The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  Hornblower could only translate the brutal message without any attempt at softening it, and Pellew listened, white with anger despite his tan.

  “Tell him—” he began, and then mastered his rage. “Damme if I’ll let him see he has made me angry.”

  He put his hat across his stomach and bowed in as faithful an imitation of the Spaniard’s courtliness as he could manage, before he turned to Hornblower.

  “Tell him I have received his message with pleasure. Tell him I much regret that circumstances are separating him from me, and that I hope I shall always enjoy his personal friendship whatever the relations between our countries. Tell him—oh, you can tell him the sort of thing I want said, can’t you, Hornblower? Let’s see him over the side with dignity. Sideboys! Bosun’s mates! Drummers!”

  Hornblower poured out compliments to the best of his ability, and at every phrase the two captains exchanged bows, the Spaniard withdrawing a pace at each bow and Pellew following him up, not to be outdone in courtesy. The drums beat a ruffle, the marines presented arms, the pipes shrilled and twittered until the Spaniard’s head had descended to the level of the maindeck, when Pellew stiffened up, clapped his hat on his head, and swung round on his first lieutenant.

  “Mr. Eccles, I want to be under way within the hour, if you please.”

  Then he stamped down below to regain his equanimity in private.

  Hands were aloft loosing sail ready to sheet home, while the clank of the capstan told how other men were heaving the cable short, and Hornblower was standing on the portside gangway with Mr. Wales the carpenter, looking over at the white houses of one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.

  “I’ve been ashore there twice,” said Wales. “The wine’s good—vino, they calls it—if you happens to like that kind o’ muck. But don’t you ever try that brandy, Mr. Hornblower. Poison, it is, rank poison. Hello! We’re going to have an escort, I see.”

  Two long sharp prows had emerged from the inner bay, and were pointing towards the Indefatigable. Hornblower could not restrain himself from giving a cry of surprise as he followed Wales’ gaze. The vessels approaching were galleys; along each side of them the oars were lifting and falling rhythmically, catching the sunlight as they feathered. The effect, as a hundred oars swung like one, was perfectly beautiful. Hornblower remembered a line in a Latin poet which he had translated as a schoolboy, and recalled his surprise when he discovered that to a Roman the “white wings” of a ship of war were her oars. Now the simile was plain; even a gull in flight, which Hornblower had always looked upon until now as displaying the perfection of motion, was not more beautiful than those galleys. They lay low in the water, immensely long for their beam. Neither the sails nor the lateen yards were set on the low raking masts. The bows blazed with gilding, while the waters of the bay foamed round them as they headed into the teeth of the gentle breeze with the Spanish red and gold streaming aft from the masthead. Up—forward—down—went the oars with unchanging rhythm, the blades not varying an inch in their distance apart during the whole of the stroke. From the bows of each two long guns looked straight forward in the direction the galleys pointed.

  “Twenty-four pounders,” said Wales. “If they catch you in a calm, they’ll knock you to pieces. Lie off on your quarter where you can’t bring a gun to bear and rake you till you strike. An’ then God help you—better a Turkish prison than a Spanish one.”

  In a line-ahead that might have been drawn with a ruler and measured with a chain the galleys passed close along the port side of the Indefatigable and went ahead of her. As they passed the roll of the drum and the call of the pipes summoned the crew of the Indefatigable to attention out of compliment to the flag and the commission pendant going by, while the galleys’ officers returned the salute.

  “It don’t seem right, somehow,” muttered Wales under his breath, “to salute ’em like they was a frigate.”

  Level with the Indefatigable’s bowsprit the leader backed her starboard side oars, and spun like a top, despite her length and narrow beam, across the frigate’s bows. The gentle wind blew straight to the frigate from the galley, and then from her consort as the latter followed; and a foul stench came back on the air and assailed Hornblower’s nostrils, and not Hornblower’s alone, clearly, for it brought forth cries of disgust from all the men on deck.

  “They all stink like that,” explained Wales. “Four men to the oar an’ fifty oars. Two hundred galley slaves, that is. All chained to their benches. When you goes aboard one of them as a slave you’re chained to your bench, an’ you’re never unchained until they drop you overside. Sometimes when the hands aren’t busy they’ll hose out the bilge, but that doesn’t happen often, bein’ Dagoes an’ not many of ’em.”

  Hornblower as always sought exact information.

  “How many, Mr. Wales?”

  “Thirty, mebbe. Enough to hand the sails if they’re making a passage. Or to man the guns—they strike the yards and sails, like now, before they goes into action, Mr. Hornblower,” said Wales, pontifical as usual, and with that slight emphasis on the “Mister” inevitable when a warrant officer of sixty with no hope of further promotion addressed a warrant officer of eighteen (his nominal equal in rank) who might some day be an admiral. “So you see how it is. With no more than thirty of a crew an’ two hundred slaves they daren’t let ’em loose, not ever.”

  The galleys had turned again, and were now passing down the Indefatigable’s starboard side. The beat of the oars had slowed very noticeably, and Hornblower had ample time to observe the vessels closely, the low forecastle and high poop with the gangway connecting them along the whole length of the galley; upon that gangway walked a man with a whip. The rowers were invisible below the bulwarks, the oars being worked through holes in the sides closed, as far as Hornblower could see, with sheets of leather round the oar-looms to keep out the sea. On the poop stood two men at the tiller and a small group of officers, their gold lace flashing in the sunshine. Save for the gold lace and the twenty-four-pounder bow chasers Hornblower was looking at exactly the same sort of vessel as the ancients used to fight their battles. Polybius and Thucydides wrote about galleys almost identical with these—for that matter it was not much more than two hundred years since the galleys had fought their last great battle at Lepanto against the Turks. But those battles had been fought with hundreds of galleys a side.

  “How many do they have in commission now?” asked Hornblower.

  “A dozen, mebbe—not that I knows for sure, o’ course. Cartagena’s their usual station, beyond the Gut.”

  Wales, as Hornblower understood, meant by this through the Strait of Gibraltar in the Mediterranean.

  “Too frail for the Atlantic,” Hornblower commented.

  It was easy to deduce the reasons for the survival of this small number—the innate conservatism of the Spaniards would account for it to a large extent. Then there was the point that condemnation to the galleys was one way of disposing of criminals. And when all was said and done a galley might still be useful in a calm—merchant ships becalmed while trying to pass the Strait of Gibraltar might be snapped up by galleys pushing out from Cadiz or Cartagena. And at the very lowest estimate there might be some employment for galleys to tow vessels in and out of harbour with the wind unfavourable.

  “Mr. Hornblower!” said Eccles. “My respects to the captain, and we’re ready to get under way.”

  Hornblower dived below with his message.

  “My compliments to Mr. Eccles,” said Pellew, looking up from his desk, “and I’ll be on deck immediately.”

  There was just enough of a southerly breeze to enable the Indefatigable to weather the point in safety. With her anchor catted she braced round her yards and began to steal seaward; in the disciplined stillness which prevailed the sound of the ripple of water under her cutwater was clearly to be heard—a musical note which told nothing, in its innocence, of the savagery and danger of the world of the sea into which she was entering. Creeping along
under her topsails the Indefatigable made no more than three knots, and the galleys came surging past her again, oars beating their fastest rhythm, as if the galleys were boasting of their independence of the elements. Their gilt flashed in the sun as they overtook to windward, and once again their foul stench offended the nostrils of the men of the Indefatigable.

  “I’d be obliged if they’d keep to leeward of us,” muttered Pellew, watching them through his glass. “But I suppose that’s not Spanish courtesy. Mr. Cutler!”

  “Sir!” said the gunner.

  “You may commence the salute.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The forward carronade on the lee side roared out the first of its compliments, and the fort of Puntales began its reply. The sound of the salute rolled round the beautiful bay; nation was speaking to nation in all courtesy.

  “The next time we hear those guns they’ll be shotted, I fancy,” said Pellew, gazing across at Puntales and the flag of Spain flying above it.

  Indeed, the tide of war was turning against England. Nation after nation had retired from the contest against France, some worsted by arms, and some by the diplomacy of the vigorous young republic. To any thinking mind it was obvious that once the step from war to neutrality had been taken, the next step would be easy, from neutrality to war on the other side. Hornblower could foresee, close at hand, a time when all Europe would be arrayed in hostility to England, when she would be battling for her life against the rejuvenescent power of France and the malignity of the whole world.

  “Set sail, please, Mr. Eccles,” said Pellew.

  Two hundred trained pairs of legs raced aloft; two hundred trained pairs of arms let loose the canvas, and the Indefatigable doubled her speed, heeling slightly to the gentle breeze. Now she was meeting the long Atlantic swell. So were the galleys; as the Indefatigable overtook them, Hornblower could see the leader put her nose into a long roller so that a cloud of spray broke over her forecastle. That was asking too much of such frail craft. Back went one bank of oars; forward went the other. The galleys rolled hideously for a moment in the trough of the sea before they completed their turn and headed back for the safe waters of Cadiz Bay. Someone forward in the Indefatigable began to boo, and the cry was instantly taken up through the ship. A storm of boos and whistles and catcalls pursued the galleys, the men momentarily quite out of hand while Pellew spluttered with rage on the quarterdeck and the petty officers strove in vain to take the names of the offenders. It was an ominous farewell to Spain.

  Ominous indeed. It was not long before Captain Pellew gave the news to the ship that Spain had completed her change-over; with the treasure convoy safely in she had declared war against England; the revolutionary republic had won the alliance of the most decayed monarchy in Europe. British resources were now stretched to the utmost; there was another thousand miles of coast to watch, another fleet to blockade, another horde of privateers to guard against, and far fewer harbours in which to take refuge and from which to draw the fresh water and the meagre stores which enabled the hard-worked crews to remain at sea. It was then that friendship had to be cultivated with the half savage Barbary States, and the insolence of the Deys and the Sultans had to be tolerated so that North Africa could provide the skinny bullocks and the barley grain to feed the British garrisons in the Mediterranean—all of them beleaguered on land—and the ships which kept open the way to them. Oran, Tetuan, Algiers wallowed in unwontedly honest prosperity with the influx of British gold.

  It was a day of glassy calm in the Straits of Gibraltar. The sea was like a silver shield, the sky like a bowl of sapphire, with the mountains of Africa on the one hand, the mountains of Spain on the other as dark serrations on the horizon. It was not a comfortable situation for the Indefatigable, but that was not because of the blazing sun which softened the pitch in the deck seams. There is almost always a slight current setting inwards into the Mediterranean from the Atlantic, and the prevailing winds blow in the same direction. In a calm like this it was not unusual for a ship to be carried far through the Straits, past the Rock of Gibraltar, and then to have to beat for days and even weeks to make Gibraltar Bay. So that Pellew was not unnaturally anxious about his convoy of grain ships from Oran. Gibraltar had to be revictualled—Spain had already marched, an army up for the siege—and he dared not risk being carried past his destination. His orders to his reluctant convoy had been enforced by flag and gun signals, for no shorthanded merchant ship relished the prospect of the labour Pellew wished to be executed. The Indefatigable no less than her convoy had lowered boats, and the helpless ships were now all in tow. That was backbreaking, exhausting labour, the men at the oars tugging and straining, dragging the oar blades through the water, while the towlines tightened and bucked with superhuman perversity and the ships sheered freakishly from side to side. It was less than a mile an hour that the ships made in this fashion, at the cost of the complete exhaustion of the boats’ crews, but at least it postponed the time when the Gibraltar current would carry them to leeward, and similarly gave more chance for the longed-for southerly wind—two hours of a southerly wind was all they wished for—to waft them up to the Mole.

  Down in the Indefatigable’s longboat and cutter the men tugging at their oars were so stupefied with their toil that they did not hear the commotion in the ship. They were just tugging and straining, under the pitiless sky, living through their two hours’ spell of misery, but they were roused by the voice of the captain himself, hailing them from the forecastle.

  “Mr. Bolton! Mr. Chadd! Cast off there, if you please. You’d better come and arm your men at once. Here come our friends from Cadiz.”

  Back on the quarterdeck, Pellew looked through his glass at the hazy horizon; he could make out from here by now what had first been reported from the masthead.

  “They’re heading straight for us,” he said.

  The two galleys were on their way from Cadiz; presumably a fast horseman from the lookout point at Tarifa had brought them the news of this golden opportunity, of the flat calm and the scattered and helpless convoy. This was the moment for galleys to justify their continued existence. They could capture and at least burn, although they could not hope to carry off, the unfortunate merchant ships while the Indefatigable lay helpless hardly out of cannon’s range. Pellew looked round at the two merchant ships and the three brigs; one of them was within half a mile of him and might be covered by his gunfire, but the others—a mile and a half, two miles away—had no such protection.

  “Pistols and cutlasses, my lads!” he said to the men pouring up from overside. “Clap onto that stay tackle now. Smartly with that carronade, Mr. Cutler!”

  The Indefatigable had been in too many expeditions where minutes counted to waste any time over these preparations. The boats’ crews seized their arms, the six-pounder carronades were lowered into the bows of the cutter and long-boat, and soon the boats, crowded with armed men, and provisioned against sudden emergency, were pulling away to meet the galleys.

  “What the devil d’you think you’re doing, Mr. Hornblower?”

  Pellew had just caught sight of Hornblower in the act of swinging out of the jolly boat which was his special charge. He wondered what his midshipman thought he could achieve against a war-galley with a twelve-foot boat and a crew of six.

  “We can pull to one of the convoy and reinforce the crew, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “Oh, very well then, carry on. I’ll trust to your good sense, even though that’s a broken reed.”

  “Good on you, sir!” said Jackson ecstatically, as the jolly boat shoved off from the frigate. “Good on you! No one else wouldn’t never have thought of that.”

  Jackson, the coxswain of the jolly boat, obviously thought that Hornblower had no intention of carrying out his suggestion to reinforce the crew of one of the merchant ships.

  “Those stinking Dagoes,” said stroke oar, between his teeth.

  Hornblower was conscious of the presence in his crew of the same feeling of
violent hostility toward the Spanish galleys as he felt within himself. In a fleeting moment of analysis, he attributed it to the circumstances in which they had first made the galleys’ acquaintance, as well as to the stench which the galleys trailed after them. He had never known this feeling of personal hatred before; when previously he had fought it had been as a servant of the King, not out of personal animosity. Yet here he was gripping the tiller under the scorching sky and leaning forward in his eagerness to be at actual grips with this enemy.

  The longboat and cutter had a long start of them, and even though they were manned by crews who had already served a spell at the oars they were skimming over the water at such a speed that the jolly boat with all the advantage of the glassy-smooth water only slowly caught up to them. Overside the sea was of the bluest, deepest blue until the oar blades churned it white. Ahead of them the vessels of the convoy lay scattered where the sudden calm had caught them, and just beyond them Hornblower caught sight of the flash of oar blades as the galleys came sweeping down on their prey. Longboat and cutter were diverging in an endeavour to cover as many vessels as possible, and the gig was still far astern. There would hardly be time to board a ship even if Hornblower should wish to. He put the tiller over to incline his course after the cutter; one of the galleys at that moment abruptly made its appearance in the gap between two of the merchant ships. Hornblower saw the cutter swing round to point her six-pounder carronade at the advancing bows.

  “Pull, you men! Pull!” he shrieked mad with excitement.

  He could not imagine what was going to happen, but he wanted to be in the fray. That six-pounder popgun was grossly inaccurate at any range longer than musket shot. It would serve to hurl a mass of grape into a crowd of men, but its ball would have small effect on the strengthened bows of a war galley.

  “Pull!” shrieked Hornblower again. He was nearly up to them, wide on the cutter’s quarter.

  The carronade boomed out. Hornblower thought he saw the splinters fly from the galley’s bow, but the shot had no more effect on deterring her than a peashooter could stop a charging bull. The galley turned a little, getting exactly into line, and then her oars’ beat quickened. She was coming down to ram, like the Greeks at Salamis.