“Mr. Eccles will be in general command. I will ask him to tell you his plan.”
The grey-haired first lieutenant with the surprisingly young blue eyes looked round at the others.
“I shall have the launch,” he said, “and Mr. Soames the cutter. Mr. Chadd and Mr. Mallory will command the first and second gigs. And Mr. Hornblower will command the jolly boat. Each of the boats except Mr. Hornblower’s will have a junior officer second in command.”
That would not be necessary for the jolly boat with its crew of seven. The launch and cutter would carry from thirty to forty men each, and the gigs twenty each; it was a large force that was being despatched—nearly half the ship’s company.
“She’s a ship of war,” explained Eccles, reading their thoughts. “No merchantman. Ten guns a side, and full of men.”
Nearer two hundred men than a hundred, certainly—plentiful opposition for a hundred and twenty British seamen.
“But we will be attacking her by night and taking her by surprise,” said Eccles, reading their thoughts again.
“Surprise,” put in Pellew, “is more than half the battle, as you know, gentlemen—please pardon the interruption, Mr. Eccles.”
“At the moment,” went on Eccles, “we are out of sight of land. We are about to stand in again. We have never hung about this part of the coast, and the Frogs’ll think we’ve gone for good. We’ll make the land after nightfall, stand in as far as possible, and then the boats will go in. High water tomorrow morning is at four-fifty; dawn is at five-thirty. The attack will be delivered at four-thirty so that the watch below will have had time to get to sleep. The launch will attack on the starboard quarter, and the cutter on the larboard quarter. Mr. Mallory’s gig will attack on the larboard bow, and Mr. Chadd’s on the starboard bow. Mr. Chadd will be responsible for cutting the corvette’s cable as soon as he has mastered the forecastle, and the other boats’ crews have at least reached the quarterdeck.”
Eccles looked round at the other three commanders of the large boats, and they nodded understanding. Then he went on.
“Mr. Hornblower with the jolly boat will wait until the attack has gained a foothold on the deck. He will then board at the main chains, either to starboard or larboard as he sees fit, and he will at once ascend the main rigging, paying no attention to whatever fighting is going on on deck. He will see to it that the maintopsail is loosed and he will sheet it home on receipt of further orders. I myself, or Mr. Soames in the event of my being killed or wounded, will send two hands to the wheel and will attend to steering the corvette as soon as she is under way. The tide will take us out, and the Indefatigable will be awaiting us just out of gunshot from the shore batteries.”
“Any comments, gentlemen?” asked Pellew.
That was the moment when Hornblower should have spoken up—the only moment when he could. Eccles’ orders had set in motion sick feelings of apprehension in his stomach. Hornblower was no maintop-man, and Hornblower knew it. He hated heights, and he hated going aloft. He knew he had none of the monkey-like agility and self-confidence of the good seaman. He was unsure of himself aloft in the dark even in the Indefatigable, and he was utterly appalled at the thought of going aloft in an entirely strange ship and finding his way among strange rigging. He felt himself quite unfitted for the duty assigned to him, and he should have raised a protest at once on account of his unfitness. But he let the opportunity pass, for he was overcome by the matter-of-fact way in which the other officers accepted the plan. He looked round at the unmoved faces; nobody was paying any attention to him, and he jibbed at making himself conspicuous. He swallowed; he even got as far as opening his mouth, but still no one looked at him, and his protest died stillborn.
“Very well, then, gentlemen,” said Pellew. “I think you had better go into the details, Mr. Eccles.”
Then it was too late. Eccles, with the chart before him, was pointing out the course to be taken through the shoals and mudbanks of the Gironde, and expatiating on the position of the shore batteries and on the influence of the lighthouse of Cordouan upon the distance to which the Indefatigable could approach in daylight. Hornblower listened, trying to concentrate despite his apprehensions. Eccles finished his remarks and Pellew closed the meeting.
“Since you all know your duties, gentlemen, I think you should start your preparations. The sun is about to set and you will find you have plenty to do.”
The boats crews had to be told off; it was necessary to see that the men were armed, and that the boats were provisioned in case of emergency. Every man had to be instructed in the duties expected of him.
And Hornblower had to rehearse himself in ascending the main shrouds and laying out along the main topsail yard. He did it twice, forcing himself to make the difficult climb up the futtock shrouds, which, projecting outwards from the mainmast, made it necessary to climb several feet while hanging back downwards, locking fingers and toes into the ratlines. He could just manage it, moving slowly and carefully, although clumsily. He stood on the footrope and worked his way out to the yardarm—the footrope was attached along the yard so as to hang nearly four feet below it. The principle was to set his feet on the rope with his arms over the yard, then holding the yard in his armpits, to shuffle sideways along the footrope to cast off the gaskets and loose the sail. Twice Hornblower made the whole journey, battling with the disquiet of his stomach at the thought of the hundred-foot drop below him. Finally, gulping with nervousness, he transferred his grip to the brace and forced himself to slide down it to the deck—that would be his best route when the time came to sheet the topsail home. It was a long perilous descent; Hornblower told himself—as indeed he had said to himself when he had first seen men go aloft—that similar feats in a circus at home would be received with “ohs” and “ahs” of appreciation. He was by no means satisfied with himself even when he reached the deck, and at the back of his mind was a vivid mental picture of his missing his hold when the time came for him to repeat the performance in the Papillon, and falling headlong to the deck—a second or two of frightful fear while rushing through the air, and then a shattering crash. And the success of the attack hinged on him, as much as on anyone—if the topsail were not promptly set to give the corvette steerage way she would run aground on one of the innumerable shoals in the river mouth to be ignominiously recaptured, and half the crew of the Indefatigable would be dead or prisoners.
In the waist the jolly boat’s crew was formed up for his inspection. He saw to it that the oars were properly muffled, that each man had pistol and cutlass, and made sure that every pistol was at half cock so that there was no fear of a premature shot giving warning of the attack. He allocated duties to each man in the loosening of the top sail, laying stress on the possibility that casualties might necessitate unrehearsed changes in the scheme.
“I will mount the rigging first,” said Hornblower.
That had to be the case. He had to lead—it was expected of him. More than that; if he had given any other order it would have excited comment—and contempt.
“Jackson,” went on Hornblower, addressing the coxswain, “you will quit the boat last and take command if I fall.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was usual to use the poetic expression “fall” for “die”, and it was only after Hornblower had uttered the word that he thought about its horrible real meaning in the present circumstances.
“Is that all understood?” asked Hornblower harshly; it was his mental stress that made his voice grate so.
Everyone nodded except one man.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Hales, the young man who pulled stroke oar, “I’m feeling a bit queer-like.”
Hales was a lightly built young fellow of swarthy countenance. He put his hand to his forehead with a vague gesture as he spoke.
“You’re not the only one to feel queer,” snapped Hornblower.
The other men chuckled. The thought of running the gauntlet of the shore batteries, of boarding an ar
med corvette in the teeth of opposition, might well raise apprehension in the breast of a coward. Most of the men detailed for the expedition must have felt qualms to some extent.
“I don’t mean that, sir,” said Hales indignantly. “ ’Course I don’t.”
But Hornblower and the others paid him no attention.
“You just keep your mouth shut,” growled Jackson. There could be nothing but contempt for a man who announced himself sick after being told off on a dangerous duty. Hornblower felt sympathy as well as contempt. He himself had been too much of a coward even to give voice to his apprehensions—too much afraid of what people would say about him.
“Dismiss,” said Hornblower. “I’ll pass the word for all of you when you are wanted.”
There were some hours yet to wait while the Indefatigable crept inshore, with the lead going steadily and Pellew himself attending to the course of the frigate. Hornblower, despite his nervousness and his miserable apprehensions, yet found time to appreciate the superb seamanship displayed as Pellew brought the big frigate in through these tricky waters on that dark night. His interest was so caught by the procedure that the little tremblings which had been assailing him ceased to manifest themselves; Hornblower was of the type that would continue to observe and to learn on his deathbed. By the time the Indefatigable had reached the point off the mouth of the river where it was desirable to launch the boats, Hornblower had learned a good deal about the practical application of the principles of coastwise navigation and a good deal about the organization of a cutting-out expedition—and by self analysis he had learned even more about the psychology of a raiding party before a raid.
He had mastered himself to all outside appearance by the time he went down into the jolly boat as she heaved on the inky-black water, and he gave the command to shove off in a quiet steady voice. Hornblower took the tiller—the feel of that solid bar of wood was reassuring, and it was old habit now to sit in the stern sheets with hand and elbow upon it, and the men began to pull slowly after the dark shapes of the four big boats; there was plenty of time, and the flowing tide would take them up the estuary. That was just as well, for on one side of them lay the batteries of St. Dye, and inside the estuary on the other side was the fortress of Blaye; forty big guns trained to sweep the channel, and none of the five boats—certainly not the jolly boat—could withstand a single shot from one of them.
He kept his eyes attentively on the cutter ahead of him. Soames had the dreadful responsibility of taking the boats up the channel, while all he had to do was to follow in her wake—all, except to loose that maintopsail. Hornblower found himself shivering again.
Hales, the man who had said he felt queer, was pulling stroke oar; Hornblower could just see his dark form moving rhythmically back and forward at each slow stroke. After a single glance Hornblower paid him no more attention, and was staring after the cutter when a sudden commotion brought his mind back into the boat. Someone had missed his stroke; someone had thrown all six oars into confusion as a result. There was even a slight clatter.
“Mind what you’re doing, blast you, Hales,” whispered Jackson, the coxswain, with desperate urgency.
For answer there was a sudden cry from Hales, loud but fortunately not too loud, and Hales pitched forward against Hornblower’s and Jackson’s legs, kicking and writhing.
“The bastard’s having a fit,” growled Jackson.
The kicking and writhing went on. Across the water through the darkness came a sharp scornful whisper.
“Mr. Hornblower,” said the voice—it was Eccles putting a world of exasperation into his sotto voce question—“cannot you keep your men quiet?”
Eccles had brought the launch round almost alongside the jolly boat to say this to him, and the desperate need for silence was dramatically demonstrated by the absence of any of the usual blasphemy; Hornblower could picture the cutting reprimand that would be administered to him tomorrow publicly on the quarterdeck. He opened his mouth to make an explanation, but he fortunately realized that raiders in open boats did not make explanations when under the guns of the fortress of Blaye.
“Aye aye, sir,” was all he whispered back, and the launch continued on its mission of shepherding the flotilla in the tracks of the cutter.
“Take his oar, Jackson,” he whispered furiously to the coxswain, and he stooped and with his own hands dragged the writhing figure towards him and out of Jackson’s way.
“You might try pouring water on ’im, sir,” suggested Jackson hoarsely, as he moved to the afterthwart. “There’s the baler ’andy.”
Seawater was the seaman’s cure for every ill, his panacea; seeing how often sailors had not merely wet jackets but wet bedding as well they should never have a day’s illness. But Hornblower let the sick man lie. His struggles were coming to an end, and Hornblower wished to make no noise with the baler. The lives of more than a hundred men depended on silence. Now that they were well into the actual estuary they were within easy reach of cannon shot from the shore—and a single cannon shot would rouse the crew of the Papillon, ready to man the bulwarks to beat off the attack, ready to drop cannon balls into the boats alongside, ready to shatter approaching boats with a tempest of grape.
Silently the boats glided up the estuary; Soames in the cutter was setting a slow pace, with only an occasional stroke at the oars to maintain steerage way. Presumably he knew very well what he was doing; the channel he had selected was an obscure one between mudbanks, impracticable for anything except small boats, and he had a twenty-foot pole with him with which to take the soundings—quicker and much more silent than using the lead. Minutes were passing fast, and yet the night was still utterly dark, with no hint of approaching dawn. Strain his eyes as he would Hornblower could not be sure that he could see the flat shores on either side of him. It would call for sharp eyes on the land to detect the little boats being carried up by the tide.
Hales at his feet stirred and then stirred again. His hand, feeling round in the darkness, found Hornblower’s ankle and apparently examined it with curiosity. He muttered something, the words dragging out into a moan.
“Shut up!” whispered Hornblower, trying, like the saint of old, to make a tongue of his whole body, that he might express the urgency of the occasion without making a sound audible at any distance. Hales set his elbow on Hornblower’s knee and levered himself up into a sitting position, and then levered himself further until he was standing, swaying with bent knees and supporting himself against Hornblower.
“Sit down, damn you!” whispered Hornblower, shaking with fury and anxiety.
“Where’s Mary?” asked Hales in a conversational tone.
“Shut up!”
“Mary!” said Hales, lurching against him. “Mary!”
Each successive word was louder. Hornblower felt instinctively that Hales would soon be speaking in a loud voice, that he might even soon be shouting. Old recollections of conversations with his doctor father stirred at the back of his mind; he remembered that persons emerging from epileptic fits were not responsible for their actions, and might be, and often were, dangerous.
“Mary!” said Hales again.
Victory and the lives of a hundred men depended on silencing Hales, and silencing him instantly. Hornblower thought of the pistol in his belt, and of using the butt, but there was another weapon more conveniently to his hand. He unshipped the tiller, a three-foot bar of solid oak, and he swung it with all the venom and fury of despair. The tiller crashed down on Hales’ head, and Hales, an unuttered word cut short in his throat, fell silent in the bottom of the boat. There was no sound from the boat’s crew, save for something like a sigh from Jackson, whether approving or disapproving Hornblower neither knew nor cared. He had done his duty, and he was certain of it. He had struck down a helpless idiot; most probably he had killed him, but the surprise upon which the success of the expedition depended had not been imperilled. He reshipped the tiller and resumed the silent task of keeping in the wake of the gigs.
Far away ahead—in the darkness it was impossible to estimate the distance—there was a nucleus of greater darkness, close on the surface of the black water. It might be the corvette. A dozen more silent strokes, and Hornblower was sure of it. Soames had done a magnificent job of pilotage, leading the boats straight to that objective. The cutter and launch were diverging now from the two gigs. The four boats were separating in readiness to launch their simultaneous converging attack.
“Easy!” whispered Hornblower, and the jolly boat’s crew ceased to pull.
Hornblower had his orders. He had to wait until the attack had gained a foothold on the deck. His hand clenched convulsively on the tiller; the excitement of dealing with Hales had driven the thought of having to ascend strange rigging in the darkness clear out of his head, and now it recurred with redoubled urgency. Hornblower was afraid.
Although he could see the corvette, the boats had vanished from his sight, had passed out of his field of vision. The corvette rode to her anchor, her spars just visible against the night sky—that was where he had to climb! She seemed to tower up hugely. Close by the corvette he saw a splash in the dark water—the boats were closing in fast and someone’s stroke had been a little careless. At the same moment came a shout from the corvette’s deck, and when the shout was repeated it was echoed a hundred fold from the boats rushing alongside. The yelling was lusty and prolonged, of set purpose. A sleeping enemy would be bewildered by the din, and the progress of the shouting would tell each boat’s crew to the extent of the success of the others. The British seamen were yelling like madmen. A flash and a bang from the corvette’s deck told of the firing of the first shot; soon pistols were popping and muskets banging from several points of the deck.
“Give way!” said Hornblower. He uttered the order as if it had been torn from him by the rack.
The jolly boat moved forward, while Hornblower fought down his feelings and tried to make out what was going on on board. He could see no reason for choosing either side of the corvette in preference to the other, and the larboard side was the nearer, and so he steered the boat to the larboard main chains. So interested was he in what he was doing that he only remembered in the nick of time to give the order, “In oars”. He put the tiller over and the boat swirled round and the bowman hooked on. From the deck just above came a noise exactly like a tinker hammering on a cooking-pot—Hornblower noted the curious noise as he stood up in the stern sheets. He felt the cutlass at his side and the pistol in his belt, and then he sprang for the chains. With a mad leap he reached them and hauled himself up. The shrouds came into his hands, his feet found the ratlines beneath them, and he began to climb. As his head cleared the bulwark and he could see the deck the flash of a pistol shot illuminated the scene momentarily, fixing the struggle on the deck in a static moment, like a picture. Before and below him a British seaman was fighting a furious cutlass duel with a French officer, and he realized with vague astonishment that the kettle-mending noise he had heard was the sound of cutlass against cutlass—that clash of steel against steel that poets wrote about. So much for romance.