‘Three guineas, then,’ he said as loftily as he could, with all the manner of a man to whom the difference between one guinea and three was of no concern. It was not until after he had said the words that he worked out in his mind the deduction that the wind was likely to back round easterly and make a long return passage probable.
During this conversation one pump had been working most irregularly, and now the other one came to a stop; the cessation of the monotonous noise was quite striking. Here was Bush hailing from the Hotspur.
‘That’s only nineteen ton,’ he said. ‘We can take two more.’
‘And two more you won’t get,’ yelled Baddlestone in reply. ‘We’re sucked dry.’
It was a strange feeling that this was of no concern to Hornblower; he was free of responsibility, even though his mind automatically worked out that Hotspur now had fresh water for forty days. It was Meadows who would have to plan to conserve that supply. And with the wind likely to come easterly Hotspur would have to close the mouth of the Goulet as closely as possible – that was Meadows’ concern and nothing to do with him, not ever again.
The hands who had been working at the pumps went scuttling back over the gangplank; the two hands from the Princess who had been standing by the hoses came back on board dragging their charges. Last came the Princess’ mate with his papers.
‘Stand by the lines, there!’ yelled Baddlestone. ‘Jib halliards, Mister!’
Baddlestone himself went to the wheel, and he made a neat job of getting the hoy away from the Hotspur’s side. He continued to steer the ship while the half-dozen hands under the supervision of the mate set about the task of lifting and stowing the fendoffs that hung along her side. It was only a matter of seconds before the gap between the two ships was too wide to bridge by voice. Hornblower looked across the sparkling water. It appeared that Meadows was summoning all hands in order to address them in an inaugural speech; certainly no one spared a further glance towards the hoy or towards Hornblower standing lonely on the deck. The bonds of naval friendship, of naval intimacy, were exceedingly strong, but they could be ruptured in a flash. It was more than likely that he would never see Bush again.
2
Life in the waterhoy Princess was exceedingly uncomfortable. She was empty of her cargo of drinking water, and there was almost nothing to replace it; the empty casks were too precious to be contaminated by seawater for use as ballast, and only a few bags of sand could be squeezed between the empty casks to confer any stability on her hull. She had been designed with this very difficulty in view, the lines of her dish-shaped hull being such that even when riding light her broad beam made her hard to capsize, but she did everything short of that. Her motion was violent and, to the uninitiated, quite unpredictable, and she was hardly more weatherly than a raft, sagging off to leeward in a spineless fashion that boded ill for any prospect of working up to Plymouth while any easterly component prevailed in the wind.
Hornblower was forced to endure considerable hardship. For two days he lingered on the verge of seasickness as a result of this new motion beneath his feet; he was not actually sick, having had several uninterrupted weeks at sea already, but he told himself that it would be less unpleasant if that were to happen – although in his heart of hearts he knew that was not true. He was allotted a hammock in a compartment six feet square and five feet high; he at least had it to himself and could derive some small comfort from observing that there were arrangements for eight hammocks, in two tiers of four, to be slung there. It had been a long time since he slept in a hammock, and his spine was slow to adjust to the necessary curvature, while the extravagant leaps and rolls of the hoy were conveyed to him through it and made the memory of his cot in Hotspur nostalgically luxurious.
The wind stayed north-easterly, bringing clear skies and sunshine but no comfort to Hornblower, save that it was soon evident that he would be eating Baddlestone’s ‘cabin food’ for more than three days – a doubtful source of satisfaction. All he wished to do was to make his way to England, to London, to Whitehall, and to secure his posting as captain before anything could happen to interfere. He watched morosely as the Princess lost more and more distance to leeward, more even than the clumsy ships of the line clustered off Ushant. There was nothing to read on board, there was nothing to do, and there was nowhere comfortable where he could do that nothing.
He was coming up through the hatchway, weary of his hammock, when he saw Baddlestone whip his telescope to his eye and stare to windward.
‘Here they come!’ said Baddlestone, unusually communicative.
With the greatest possible condescension he passed the telescope over to Hornblower; there could be no more generous gesture (as Hornblower well knew) than for a captain to part with his glass even for a moment when something of interest was in sight. It was a veritable fleet bearing down on them, something far more than a mere squadron. Four frigates with every stitch of canvas spread, were racing to take the lead; behind them followed two columns of line-of-battleships, seven in one and six in the other. They were already setting studding sails as they edged into station. With the wind right astern and all sail set they were hurtling down upon the Princess. It was a magnificent sight, the commission pennants whipping out ahead, the ensigns flying forward as if in emulation. Under each bluff bow a creamy bow wave mounted and sank as the ships drove on over the blue water. Here was England’s naval might seen to its best advantage. The right-central frigate came cutting close beside the wallowing waterhoy.
‘Diamond, thirty-two,’ said Baddlestone; he had recovered his telescope by some means or other.
Hornblower stared enviously and longingly at her as she passed within long cannon-shot. He saw a rush of men up the foremast rigging. The foretopgallant sail was taken in and reset in the brief space while the Diamond was passing; a smart ship that – Hornblower had not detected anything wrong with the set of the sail. The mate of the hoy had just managed to hoist a dirty red ensign in time to dip it in salute, and the blue ensign over there dipped in reply. Now came the starboard column of ships of the line, a three decker in the lead, towering over the waves, her three rows of chequered gun ports revealing themselves as she approached, a blue vice admiral’s flag blowing from her foretopgallant mast.
‘Prince of Wales, ninety-eight. Vice Admiral Sir Robert Calder, baronet,’ said Baddlestone. ‘There’s two other flags with this lot.’
The ensigns dipped in salute and the next of the line came on, plunging before the wind with the spray flying. The flags dipped time and again as the seven ships hurtled by.
‘A fair wind for Finisterre,’ said Baddlestone.
‘That looks like their course,’ said Hornblower.
It seemed obvious that Baddlestone knew as much about fleet movements as he did, and perhaps even more. Less than a week earlier Baddlestone had been in Plymouth with English newspapers to read and all the chatter of the alehouses to listen to. Hornblower himself had heard a good deal of circumstantial gossip from the Shetland, the victualler which had come alongside Hotspur a couple of days earlier than the Princess. The fact that Baddlestone suggested that Calder’s destination was merely Finisterre, and not the Straits or the West Indies was nearly convincing proof of the extent of Baddlestone’s knowledge. Hornblower asked a testing question.
‘Heading for the Strait’s mouth, do you think?’
Baddlestone eyed him with a trace of pity.
‘No father than Finisterre,’ he vouchsafed.
‘But why?’
Baddlestone found it clearly hard to believe that Hornblower could be ignorant of what was being discussed throughout the fleet and the dockyard.
‘Villain-noove,’ he said.
That was Villeneuve, the French admiral commanding the fleet that had broken out of the Mediterranean some weeks before and fled across the Atlantic to the West Indies.
‘What about him?’ asked Hornblower.
‘He’s heading back again, making for Brest. Going to pick up
the French fleet there, so Boney thinks. Then the Channel. Boney’s army’s waiting at Boulong, and Boney thinks he’ll eat his next dish of frogs in Windsor Castle.’
‘Where’s Nelson?’ demanded Hornblower.
‘Hot on Villain-noove’s trail. If Nelson don’t catch him Calder will. Boney’s going to wait a long time before he sees French tops’ls in the Channel.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Sloop came in from Nelson while I was waiting for a wind in Plymouth. The whole town knew in half an hour, bless you.’
This was the most vital and the most recent information imaginable, and yet it was common knowledge. Bonaparte at Boulogne had a quarter of a million men trained, equipped, and ready. Transporting them across the Channel might be difficult despite the thousands of flat bottomed boats that crowded the French Channel ports, but with twenty, thirty, possibly forty French and Spanish ships of the line to cover the crossing something might be achieved. In a month Bonaparte might well be eating frogs in Windsor Castle. The destiny of the world, the fate of civilization, depended on the concerted movements of the British fleets. If so much was known in Plymouth last week it would be known in Bonaparte’s headquarters today; detailed knowledge of the British movements was vital for the French in executing what appeared to be essentially a plan of evasion.
Baddlestone was watching him curiously; Hornblower must have allowed some of his emotions to show in his expression.
‘No good ever came of worrying,’ said Baddlestone, and now it was Hornblower’s turn to return the sharp gaze.
Until this conversation the pair of them had not exchanged twenty words during this two days of waiting for a wind. Baddlestone apparently cherished hard feelings towards naval officers; maybe Hornblower’s refusal to make any advances towards intimacy had softened them.
‘Worry?’ said Hornblower bravely. ‘Why should I worry? We’ll deal with Boney when the time comes.’
Already Baddlestone seemed to regret his voluntary loquacity. As every captain should while on deck, he had been darting repeated glances at the leech of the mainsail and now he rounded on the helmsman.
‘Watch what you’re doing, blast you!’ he roared, unexpectedly. ‘Keep her full and by! D’ye want us to end up in Spain? An empty waterhoy and a ham-fisted no-seaman at the wheel letting her box the compass.’
Hornblower drifted away during this tirade. His feelings were agitated by apprehensions additional to those Baddlestone had hinted at. Here was the crisis of the naval war approaching; there were battles to be fought, and he had no ship. All he had was a promise of one, a promise of being ‘made post’ when he could call upon the Admiralty to redeem that promise. He had endured two years of hardship and danger, monotony and strain, in the blockade of Brest, and now, at the very moment when the war was reaching a climax, he was unemployed. He would be falling between two stools – the battle might well be fought, the crisis over, before he could get to sea again. Calder might intercept Villeneuve within the week, or Bonaparte might be attempting his crossing within a fortnight. Better to be a mere commander with a ship than an ungazetted captain without one. It was enough to drive a man perfectly frantic – and for the last two days the wind had blown steadily from the north-east, keeping him a prisoner in this accursed hoy, while allowing every opportunity to Meadows in the Hotspur to distinguish himself. After ten years of experience Hornblower should have had more sense (and he knew it) than to fret himself into a fever over winds, the uncontrollable unpredictable winds that had governed his life since boyhood. But here he was fretting himself into a fever.
3
Hornblower was still in his hammock even though it was long after daybreak, even though it was full dawn. He had turned himself over without waking himself up too much – something he had had to relearn now that he was sleeping in a hammock again – and he was determined upon staying where he was, as somnolent as possible, for the longest possible time. In that way he would find the day shorter; his mind, clogged with sleep, would not be working at high tension for so long. Yesterday had been a bad day, when a favourable slant of wind at nightfall had endured just long enough to return the Princess to the heart of the blockading squadron before reversing itself maddeningly.
A certain amount of bustle and excitement became audible on the deck over his head, and there was a boat alongside. He snarled to himself and prepared to roll out of his hammock. It would be some trifle of no concern to him, and dull as well most likely, but it was sufficient to put an end to his resolution to stay in his hammock.
He had his feet on deck with his seat still supported by the hammock when the midshipman appeared. Hornblower glowered at him with bleared eyes, observing the trim white breeches and buckled shoes; this must be some pampered pet from a flagship, and he was offering him a letter. Hornblower was instantly fully awake. He broke the wafer that sealed the note.
You are hereby requested and required to attend as a witness, at your peril, upon the court martial to be held at nine in the forenoon of this twentieth day of May 1805 in the Cabin of HMS Hibernia to try Captain James Percival Meadows, the officers and ship’s company of HM’s late sloop Hotspur for the loss of the said vessel by stranding during the night of the eighteenth day of May 1805.
Henry Bowden, RA, Captain of the Fleet.
NB A boat will be sent.
Here was something startling, astonishing; Hornblower gaped at the note while rereading it, until he remembered the presence of the midshipman and the consequent need to appear imperturbable.
‘Very well, thank you,’ he snapped; the midshipman had hardly turned his back before Hornblower was dragging out his sea chest and trying to make up his mind as to how he could get the creases out of his threadbare full-dress coat.
‘HM’s late sloop,’ That could only mean that Hotspur was a total loss. But Meadows was alive, which implied that few, if any, lives had been lost. Certainly Meadows had wasted no time in putting Hotspur ashore. That would be the easiest thing in the world to do, as no one could say with more certainty than he who had never done it.
To shave he had to drag his sea chest under the hatchway and stand on it with his head protruding and his mirror propped up on the deck. He was not quite tall enough to dispense with the sea chest; it crossed his mind that Meadows must have been tall enough to see clear over the coaming without taking steps to add a cubit to his stature.
Baddlestone came up and actually volunteered information as Hornblower stood there balancing precariously; he was still sufficiently unaccustomed to the Princess’s antics to make it difficult to use his second hand to pull his skin tight while wielding the razor with the other.
‘So Hotspur’s lost on the Black Rock,’ said Baddlestone.
‘I knew she was aground,’ said Hornblower. ‘But I didn’t know where.’
‘Do you call being at the bottom of the sea aground? She touched on a falling tide. Holed herself and filled and then rolled off on the flood.’
It was remarkable how the fleet auxiliaries picked up the news.
‘Any loss of life?’ asked Hornblower.
‘None that I’ve heard of,’ said Baddlestone.
He would certainly have heard if any officers had been drowned. So they were all safe, including Bush. Hornblower could devote special attention to the tricky area round the left corner of his mouth.
‘Giving evidence, I hear?’ asked Baddlestone.
‘Yes.’ Hornblower had no desire at all to add to Baddlestone’s store of gossip.
‘If the wind backs westerly I’ll sail without you. I’ll put your chest ashore at Plymouth.’
‘You are exceedingly kind,’ said Hornblower, and then checked himself. There was nothing to be gained by a quarrel with a man of an inferior social order, and there were other considerations. Hornblower wiped off his face and his razor, pausing to meet Baddlestone’s eyes.
‘Not many men would have given that answer,’ said Baddlestone.
‘Not many men need t
heir breakfast as much as I do at present,’ answered Hornblower.
At eight o’clock the boat was alongside, and Hornblower went down into it, wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder that indicated he had not yet been confirmed in his promotion to captain, and at his side he wore the brass-hilted Langer which was all he could boast as a sword. But he was received with the appropriate ceremony as he went up Hibernia’s side, following two glittering captains with epaulettes on both shoulders who were obviously going to be members of the Court. Over on the lee side of the quarterdeck he caught a glimpse of Meadows and Bush, pacing up and down deep in conversation. But the midshipman who was his guide led him away; that was proof (if any were needed) that he was being summoned as an expert witness at the request of the Court, and had to be kept away from the defendants to prevent all possibility of either collusion or prejudice.
It was twenty-five minutes after the firing of the gun that indicated the opening of the Court when Hornblower was called into the great cabin, where seven glittered at a table under the stern windows. Over at one side sat Meadows and Bush, and Prowse the sailing-master and Wise the boatswain. It was distasteful, distressing, uncomfortable, to see the anxiety on those faces.
‘The Court wishes to address a few questions to you, Captain Hornblower,’ said the central figure at the table. ‘Later you may be asked by the defendants to explain your answers.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hornblower.
‘You handed over command of the sloop Hotspur in the forenoon of the seventeenth, I understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Her material condition was good?’
‘Reasonably so, sir,’ He had to speak the truth.
‘By that do you mean in good condition or bad?’
‘Good, sir.’
‘The compass deviation card was accurate as far as you were aware?’