stood with ropes and spars at the butt end of the mast, but it was the captain, leaning on the quarterdeck rail, whose duty it was to see that every part of the cumbrous machine did its work in its proper relation to the others. It was he whom the crew would blame for failure.

  He knew it, too. He watched the dizzy heave and pitch of the ship, and the masthead wavering in the slings, and he heard the butt end grinding upon the deck as it moved uneasily between the two spars lashed as buttresses against the stump of the mizzen mast. It was an effort to think clearly, and he could only compel his mind to it by an exertion of all his will. He was sick and tired and nervous.

  It was of vital importance that the hands at the shrouds and back-stays only took up as much slack as was won for them by the jears, and refrained from tightening up when a roll of the ship swung the mast over on their side a trifle. Yet this was just what they persisted in doing, maddeningly, so obsessed were they with the necessity of keeping all taut to prevent the swaying mast from taking charge. Twice the grip of the slings on the masthead was imperilled in this way, and Hornblower had to key himself up to his highest pitch for several seconds, watching the roll of the ship, so as to time precisely the next heave which would obviate the danger. His voice was hoarse with shouting.

  Slowly the mast left the horizontal and swayed up towards the perpendicular. Hornblower’s calculating eye, measuring stresses and reactions, saw that the crisis was now come – the moment when the jears could raise the masthead no more and the final lifting must be accomplished by the pull of the backstays aft. The next few moments were tricky ones, because the masthead would not be deprived of the positive support of the slings. The jears had to be disconnected from the windlass and their work done by the backstays. Two lengths of cable had to be passed round the sloping jury mast and the vertical stump, with gangs of men ready to tighten them, tourniquet fashion, with capstan bars as each gain was made. Yet in these first seconds the backstays were at a mechanical disadvantage and would certainly not bear the strain which would be imposed on them if the windlass were employed in an endeavour to drag the mast upright by brute force.

  The motion of the ship must be utilised to help. Hornblower had to watch the motion carefully, calling to the men to wait as the ship rolled and plunged, and then, as the bow slowly emerged from the creaming sea and climbed steadily skywards, he had to set windlass men and tourniquet men and lanyard men all in action at once, and then check them all instantly as the bow began to sink again and full strain came on to the rigging. Twice he managed it successfully, and then three times – although the third time an unexpected wave lifted the Lydia’s stern at the wrong moment and nearly wrecked everything.

  Then the fourth heave settled it all. The mast was now so nearly vertical that shrouds and backstays were at a mechanical advantage, and everything could be hove taut regardless of the ship’s motion. Shrouds and backstays could be set up now in normal fashion, the jury mast adequately fished to the stump – in fact all the difficult part of the work was completed. Hornblower leaned against the rail, sick with weariness, wondering dully how these ironframed men of his could find the strength to cheer as they put the finishing touches to their work.

  He found Bush beside him – Bush had a rag round his head, bloodstained because of the cut in his forehead inflicted by the falling block.

  ‘A magnificent piece of work, if I may say so, sir,’ he said.

  Hornblower eyed him sharply, suspicious as ever of congratulation, knowing his own weakness so well. But Bush, surprisingly, seemed to mean in all sincerity what he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hornblower, grudgingly.

  ‘Shall I send up the topmast and yards, sir?’

  Hornblower looked round the horizon once more. The gale was blowing as madly as ever, and only a grey smudge on the distant horizon marked where the Natividad was battling with it. Hornblower could see that there was no chance of showing any more canvas at present, no chance of renewing the fight while the Natividad was still unprepared. It was a bitter pill to swallow. He could imagine what would be said in service circles when he sent in his report to the Admiralty. His statement that the weather was too bad to renew the action, after having received such a severe handling, would be received with pitying smiles and knowing wags of the head. It was a hackneyed excuse, like the uncharted rock which explained faulty navigation. Cowardice, moral o
r even perhaps physical, would be the unspoken comment on every side – at ten thousand miles distance no one could judge of the strength of a storm. He could divest himself of some of his responsibility by asking Bush his opinion, and requesting him to go through the formality of putting it in writing; but he turned irritably from the thought of displaying weakness before his inferior.

  ‘No,’ he said, without expression. ‘We shall stay hove-to until the weather moderates.’

  There was a gleam of admiration in Bush’s bloodshot eyes – Bush could well admire a captain who could make with such small debate a decision so nearly touching his professional reputation. Hornblower noticed it, but his cursed temperament forbade him to interpret it correctly.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush, warned by the scowl on his captain’s forehead not to enlarge on the subject. But his affection for his captain compelled him to open a fresh one. ‘If that’s the case, sir, why not take a rest? You look mortally tired, sir, indeed you do. Let me send and have a berth screened off for you in the ward room.’

  Bush found his hand twitching – he had been about to commit the enormity of patting his captain’s shoulder, and restrained himself just in time.

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ snapped Hornblower. As if a captain of a frigate could publicly admit that he was tired! And Hornblower could not trust himself to show any weakness at all – he always remembered how on his first commission his second-in-command had taken advantages of lapses on his part.

  ‘It is rather you who need a rest,’ said Hornblower. ‘Dismiss the starboard watch, and go below and turn in. Have someone attend to that forehead of yours, first. With the enemy in sight I shall stay on deck.’

  After that it was Polwheal who came to plague him – Hornblower wondered ineffectively whether he came of his own initiative or whether Bush sent him up.

  ‘I’ve been to attend to the lady, sir,’ said Polwheal; Hornblower’s tired mind was just beginning to grapple with the problem of what to do with Lady Barbara in a damaged ship cleared for action. ‘I’ve screened off a bit of the orlop for her, sir. The wounded’s mostly quiet by now, sir. I slung a ’ammock for her – nipped into it like a bird, she did, sir. She’s taken food, too, sir – what was left of that cold chicken an’ a glass of wine. Not that she wanted to, sir, but I persuaded her, like.’

  ‘Very good, Polwheal,’ said Hornblower. It was an enormous relief to hear that one responsibility at least was lifted from his shoulders.

  ‘An’ now about you, sir,’ went on Polwheal. ‘I’ve got you up some dry clothes from your chest in your storeroom, sir – I’m afraid that last broadside spoilt everything in your cabin, sir. An’ I’ve got your boat cloak, sir, all warm an’ dry. Do you care to shift your clothes up here or down below, sir?’

  Polwheal could take much for granted and could wheedle the rest. Hornblower had anticipated dragging his weary form in his water-logged clothes up and down the quarterdeck all through the night, his nervous irritation not permitting him to contemplate any other course. Polwheal unearthed Lady Barbara’s hammock chair from somewhere and lashed it to the rail and persuaded Hornblower to sit in it and consume a supper of biscuit and rum. Polwheal draped the boat cloak about him and airily took it for granted that he would continue to sit there, since his determination was fixed not to turn in while the enemy was still close at hand.

  And marvellously, as he sat there, with the spray wetting his face and the ship leaping and rolling under him, his head drooped upon his breast and he slept. It was only a broken and fitful sleep, but astonishingly restorative. He awoke every few minutes. Twice it was the sound of his own snores which roused him. At other times he woke with a start to see whether the weather was moderating; at other times still the thoughts which went running on through his mind despite his dozing called him out of his unconsciousness when they reached some fresh startling conclusion regarding what opinion England and his crew would hold of him after this battle.

  Soon after midnight his sailor’s instinct called him definitely into complete wakefulness. Something was happening to the weather. He scrambled stiffly to his feet. The ship was rolling more wildly than ever, but as he sniffed round him he knew that there was an improvement. He walked across to the binnacle, and Bush looked vastly out of the darkness beside him.

  ‘Wind’s shifting southerly an’ moderating, sir,’ said Bush.

  The shift of the wind was breaking up the long Pacific waves into steeper seas, as the Lydia’s antics displayed well enough.

  ‘Black as the Earl of Hell’s riding boots, all the same, sir,’ grumbled Bush, peering into the darkness.

  Somewhere, perhaps twenty miles from them, perhaps only two hundred yards, the Natividad was combating the same gale. If the moon were to break through the scurrying clouds they might be at grips with her at any moment, yet while they were talking it was so dark that they could hardly make out the loom of the main topsail from the quarterdeck.

  ‘She was going away to leeward much faster than us when we saw her last,’ said Bush meditatively.

  ‘I happened to notice that myself,’ snapped Hornblower.

  In this present darkness, however much the gale might moderate, there was nothing they could do. Hornblower could foresee, awaiting them, another of those long intervals of time with nothing to do and everything ready which punctuate the life of a naval officer and which were so liable to irritate him if he allowed them to. He realised that here was another opportunity to show himself as an iron-nerved man whom no tension could disturb. He yawned elaborately.

  ‘I think I shall got to sleep again,’ he said, speaking with the utmost unconcern. ‘See that the lookouts keep awake, if you please, Mr Bush. And have me called as soon as it grows lighter.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush, and Hornblower went back to his boat cloak and his hammock chair.

  He lay there for the rest of the night, unsleeping, and yet staying rigidly still so that the quarterdeck officers might think him asleep and admire the steadiness of his nerves. His mind was busy on the task of guessing what Crespo might be planning in the Natividad.

  The latter was so badly crippled that probably he would be able to make no effective repairs while at sea. It would be much to his advantage to make for the Gulf of Fonseca again. There he could step a foremast and send up a new main topmast. If the Lydia tried to interfere with her there she could overwhelm her by her superior weight in those confined waters; and besides, she would have the assistance of shore boats and possibly even of shore batteries. Moreover he could land his wounded and refill the gaps in his crew caused by the recent action – even landsmen would be of use in a fight to a finish. Crespo was a man of sufficient flexibility of mind not to scorn a retreat if it were to his advantage. The doubtful point was whether Crespo would dare to face el Supremo after an unsuccessful action.

  Hornblower lay considering the matter, balancing his estimate of Crespo’s character against what he knew of el Supremo. He remembered Crespo’s glibness of tongue; that man would be able to convince even el Supremo that his return to his base with the Lydia undefeated was all part of a cunning plan for the more certain destruction of the enemy. Certainly his best course would be to return, and probably that would be the course he would adopt, and that course implied an attempted evasion of the Lydia. In that case he would – Hornblower’s mind began feverish calculations of the Natividad’s present position and future course. In consequence of her bigger bulk, and her two decks, she would have made far more leeway during the night – she was far to leeward at nightfall, for that matter. With the wind shifting and moderating as it was doing at present she would soon be able to make what sail her crippled condition would permit. The wind would be nearly foul for a run to the Gulf of Fonseca. Making for the mainland would be dangerous in Crespo’s opinion, for the Lydia could hem her in between sea and shore and compel her to fight. Most likely he would reach far out to sea, clawing southward at the same time as much as he could, and make for the Gulf of Fo
nseca by a long detour out of sight of land. In that case Hornblower must guess at what would be his position at dawn. He plunged into further tortuous mental calculations.

  Eight bells sounded; the watch was called; he heard Gerard come to take over the deck from Bush. The wind was dropping fast, although the sea showed no sign of moderating as yet. The sky as he looked up at it was perceptibly lighter – here and there he could see stars between the clouds. Crespo would certainly be able to make sail now and attempt his escape. It was time for Hornblower to come to a decision. He climbed out of the hammock chair and walked across to the wheel.

  ‘We will make sail, if you please, Mr Bush.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower gave the course, and he knew as he gave it that it might be quite the wrong one. He might have completely miscalculated. Every yard that the Lydia was sailing now might be in a direction away from the Natividad. Crespo might at this very moment be heading past him to safety. He might never destroy the Natividad at all if she fortified herself in the Gulf of Fonseca. There would be some who would attribute his failure to incompetence, and there would be not a few who would call it cowardice.

  XVII

  From the Lydia’s masthead, in the clear daylight of the Pacific, a ship might be seen at a distance of as much as twenty miles, perhaps. A circle of twenty miles’ radius, therefore, covered the extent of sea over which she had observation. It kept Hornblower occupied, during the remaining hours of darkness, to calculate the size of the circle in which the Natividad would necessarily be found next morning. She might be close at hand; she might be as much as a hundred and fifty miles away. That meant that if pure chance dictated the positions of the ships at dawn, it was almost exactly fifty to one against the Natividad being in sight; fifty to one on the ruin of Hornblower’s professional reputation and only his professional abilities to counter-balance those odds. Only if he had guessed his enemy’s plans correctly would he stand justified, and his officers knew it as well as he. Hornblower was conscious that Gerard was looking at him with interest through the darkness, and the consciousness caused him to hold himself rigid and immobile on the deck, neither walking up and down nor fidgeting, even though he could feel his heart beating faster each time he realised that dawn was approaching.