Someone on deck spied him now. He could hear the pipes twittering as preparations were made to receive him. Let ’em wait a bit longer; he was not going to be hurried today. The Sutherland, riding high without her stores in her, was showing a wide streak of her copper. That copper was new, thank God. Before the wind the ugly old ship might show a pretty turn of speed. As the wind swung her across the tide she revealed her run to him. Looking over her lines, Hornblower occupied his mind with estimates of how to get the best performance out of her. Twenty-two years of sea going experience helped him. Before his mind’s eye he called up a composite diagram of all the forces that would be at work on her at sea – the pressure of the wind on her sails, the rudder balancing the headsails, the lateral resistance of the keel, the friction of the skin, the impact of waves against her bows. Hornblower sketched out a preliminary trial arrangement, deciding just how (until practical tests gave him more data) he would have the masts raked and the ship trimmed. But next moment he remembered bitterly that at present he had no crew to man her, and that unless he could find one all these plans would be useless.
‘Give way,’ he growled to the wherry men, and they threw their weight on the oars again.
‘Easy, Jake,’ said bow oar to stroke, looking over his shoulder.
The wherry swung round under the Sutherland’s stern – trust those men to know how a boat should be laid alongside a ship of war – giving Hornblower a sight of the stern gallery which constituted to Hornblower one of the most attractive points about the ship. He was glad that the dockyard had not done away with it, as they had done in so many ships of the line. Up in that gallery he would be able to enjoy wind and sea and sun, in a privacy unattainable on deck. He would have a hammock chair made for use there. He could even take his exercise there, with no man’s eye upon him – the gallery was eighteen feet long, and he would only have to stoop a little under the overhanging cove. Hornblower yearned inexpressibly for the time when he would be out at sea, away from all the harassing troubles of the land, walking his stern gallery in the solitude in which alone he could relax nowadays. Yet without a crew all this blissful prospect was withheld from him indefinitely. He must find men somewhere.
He felt in his pockets for silver to pay the boatmen, and although silver was woefully short his self-consciousness drove him into overpaying the men in the fashion he attributed to his fellow captains of ships of the line.
‘Thank ’ee, sir. Thank ’ee,’ said the stroke oar, knuckling his forehead.
Hornblower went up the ladder and came in through the entry port with its drab paint where in the Dutchmen’s time gilding had blazed bravely. The pipes of the boatswain’s mates twittered wildly, the marine guard presented arms, the sideboys stood rigidly at attention. Gray, master mate – lieutenants kept no watch in harbour – was officer of the watch and saluted as Hornblower touched his hat to the quarterdeck. Hornblower did not condescend to speak to him, although Gray was a favourite of his; the rigid guard he kept on himself for fear of unnecessary loquacity forbade. Instead he looked round him silently.
The decks were tangled with gear as the work of rigging the ship proceeded, but the tangle, as Hornblower was careful to note, carried under its surface the framework of orderliness. The coils of rope, the groups at work on the deck, the sailmaker’s party sewing at a topsail on the forecastle, gave an impression of confusion, but it was disciplined confusion. The severe orders which he had issued to his officers had borne fruit. The crew of the Lydia when they had heard that they were to be transferred bodily to the Sutherland without even a day on shore, had nearly mutinied. They were in hand again now.
‘Master-at-arms wishes to report, sir,’ said Gray.
‘Send for him, then,’ answered Hornblower.
The master-at-arms was the warrant officer responsible for enforcing discipline, and was a man new to Hornblower, named Price. Hornblower concluded that he had allegations of indiscipline to lodge, and he sighed even while he set his face in an expression of merciless rigidity. Probably it would be a matter of flogging, and he hated the thought of the blood and the agony. But, at the beginning of a commission like this, with a restive crew under his orders, he must not hesitate to flog if necessary – to have the skin and flesh stripped from the offenders’ backbones.
Price was coming along the gangway now at the head of the strangest procession. Two by two behind him came a column of thirty men, each one handcuffed to his neighbour, save for the last two who clanked drearily along with leg irons at their ankles. Nearly all of them were in rags, and the rags had no sort of nautical flavour about them at all. The rags of a great many of them were sacking, some had corduroy, and Hornblower, peering closer, saw that one wore the wrecks of a pair of moleskin breeches. Yet another wore the remains of what had once been a respectable black broadcloth suit – white skin showed through a rent in the shoulder. All of them had stubbly beards, black, brown, golden, and grey, and those who were not bald had great mops of tangled hair. The two ship’s corporals brought up the rear.
‘’Alt,’ ordered Price. ‘Orf ’ats.’
The procession shuffled to a halt, and the men stood sullenly on the quarterdeck. Some of them kept their eyes on the deck, while the others gaped sheepishly round them.
‘What the devil’s all this?’ demanded Hornblower sharply.
‘New ’ands, sir,’ said Price. ‘I signed a receipt to the sodgers what brought ’em, sir.’
‘Where did they bring them from?’ rasped Hornblower.
‘Exeter Assizes, sir,’ said Price, producing a list. ‘Poachers, four of ’em. Waites, that’s ’im in the moleskin breeches, sir, ’e was found guilty of sheepstealing. That ’un in black, ’is crime’s bigamy, sir – ’e was a brewer’s manager before this ’appened to ’im. The others is larceny mostly, sir, ’cept for them two in front what’s in for rick burning and t’other two in irons. Robbery with violence is what they done.’
‘Ha – h’m,’ said Hornblower, wordless for the moment. The new hands blinked at him, some with hope in their eyes, some with hatred, some with indifference. They had chosen service at sea rather than the gallows, or transportation, or the gaol. Months in prison awaiting trial accounted for their dilapidated appearance. Here was a fine addition to the ship’s company, thought Hornblower, bitterly – budding mutineers, sullen skulkers, half-witted yokels. But hands they were and he must make the most of them. They were frightened, sullen, resentful. It would be worth trying to win their affection. His naturally humanitarian instincts dictated the course he decided to pursue after a moment’s quick thinking.
‘Why are they still handcuffed?’ he demanded, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘Release them at once.’
‘Begging you pardon, sir,’ apologised Price. ‘I didn’t want to without orders, sir, seeing what they are and ’ow they come ’ere.’
‘That’s nothing to do with it,’ snapped Hornblower. ‘They’re enlisted in the King’s service now. And I’ll have no man in irons in my ship unless he’s given me cause to order it.’
Hornblower kept his gaze from wavering towards the new hands, and steadily addressed his declamation to Price – it was more effective delivered that way, he knew, even while he despised himself for using rhetorical tricks.
‘I never want to see new hands in charge of the master-at-arms again,’ he continued, hotly. ‘They are recruits in an honourable service, with an honourable future before them. I’ll thank you to see to it another time. Now find one of the purser’s mates and see that each of these men is properly dressed in accordance with my orders.’
Normally it might be harmful to discipline to rate a subordinate officer in front of the men, but in the case of the master-at-arms Hornblower knew that little damage was being done. The men would come to hate the master-at-arms any way sooner or later – his privileges of rank and pay were given him so that he might be a whipping boy for the crew’s discontent. Hornblower could drop the rasp in his voice and address the hands direc
tly, now.
‘A man who does his duty as best he can,’ he said, kindly, ‘has nothing to fear in this ship, and everything to hope for. Now I want to see how smart you can look in your new clothes, and with the dirt of the place you have come from washed off you. Dismiss.’
He had won over some of the poor fools, at least, he told himself. Some of the faces which had been sullen with despair were shining with hope now, after this experience of being treated as men and not as brutes – for the first time for months, if not the first time in their lives. He watched them off the gangway. Poor devils; in Hornblower’s opinion they had made a bad bargain in exchanging the gaol for the navy. But at least they represented thirty out of the two hundred and fifty additional human bodies which he needed to drag at ropes and to heave at capstan bars so as to take this old Sutherland out to sea.
Lieutenant Bush came hastening on to the quarterdeck, and touched his hat to his captain. The stern swarthy face with its incongruous blue eyes broke into a smile just as incongruous. It gave Hornblower a queer twinge, almost of conscience, to see the evident pleasure which Bush experienced at sight of him. It was odd to know that he was admired – it might even be said that he was loved – by this very capable sailor, this splendid disciplinarian and fearless fighter who boasted so many of the good qualities in which Hornblower felt himself to be lacking.
‘Good morning, Bush,’ he said. ‘Have you seen the new draft?’
‘No, sir. I was rowing guard for the middle watch and I’ve only just turned out. Where do they hail from, sir?’
Hornblower told him, and Bush rubbed his hands with pleasure.
‘Thirty!’ he said. ‘That’s rare. I never hoped for more than a dozen from Exeter Assizes. And Bodmin Assizes open today. Please God we get another thirty there.’
‘We won’t get topmen from Bodmin Assizes,’ said Hornblower, comforted beyond measure at the equanimity with which Bush regarded the introduction of gaolbirds into the Sutherland’s crew.
‘No, sir. But the West India convoy’s due this week. The guards ought to nab two hundred there. We’ll get twenty if we get our rights.’
‘M’m,’ said Hornblower, and turned away uneasily. He was not the sort of captain – neither the distinguished kind nor the wheedling kind – who could be sure of favours from the Port Admiral. ‘I must look round below.’
That changed the subject effectively enough.
‘The women are restless,’ said Bush. ‘I’d better come, too, sir, if you don’t object.’
The lower gun deck offered a strange spectacle, lit vaguely by the light which came through half a dozen open gun ports. There were fifty women there. Three or four were still in their hammocks, lying on their sides looking out on the others. Some were sitting in groups on the deck, chattering loud-voiced. One or two were chaffering for food through the gun ports with the occupants of shore boats floating just outside; the netting which impeded desertion had a broad enough mesh to allow a hand to pass through. Two more, each backed by a supporting group, were quarrelling violently. They were in odd contrast – one was tall and dark, so tall as to have to crouch round-shouldered under the five foot deck beams, while the other, short, broad, and fair, was standing up boldly before her menacing advance.
‘That’s what I said,’ she maintained stoutly. ‘And I’ll say it again. I ain’t afeared o’ you, Mrs Dawson, as you call yourself.’
‘A-ah,’ screamed the dark one at this crowning insult. She swooped forward, and with greedy hands she seized the other by the hair, shaking her head from side to side as if she would soon shake it off. In return her face was scratched and her shins were kicked by her stout-hearted opponent. They whirled round in a flurry of petticoats, when one of the women in the hammocks screamed a warning to them.
‘Stop it, you mad bitches! ’Ere’s the cap’n.’
They fell apart, panting and tousled. Every eye was turned towards Hornblower as he walked forward in the patchy light, his head bowed under the deck above.
‘The next woman fighting will be put ashore instantly,’ growled Hornblower.
The dark woman swept her hair from her eyes and sniffed with disdain.
‘You needn’t put me ashore, Cap’n,’ she said. ‘I’m goin’. There ain’t a farden to be had out o’ this starvation ship.’
She was apparently expressing a sentiment which was shared by a good many of the women, for the speech was followed by a little buzz of approval.
‘Ain’t the men never goin’ to get their pay notes?’ piped up the woman in the hammock.
‘Enough o’ that,’ roared Bush, suddenly. He pushed forward anxious to save his captain from the insults to which he was exposed, thanks to a government which left its men still unpaid after a month in port. ‘You there, what are you doing in your hammock after eight bells?’
But this attempt to assume a counter offensive met with disaster.
‘I’ll come out if you like, Mr Lieutenant,’ she said, flicking off her blanket and sliding to the deck. ‘I parted with my gown to buy my Tom a sausage, and my petticoat’s bought him a soop o’ West Country ale. Would you have me on deck in my shift, Mr Lieutenant?’
A titter went round the deck.
‘Get back and be decent,’ spluttered Bush, on fire with embarrassment.
Hornblower was laughing, too – perhaps it was because he was married that the sight of a half-naked woman alarmed him not nearly as much as it did his first lieutenant.
‘Never will I be decent now,’ said the woman, swinging her legs up into the hammock and composedly draping the blanket over her, ‘until my Tom gets his pay warrant.’
‘An’ when he gets it,’ sneered the fair woman. ‘What can he do with it without shore leave? Sell it to a bumboat shark for a quarter!’
‘Fi’ pound for twenty-three months’ pay!’ added another. ‘An me a month gone a’ready.’
‘Avast there,’ said Bush.
Hornblower beat a retreat, abandoning – forgetting, rather – the object of his visit of inspection below. He could not face those women when the question of pay came up again. The men had been scandalously badly treated, imprisoned in the ship within sight of land, and their wives (some of them certainly were wives, although by Admiralty regulations a simple verbal declaration of the existence of a marriage was sufficient to allow them on board) had just cause of complaint. No one, not even Bush, knew that the few guineas which had been doled out among the crew represented a large part of Hornblower’s accumulated pay – all he could spare, in fact, except for the necessary money to pay his officers’ expenses when they should start on their recruiting journeys.
His vivid imagination and absurd sensitiveness between them perhaps exaggerated part of the men’s hardships. The thought of the promiscuity of life below decks, where a man was allotted eighteen inches’ width in which to swing his hammock, while his wife was allowed eighteen inches next to him, all in a long row, husbands, wives, and single men, appalled him. So did the thought of women having to live on the revolting lower deck food. Possibly he made insufficient allowance for the hardening effect of long habit.
He emerged through the fore hatchway on to the maindeck a little unexpectedly. Thompson, one of the captains of the forecastle, was dealing with the new hands.
‘P’raps we’ll make sailors of you,’ he was saying, ‘and p’raps we won’t. Overside with a shot at your feet, more likely, before we sight Ushant. And a waste o’ good shot, too. Come on wi’ that pump, there. Let’s see the colour o’ your hides, gaol-birds. When the cat gets at you we’ll see the colour o’ your backbones, too, you—’
‘Enough of that, Thompson,’ roared Hornblower, furious.
In accordance with his standing orders the new hands were being treated to rid them of vermin. Naked and shivering, they were grouped about the deck. Two of them were having their heads shorn down to the bare skin; a dozen of them, who had already submitted to this treatment (and looking strangely sickly and out of place with
the prison pallor still on them) were being herded by Thompson towards the wash-deck pump which a couple of grinning hands were working. Fright was making them shiver as much as cold – not one of them, probably, had ever had a bath before, and what with the prospect, and Thompson’s bloodcurdling remarks and the strange surroundings, they were pitiful to see.
It enraged Hornblower, who somehow or other had never forgotten the misery of his early days at sea. Bullying was abhorrent to him like any other sort of wanton cruelty, and he had no sympathy whatever with the aim of so many of his brother officers, to break the spirit of the men under him. One of these days his professional reputation and his future might depend on these very men risking their lives cheerfully and willingly – sacrificing them, if need be – and he could not imagine cowed and broken-spirited men doing that. The shearing and the bath were necessary, if the ship was to be kept clear of the fleas and bugs and lice which could make life a misery on board, but he was not going to have his precious men cowed more than was unavoidable. It was curious that Hornblower, who never could believe himself to be a leader of men, would always lead rather than drive.
‘Under the pump with you, men,’ he said kindly, and when they still hesitated – ‘When we get to sea you’ll see me under that pump, every morning at seven bells. Isn’t that so, there?’