The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  ‘Two hours of that will do for today, Mr Bush. I can only remember one short exercise at the guns?’

  Tortured by sea-sickness while running down the Channel he could not be sure.

  ‘Only one, sir.’

  ‘Then after dinner we’ll have an hour at the guns. One of these days we might use them.’

  ‘We might, sir,’ said Bush.

  Bush could face with equanimity the prospects of a war that would engulf the whole world.

  The pipes of the bos’n’s mates called all hands, and very soon the exercises were well under way, the sweating sailors racing up and down the rigging tailing on to ropes under the urgings of the petty officers and amid a perfect cloud of profanity from Mr Wise. It was as well to drill the men, simply to keep them exercised, but there were no serious deficiencies to make up. Hotspur had benefited by being the very first ship to be manned after the press had been put into force. Of her hundred and fifty hands no fewer than a hundred were prime seamen, rated A.B. She had twenty ordinary seamen and only ten landsmen all told, and no more than twenty boys. It was an extraordinary proportion, one that would never be seen again as the manning of the fleet continued. Not only that, but more than half the men had seen service in men o’ war before the Peace of Amiens. They were not only seamen, but Royal Navy seamen, who had hardly had time to make more than a single voyage in the merchant navy during the peace before being pressed again. Consequently most of them had had experience with ship’s guns; twenty or thirty of them had actually seen action. The result was that when the gun exercise was ordered they went to their stations in business-like fashion. Bush turned to Hornblower and touched his hat awaiting the next order.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bush. Order “silence,” if you please.’

  The whistles pealed round the deck, and the ship fell deathly still.

  ‘I shall now inspect, if you will be so kind as to accompany me, Mr Bush.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower began by glowering down at the starboard-side quarter-deck carronade. Everything was in order there, and he walked down into the waist to inspect the starboard-side nine-pounders. At each he stopped to look over the equipment. Cartridge, crowbar, hand-spike. Sponge, quoin. He passed on from gun to gun.

  ‘What’s your station if the larboard guns are being worked?’

  He had picked for questioning the youngest seaman visible, who moved uneasily from one foot to another finding himself addressed by the captain.

  ‘Stand to attention, there!’ bellowed Bush.

  ‘What’s your station?’ repeated Hornblower, quietly.

  ‘O – over there, sir. I handle the rammer, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad you know. If you can remember your station when the captain and the first lieutenant are speaking to you I can trust you to remember it when round-shot are coming in through the side.’

  Hornblower passed on; a captain could always be sure of raising a laugh if he made a joke. Then he halted again.

  ‘What’s this? Mr Cheeseman!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You have an extra powder-horn here. There should be only one for every two guns.’

  ‘Er – yessir. It’s because—’

  ‘I know the reason. A reason’s no excuse, though, Mr Cheeseman. Mr Orrock! What powder-horns have you in your section? Yes, I see.’

  Shifting No. 3 gun aft had deprived Orrock’s section of a powder-horn and given an additional one to Cheeseman’s.

  ‘It’s the business of you young gentlemen to see that the guns in your section are properly equipped. You don’t have to wait for orders.’

  Cheeseman and Orrock were two of the four ‘young gentlemen’ sent on board from the Naval College to be trained as midshipmen. Hornblower liked nothing he had seen as yet of any of them. But they were what he had to use as petty officers, and for his own sake he must train them into becoming useful lieutenants – his needs corresponded with his duty. He must make them and not break them.

  ‘I’m sure I won’t have to speak to you young gentlemen again,’ he said. He was sure he would, but a promise was better than a threat. He walked on, completing the inspection of the guns on the starboard-side. He went up to the forecastle to look at the two carronades there, and then back down the main-deck guns of the port side. He stopped at the marine stationed at the forehatchway.

  ‘What are your orders?’

  The marine stood stiffly at attention, feet at an angle of forty-five degrees, musket close in at his side, forefinger of the left hand along the seam of his trousers, neck rigid in its stock, so that, as Hornblower was not directly in front of him, he stared over Hornblower’s shoulder.

  ‘To guard my post—’ he began, and continued in a monotonous sing-song, repeating by rote the sentry’s formula which he had probably uttered a thousand times before. The change in his tone was marked when he reached the final sentence added for this particular station – ‘To allow no one to go below unless he is carrying an empty cartridge bucket.’

  That was so that cowards could not take refuge below the waterline.

  ‘What about men carrying wounded?’

  The astonished marine found it hard to answer; he found it hard to think after years of drill.

  ‘I have no orders about them, sir,’ he said at last, actually allowing his eyes, though not his neck, to move.

  Hornblower glanced at Bush.

  ‘I’ll speak to the sergeant of marines, sir,’ said Bush.

  ‘Who’s on the quarter-bill to attend to the wounded?’

  ‘Cooper and his mate, sir. Sailmaker and his mate. Four altogether, sir.’

  Trust Bush to have all those details at his fingers’ ends, even though Hornblower had found two small points to find fault with, for which Bush was ultimately responsible. No need to stress those matters with Bush – he was burning with silent shame.

  Down the hatchway to the magazine. A candle glimmered faintly through the glass window of the light-room, throwing just enough light for powder boys to see what they were doing as they received loaded cartridges through the double serge curtains opening into the magazine; inside the magazine the gunner and his mate, wearing list slippers, were ready to pass out, and, if necessary, fill cartridges. Down the after hatchway to where the surgeon and his lob-lolly boy were ready to deal with the wounded. Hornblower knew that he himself might at some time be dragged in here with blood streaming from some shattered limb – it was a relief to ascend to the main-deck again.

  ‘Mr Foreman,’ – Foreman was another of the ‘young gentlemen’ – ‘what are your orders regarding lanterns during a night action?’

  ‘I am to wait until Mr Bush expressly orders them, sir.’

  ‘And who do you send if you receive those orders?’

  ‘Firth, sir.’

  Foreman indicated a likely-looking young seaman at his elbow. But was there perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation about that reply? Hornblower turned on Firth.

  ‘Where do you go?’

  Firth’s eyes flickered towards Foreman for a moment. That might be with embarrassment; but Foreman swayed a little on his feet, as if he were pointing with his shoulder, and one hand made a small sweeping gesture in front of his middle, as if he might be indicating Mr Wise’s abdominal rotundity.

  ‘For’rard, sir,’ said Firth. ‘The bos’n issues them. At the break of the fo’c’sle.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hornblower.

  He had no doubt that Foreman had quite forgotten to pass on Bush’s orders regarding battle lanterns. But Foreman had been quick-witted enough to remedy the situation, and Firth had not merely been quick-witted but also loyal enough to back up his petty officer. It would be well to keep an eye on both those two, for various reasons. The break of the forecastle had been an inspired guess, as being adjacent to the bos’n’s locker.

  Hornblower walked up on to the quarter-deck again, Bush following him, and he cast a considering eye about him, taking in the last uninspected gun – the
port-side quarter-deck carronade. He selected a position where the largest possible number of ears could catch his words.

  ‘Mr Bush,’ he said, ‘we have a fine ship. If we work hard we’ll have a fine crew too. If Boney needs a lesson we’ll give it to him. You may continue with the exercises.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  The six marines on the quarter-deck, the helmsman, the carronades’ crews, Mr Prowse and the rest of the afterguard had all heard him. He had felt it was not the time for a formal speech, but he could be sure his words would be relayed round the ship during the next dog watch. And he had chosen them carefully. That ‘we’ was meant as a rallying call. Meanwhile Bush was continuing with the exercise. ‘Cast loose your guns. Level your guns. Take out your tompions,’ and all the rest of it.

  ‘We’ll have them in shape soon enough, sir,’ said Bush. ‘Then we’ll only have to get alongside the enemy.’

  ‘Not necessarily alongside, Mr Bush. When we come to burn powder at the next exercise I want the men schooled in firing at long range.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course,’ agreed Bush.

  But that was lip-service only on Bush’s part. He had not really thought about the handling of Hotspur in battle – close action, where the guns could not miss, and only needed to be loaded and fired as rapidly as possible, was Bush’s ideal. Very well for a ship of the line in a fleet action, but perhaps not so suitable for Hotspur. She was only a sloop of war, her timbers and her scantlings more fragile even than those of a frigate. Her twenty nine-pounders that gave her ‘rate’ – the four carronades not being counted – were ‘long guns,’ better adapted for work at a couple of cables’ lengths than for close action when the enemy’s guns stood no more chance of missing than hers did. She was the smallest thing with three masts and quarter-deck and forecastle in the Navy List. The odds were heavy that any enemy she might meet would be her superior in size, in weight of metal, in number of men – probably immeasurably her superior. Dash and courage might snatch a victory for her, but skill and forethought and good handling might be more certain. Hornblower felt the tremor of action course through him, accentuated by the vibrating rumble of the guns being run out.

  ‘Land ho! Land ho!’ yelled the look-out of the fore-topmast head. ‘Land one point on the lee bow!’

  That would be France, Ushant, the scene of their future exploits, perhaps where they would meet with disaster or death. Naturally there was a wave of excitement through the ship. Heads were raised and faces turned.

  ‘Sponge your guns!’ bellowed Bush through his speaking-trumpet. Bush could be relied on to maintain discipline and good order through any distraction. ‘Load!’

  It was hard for the men to go through the play-acting of gun drill in these circumstances; discipline on the one side, resentment, disillusionment on the other.

  ‘Point your guns! Mr Cheeseman! The hand-spike man on No. 7 gun isn’t attending to his duty. I want his name.’

  Prowse was training a telescope forward; as the officer responsible for navigation that was his duty, but it was also his privilege.

  ‘Run your guns in!’

  Hornblower itched to follow Prowse’s example, but he restrained himself; Prowse would keep him informed of anything vital. He allowed the drill to go on through one more mock broadside before he spoke.

  ‘Mr Bush, you may secure the guns now, thank you.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Prowse was offering his telescope.

  ‘That’s the light-tower on Ushant, sir,’ he said.

  Hornblower caught a wavering glimpse of the thing, a gaunt framework topped by a cresset, where the French government in time of peace maintained a light for the benefit of the ships – half the world’s trade made a landfall off Ushant – that needed it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Prowse.’ Hornblower visualised the chart again; recalled the plans he had made in the intervals of commissioning his ship, in the intervals of his honeymoon, in the intervals of sea-sickness, during the past crowded days. ‘Wind’s drawing westerly. But it’ll be dark before we can make Cape Matthew. We’ll stand to the s’uth’ard under easy sail until midnight. I want to be a league off the Black Stones an hour before dawn.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Bush joined them from the business of securing the guns.

  ‘Look at that, sir! There’s a fortune passing us by.’

  A large ship was hull-up to windward, her canvas reflecting the westering sun.

  ‘French Indiaman,’ commented Hornblower, turning his glass on her.

  ‘A quarter of a million pounds, all told!’ raved Bush. ‘Maybe a hundred thousand for you, sir, if only war were declared. Doesn’t that tease you, sir? She’ll carry this wind all the way to Havre and she’ll be safe.’

  ‘There’ll be others,’ replied Hornblower soothingly.

  ‘Not so many, sir. Trust Boney. He’ll send warnings out the moment he’s resolved on war, and every French flag’ll take refuge in neutral ports. Madeira and the Azores, Cadiz and Ferrol, while we could make our fortunes!’

  The possibilities of prize money bulked large in the thoughts of every naval officer.

  ‘Maybe we will,’ said Hornblower. He thought of Maria and his allotment of pay; even a few hundreds of pounds would make a huge difference.

  ‘Maybe, sir,’ said Bush, clearly discounting the possibility.

  ‘And there’s another side to the picture,’ added Hornblower, pointing round the horizon.

  There were half a dozen other sails all visible at this time, all British. They marked the enormous extent of British maritime commerce. They bore the wealth that could support navies, sustain allies, maintain manufactories of arms – to say nothing of the fact that they provided the basic training for seamen who later would man the ships of war which kept the seas open for them and closed them to England’s enemies.

  ‘They’re only British, sir,’ said Prowse, wonderingly. He had not the vision to see what Hornblower saw. Bush had to look hard at his captain before it dawned upon him.

  The heaving of the log, with the changing of the watch, relieved Hornblower of the temptation to preach a sermon.

  ‘What’s the speed, Mr Young?’

  ‘Three knots and a half, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hornblower turned back to Prowse. ‘Keep her on her present course.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Hornblower was training his telescope out over the port bow. There was a black dot rising and falling out there towards Molene Island. He kept it under observation.

  ‘I think, Mr Prowse,’ he said, his glass still at his eye, ‘we might edge in a little more inshore. Say two points. I’d like to pass that fishing-boat close.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  She was one of the small craft employed in the pilchard fishery, very similar to those seen off the Cornish coast. She was engaged at the moment in hauling in her seine; as Hotspur approached more closely the telescope made plain the rhythmical movements of the four men.

  ‘Up with the helm a little more, Mr Prowse, if you please. I’d like to pass her closer still.’

  Now Hornblower could make out a little area of water beside the fishing-boat that was of a totally different colour. It had a metallic sheen quite unlike the rest of the grey sea; the fishing-boat had found a shoal of pilchards and her seine was now closing in on it.

  ‘Mr Bush. Please try to read her name.’

  They were fast closing on her; within a few moments Bush could make out the bold white letters on her stern.

  ‘From Brest, sir. Duke’s Freers.’

  With that prompting Hornblower could read the name for himself, the Deux Frères, Brest.

  ‘Back the maintops’l, Mr Young!’ bellowed Hornblower to the officer of the watch, and then, turning back to Bush and Prowse, ‘I want fish for my supper tonight.’

  They looked at him in ill-concealed surprise.

  ‘Pilchards, sir?’

  ‘That’s right.’

&
nbsp; The seine was close in alongside the Deux Frères, and masses of silver fish were being heaved up into her. So intent were the fishermen on securing their catch that they had no knowledge of the silent approach of the Hotspur, and looked up in ludicrous astonishment at the lovely vessel towering over them in the sunset. They even displayed momentary panic, until they obviously realised that in time of peace a British ship of war would do them less harm than a French one might, a French one enforcing the Inscription Maritime.

  Hornblower took the speaking-trumpet from its beckets. He was pulsing with excitement now, and he had to be firm with himself to keep calm. This might be the first step in the making of the history of the future; besides, he had not spoken French for a considerable time and he had to concentrate on what he was going to say.

  ‘Good day, captain!’ he yelled, and the fishermen, reassured, waved back to him in friendly fashion. ‘Will you sell me some fish?’

  Hurriedly they conferred, and then one of them replied.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Oh, twenty pounds.’

  Again they conferred.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Captain,’ went on Hornblower, searching in his mind not only for the necessary French words but also for an approach to bring about the situation he desired. ‘Finish your work. Then come aboard. We can drink a glass of rum to the friendship of nations.’

  The beginning of that sentence was clumsy, he knew, but he could not translate ‘Get in your catch;’ but the prospect of British navy rum he knew would be alluring – and he was a little proud of l’amitié des nations. What was the French for ‘dinghy?’ Chaloupe, he fancied. He expanded on his invitation, and someone in the fishing-boat waved in assent before bending to the business of getting in the catch. With the last of it on board two of the four men scrambled into the dinghy that lay alongside the Deux Frères; it was nearly as big as the fishing-boat itself, as was to be expected when she had to lay out the seine. Two oars stoutly handled brought the dinghy rapidly towards Hotspur.