The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  ‘My sword! My sword!’

  ‘I’ll look after your sword,’ said Hornblower. These absurd notions of honour were so deeply engrained that even in these conditions Côtard could not bear the thought of leaving his sword on the field of battle. Hornblower realised he had no cutlass as he picked up Côtard’s sword. The axeman had gathered up the books and papers.

  ‘Help Mr Côtard down,’ said Hornblower, and added, as another thought struck him. ‘Put a scarf round his arm above the wound and strain it tight. Understand?’

  Côtard, supported by the other axeman was already tottering down the path. Movement meant agony. That heartrending ‘ah – ah – ah!’ came back to Hornblower’s ears at every step Côtard took.

  ‘Here they come!’ said the marine lieutenant.

  The skirmishing Frenchmen, emboldened by the near approach of their main body, were charging forward. A hurried glance told Hornblower that the others were all down on the jetty; the lobster-boat was actually pushing off, full of men.

  ‘Tell your men to run for it,’ he said, and the moment after they started he followed them.

  It was a wild dash, slipping and sliding, down the path to the jetty, with the French yelling in pursuit. But here was the covering party, as Hornblower had ordered so carefully the day before; Hotspur’s own thirteen marines, under their own sergeant. They had built a breastwork across the jetty, again as Hornblower had ordered when he had visualised this hurried retreat. It was lower than waist-high, hurriedly put together with rocks and fish-barrels full of stones. The hurrying mob poured over it, Hornblower, last of all, gathering himself together and leaping over it, arms and legs flying, to stumble on the far side and regain his footing by a miracle.

  ‘Hotspur’s marines! Line the barricade. Get into the boats, you others!’

  Twelve marines knelt at the barricade; twelve muskets levelled themselves over it. At the sight of them the pursuing French hesitated, tried to halt.

  ‘Aim low!’ shouted the marine lieutenant hoarsely.

  ‘Go back and get the men into the boats, Mr What’s-your-name,’ snapped Hornblower. ‘Have the launch ready to cast off, while you shove off in the yawl and get away.’

  The French were coming forward again; Hornblower looked back and saw the lieutenant drop off the jetty on the heels of the last marine.

  ‘Now sergeant. Let ’em have it.’

  ‘Fire!’ said the sergeant.

  That was a good volley, but there was not a moment to admire it.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Hornblower. ‘Over to the launch!’

  With the weight of Hotspur’s marines leaping into it the launch was drifting away by the time he was at the edge; there was a yard of black water for Hornblower to leap over, but his feet reached the gunnel and he pitched forward among the men clustered there; he luckily remembered to drop Côtard’s sword so that he fell harmlessly into the bottom of the boat without wounding anyone. Oars and boat-hook thrust against the jetty and the launch surged away while Hornblower scrambled into the stern sheets. He almost stepped on Côtard’s face; Côtard was lying apparently unconscious on the bottom boards.

  Now the oars were grinding in the rowlocks. They were twenty yards away, thirty yards away, before the first Frenchmen came yelling along the jetty, to stand dancing with rage and excitement on the very edge of the masonry. For an invaluable second or two they even forgot the muskets in their hands. In the launch the huddled men raised their voices in a yell of derision that excited Hornblower’s cold rage.

  ‘Silence! Silence, all of you!’

  The stillness that fell on the launch was more unpleasant than the noise. One or two muskets banged off on the jetty, and Hornblower, looking over his shoulder, saw a French soldier drop on one knee and take deliberate aim, saw him choose a target, saw the musket barrel fore-shorten until the muzzle was pointed directly at him. He was wildly contemplating throwing himself down into the bottom of the boat when the musket went off. He felt a violent jar through his body, and realised with relief that the bullet had buried itself in the solid oak transom of the launch against which he was sitting. He recovered his wits; looking forward he saw Hewitt trying to force his way aft to his side and he spoke to him as calmly as his excitement permitted.

  ‘Hewitt! Get for’ard to the gun. It’s loaded with grape. Fire when it bears.’ Then he spoke to the oarsmen and to Cargill at the tiller. ‘Hard-a-port. Starboard-side oars, back water.’

  The launch turned her clumsy length.

  ‘Port side, back water.’

  The launch ceased to turn; she was pointed straight at the jetty, and Hewitt, having shoved the other men aside, was cold-bloodedly looking along the sights of the four-pounder carronade mounted in the bows, fiddling with the elevating coign. Then he leaned over to one side and pulled the lanyard. The whole boat jerked sternwards abruptly with the recoil, as though when under way she had struck a rock, and the smoke came back round them in a sullen pall.

  ‘Give way, starboard side! Pull! Hard-a-starboard!’ The boat turned ponderously. ‘Give way, port side!’

  Nine quarter-pound grapeshot-balls had swept through the group on the jetty; there were struggling figures, quiescent figures, lying there. Bonaparte had a quarter of a million soldiers under arms, but he had now lost some of them. It could not be called a drop out of the bucketful, but perhaps a molecule. Now they were out of musket shot, and Hornblower turned to Cargill in the stern sheets beside him.

  ‘You managed your part of the business well enough. Mr Cargill.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Cargill had been appointed by Hornblower to land with the marines and to take charge of the boats and prepare them for the evacuation.

  ‘But it might have been better if you’d sent the launch away first and kept the yawl back until the last. Then the launch could have lain off and covered the others with her gun.’

  ‘I thought of that, sir. But I couldn’t be sure until the last moment how many men would be coming down in the last group. I had to keep the launch for that.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Hornblower, grudgingly, and then, his sense of justice prevailing, ‘In fact I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Cargill again, and, after a pause, ‘I wish you had let me come with you, sir.’

  Some people had queer tastes, thought Hornblower bitterly to himself, having regard to Côtard lying unconscious with a shattered arm at their feet, but he had to smooth down ruffled feelings in these touchy young men thirsting for honour and for the promotion that honour might bring.

  ‘Use your wits, man,’ he said, bracing himself once more to think logically. ‘Someone had to be in charge on the jetty, and you were the best man for the job.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Cargill all over again, but still wistfully, and therefore still idiotically.

  A sudden thought struck Hornblower, and he turned and stared back over his shoulder. He actually had to look twice, although he knew what he was looking for. The silhouette of the hills had changed. Then he saw a wisp of black smoke still rising from the summit. The semaphore was gone. The towering thing that had spied on their movements and had reported every disposition of the Inshore Squadron was no more. Trained British seamen and riggers and carpenters could not replace it – if they had such a job to do – in less than a week’s work. Probably the French would take two weeks at least; his own estimate would be three.

  And there was Hotspur waiting for them, main-topsail aback, as he had seen her half an hour ago; half an hour that seemed like a week. The lobster-boat and the yawl were already going round to her port side, and Cargill steered for her starboard side; in these calm waters and with such a gentle wind there was no need for the boats to be offered a lee.

  ‘Oars!’ said Cargill, and the launch ran alongside, and there was Bush looking down on them from close overhead. Hornblower seized the entering-ropes and swung himself up. It was his right as captain to go first, and it was also
his duty. He cut Bush’s congratulations short.

  ‘Get the wounded out as quick as you can, Mr Bush. Send a stretcher down for Mr Côtard.’

  ‘Is he wounded, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hornblower had no desire to enter into unnecessary explanations. ‘You’ll have to lash him to it and then sway the stretcher up with a whip from the yardarm. His arm’s in splinters.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ Bush by now had realised that Hornblower was in no conversational mood.

  ‘The surgeon’s ready?’

  ‘He’s started work, sir.’

  A wave of Bush’s hand indicated a couple of wounded men who had come on board from the yawl and were being supported below.

  ‘Very well.’

  Hornblower headed for his cabin; no need to explain that he had his report to write; no need to make excuses. But as always after action he yearned for the solitude of his cabin even more than he yearned to sink down and forget his weariness. But at the second step he pulled up short. This was not a neat clean end to the venture. No peace for him at the moment, and he swore to himself under this final strain, using filthy black blasphemies such as he rarely employed.

  He would have to deal with Grimes, and instantly. He must make up his mind about what he should do. Punish him? Punish a man for being a coward? That would be like punishing a man for having red hair. Hornblower stood first on one foot and then on the other, unable to pace, yet striving to goad his weary mind to further action. Punish Grimes for showing cowardice? That was more to the point. Not that it would do Grimes any good, but it would deter other men from showing cowardice. There were officers who would punish, not in the interests of discipline, but because they thought punishment should be inflicted in payment for crime, as sinners had to go to Hell. Hornblower would not credit himself with the divine authority some officers thought natural.

  But he would have to act. He thought of the court martial. He would be the sole witness, but the court would know he was speaking the truth. His word would decide Grimes’ fate, and then – the hangman’s noose, or at the very least five hundred lashes, with Grimes screaming in pain until he should fall unconscious, to be nursed round for another day of torture, and another after that, until he was a gibbering idiot with neither mind nor strength left.

  Hornblower hated the thought. But he remembered that the crew must have already guessed. Grimes must have already started his punishment, and yet the discipline of the Hotspur must be preserved. Hornblower would have to do his duty; he must pay one of the penalties for being a naval officer, just as he suffered sea-sickness – just as he risked his life. He would have Grimes put under arrest at once, and while Grimes was spending twenty-four hours in irons he could make up his mind to the final decision. He strode aft to his cabin, with all relief gone from the thought of relaxation.

  Then he opened the door, and there was no problem left; only horror, further horror. Grimes hung there, from a rope threaded through the hook that supported the lamp. He was swaying with the gentle motion of the ship, his feet dragging on the deck so that even his knees were almost on the deck too. There was a blackened face and protruding tongue – actually there was no likeness to Grimes at all in the horrible thing hanging there. Grimes had not the courage to face the landing operation, but when the realisation had come to him, when the crew had displayed their feelings, he had yet had the determination to do this thing, to submit himself to this slow strangulation, falling with a small preliminary jerk from a cramped position crouching on the cot.

  In all the crew of the Hotspur Grimes had been the one man who as captain’s steward could find the necessary privacy to do this thing. He had foreseen the flogging or the hanging, he had suffered the scorn of his shipmates; there was bitter irony in the thought that the semaphore station which he had feared to attack had turned out to be defended by a helpless civilian and his wife.

  Hotspur rolled gently on the swell, and as she rolled the lolling head and the dangling arms swayed in unison, and the feet scraped over the deck. Hornblower shook off the horror that had seized him, drove himself to be clear-headed once more despite his fatigue and his disgust. He went to the door of the cabin; it was excusable that no sentry had yet been reposted there, seeing that the Hotspur’s marines had only just come on board.

  ‘Pass the word for Mr Bush,’ he said.

  Within a minute Bush hurried in, to pull up short as soon as he saw the thing.

  ‘I’ll have that removed at once, if you please, Mr Bush. Put it over the side. Give it a burial, Christian burial, if you like.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Bush shut his mouth after his formal statement of compliance. He could see that Hornblower was in even less a conversational mood in this cabin than he had been when on deck. Hornblower passed into the chart-room and squeezed himself into the chair, and sat still, his hands motionless on the table. Almost immediately he heard the arrival of the working party Bush had sent. He heard loud amazed voices, and something like a laugh, all instantly repressed when they realised that he was next door. The voices died to hoarse whispers. There was a clump or two, and then a dragging noise and he knew the thing was gone.

  Then he got to his feet to carry out the resolution formed during his recent clarity of mind. He walked firmly into the cabin, a little like someone unwillingly going into a duel. He did not want to; he hated this place, but in a tiny ship like Hotspur he had nowhere else to go. He would have to grow used to it. He put aside the weak thought that he could move himself into one of the screened-off cabins in the ’tween decks, and send, for instance, the warrant officers up here. That would occasion endless inconvenience, and – even more important – endless comment as well. He had to use this place and the longer he contemplated the prospect the less inviting it would be. And he was so tired he could hardly stand. He approached the cot; a mental picture developed in his mind’s eye of Grimes kneeling on it, rope round his neck, to pitch himself off. He forced himself coldly to accept that picture, as something in the past. This was the present, and he dropped on to the cot, shoes on his feet, cutlass-sheath at his side, sandbag in his pocket. Grimes was not present to help him with those.

  XI

  Hornblower had written the address, the date, and the word ‘Sir’ before he realised that the report would not be so easy to write. He was quite sure that this letter would appear in the Gazette, but he had been sure of that from the moment he had faced the writing of it. It would be a ‘Gazette Letter,’ one of the few, out of the many hundreds of reports coming into the Admiralty, selected for publication, and it would be his first appearance in print. He had told himself that he would simply write a standard straightforward report along the time-honoured lines, yet now he had to stop and think, although stage fright had nothing to do with it. The publication of this letter meant that it would be read by the whole world. It would be read by the whole Navy, which meant that his subordinates would read it, and he knew, only too well, how every careless word would be scanned and weighed by touchy individuals.

  Much more important still; it would be read by all England, and that meant that Maria would read it. It would open a peephole into his life that so far she had never been able to look through. From the point of view of his standing with the Navy it might be desirable to let the dangers he had undergone be apparent, in a modest sort of way, but that would be in direct contradiction of the breezy lighthearted letter he intended to write to Maria. Maria was a shrewd little person, and he could not deceive her; to read the Gazette letter after his letter would excite her mistrust and apprehension at a moment when she was carrying what might well be the heir to the Hornblower name, with possibly the worst effects both on Maria and on the child.

  He faced the choice, and it had to be in favour of Maria. He would make light of his difficulties and dangers, and even then he could still hope that the Navy would read between the lines that which Maria in her ignorance would not guess at. He re-dipped his pen, and bit the end in a momentary men
tal debate as to whether all the Gazette Letters he had read had been written in the face of similar difficulties, and decided that was probably true of the majority. Well, it had to be written. There was no avoiding it – for that matter there was no postponing it. The necessary preliminary words, ‘In accordance with your orders’ set him off, started the flow. He had to remember all that he had to put in. ‘Mr William Bush, my first lieutenant, very handsomely volunteered his services, but I directed him to remain in command of the ship.’ Later on it was no effort to write ‘Lieut Charles Côtard, of HMS Marlborough, who had volunteered for the expedition, gave invaluable assistance as a result of his knowledge of the French language. I regret very much to have to inform you that he received a wound which necessitated amputation, and his life is still in danger.’ Then there was something else he had to put in. ‘Mr’ – what was his first name? – ‘Mr Alexander Cargill, Master’s Mate, was allotted by me the duty of superintending the re-embarkation, which he carried out very much to my satisfaction.’ The next passage would satisfy Maria. ‘The Telegraph Station was seized by the party under my personal command without the slightest opposition, and was set on fire and completely destroyed after the confidential papers had been secured.’ Intelligent naval officers would have a higher opinion of an operation carried through without loss of life than of one which cost a monstrous butcher’s bill.

  Now for the battery; he had to be careful about this. ‘Captain Jones of the Royal Marines, having gallantly secured the battery, was unfortunately involved in the explosion of the magazine, and I much regret to have to report his death, while several other Royal Marines of his party are dead or missing.’ One of them had been as useful dead as alive. Hornblower checked himself. He still could not bear to remember those minutes by the magazine door. He went on with his letter. ‘Lieutenant Reid of the Royal Marines guarded the flank and covered the retreat with small loss. His conduct calls for my unreserved approbation.’