Hornblower and the Crisis

  ‘Shove off!’ he said.

  Over there that tiny pinpoint of dancing light showed where Princess still lay-to. In five minutes they would be under way again, free from pursuit, with the wind fair for Plymouth.

  7

  Hornblower wrote the final lines of his letter, rapidly checked it through, from ‘My dear Wife’ to ‘Your loving husband, Horatio Hornblower’, and folded the sheet and put it in his pocket before going up on deck. The last turn was being taken round the last bollard, and Princess was safely alongside the quay in the victualling yard in Plymouth.

  As always, there was something unreal, a sort of nightmare clarity in this first contact with England. The people, the sheds, the houses, seemed to stand out with unnatural sharpness; voices sounded different with the land to echo them; the wind was vastly changed from the wind he knew at sea. The passengers were already stepping ashore, and a crowd of curious onlookers had assembled; the arrival of a water-hoy from the Channel Fleet was of interest enough because she might have news, but a water-hoy which had actually captured, and for a few minutes had held possession of, a French brig of war was something very new.

  There were farewells to say to Baddlestone; besides making arrangements to land his sea chest and ditty bag there was something else to discuss.

  ‘I have the French ship’s papers here,’ said Hornblower, indicating the bundle.

  ‘What of them?’ countered Baddlestone.

  ‘It’s your duty to hand them over to the authorities,’ said Hornblower. ‘In fact I’m sure you’re legally bound to do that. Certainly as a King’s officer I must see that is done.’

  Baddlestone seemed to be in a reserved mood; he seemed as anxious as Hornblower not to betray himself.

  ‘Then why not do it?’ he said at length, after a long hard look at Hornblower.

  ‘It’s prize of war and you’re the captain.’

  Baddlestone voiced his contempt for prize of war that consisted solely of worthless papers.

  ‘You’d better do it, captain,’ he said, after the oaths and obscenities. ‘They’ll be worth something to you.’

  ‘They certainly may be,’ agreed Hornblower.

  Baddlestone’s reserve was replaced now by a look of inquiring puzzlement. He was studying Hornblower as if seeking to ascertain some hidden motive behind the obvious ones.

  ‘It was you who thought of taking them,’ he said, ‘and you’re ready to hand them over to me?’

  ‘Of course. You’re the captain.’

  Baddlestone shook his head slowly as if he was giving up a problem; but what the problem was Hornblower never did discover.

  Next there was the strange sensation of feeling the unmoving earth under his feet as he stepped ashore; there was the silence that fell on the two groups of passengers – officers and ratings – as he approached them. He had to take a formal farewell of them – it was only thirty hours since he and they had fought their way along the French brig’s deck, swinging their cutlasses. There was a brotherhood in arms – one might almost say a brotherhood of blood – between them, something that divided them off sharply into a caste utterly different from the ignorant civilians here.

  But the very first thing to deal with on shore was his letter. There was a skinny and bare-footed urchin hanging on the fringe of the crowd.

  ‘You boy!’ called Hornblower. ‘D’you want to earn a shilling?’

  ‘Iss, that do I.’ The homely accent was accompanied by an embarrassed grin.

  ‘D’you know Driver’s Alley?’

  ‘Iss, sir.’

  ‘Here’s sixpence and a letter. Run all the way and take this letter to Mrs Hornblower. Can you remember that name? Let’s hear you say it. Very well. She’ll give you the other sixpence when you give her the letter. Now – run.’

  Now for the goodbyes.

  ‘I said goodbye to most of you gentlemen only a few days back, and now I have to do so again. And a good deal has happened since then.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ an emphatic agreement, voiced by Bush as the only commissioned officer present.

  ‘Now I’m saying goodbye once more. I said before that I hoped we’d meet again, and I say it now. And I say “thank you”, too. You know I mean both those.’

  ‘It’s us that have to thank you, sir,’ said Bush, through the inarticulate murmurs uttered by the others.

  ‘Goodbye, you men,’ said Hornblower to the other group. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Goodbye and good luck, sir.’

  He turned away; there was a dockyard labourer available to wheel away his gear on a barrow, on which he could also lay the blanket-bundle which swung from his hand; it might be vastly precious but it would not be out of his sight, and he had his dignity as a captain to consider. That dignity Hornblower felt imperilled enough as it was by the difficulty he experienced in walking like a landsman; the cobbles over which he was making his way seemed as if they could not remain level. He knew he was rolling in his gait like any Jack Tar, and yet, try as he would, he could not check the tendency while the solid earth seemed to seesaw under his feet.

  The labourer – as might have been expected – had no knowledge of where the admiral commanding the port was to be found; he did not know even his name, and a passing clerk had to be stopped and questioned.

  ‘The Port Admiral?’ The lard-faced clerk who repeated Hornblower’s words was haughty, and Hornblower was battered and dishevelled, his hair long and tousled, his clothes rumpled, all as might be expected after nearly two weeks of crowded life in a water-hoy. But there was an epaulette, albeit a shabby one, on his left shoulder, and when the clerk noticed it he added a faint ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes, the Port Admiral.’

  ‘You’ll find him in his office in the stone building over there.’

  ‘Thank you. Do you know his name?’

  ‘Foster. Rear Admiral Harry Foster.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  That must be Dreadnought Foster. He had been one of the board of captains who had examined Hornblower for Lieutenant all those years ago in Gibraltar, the night the Spaniards sent the fireships in.

  The marine sentry at the outer gate presented arms to the epaulette, but he was not so wooden as to allow to pass unnoticed the blanket-bundle that Hornblower took from the labourer; his eyes swivelled round to stare at it even while his neck stayed rigid. Hornblower took off his battered hat to return the salute and passed through. The flag lieutenant who interviewed him next noticed the bundle as well, but his expression softened when Hornblower explained he was carrying captured documents.

  ‘From the Guèpe, sir?’ asked the lieutenant.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Hornblower in surprise.

  ‘The Admiral will see you, sir.’

  It was only yesterday, when Hornblower had examined the log more carefully in the hoy, that he had discovered the French brig’s name. It was only an hour ago that the Princess had made contact with the land, and yet the story was already known in the Admiral’s office; at least it would save a little time – Maria would be waiting at the dockyard gate.

  Dreadnought Foster was just as Hornblower remembered him, swarthy, with an expression of sardonic humour. Luckily he appeared to have no recollection of the nervous midshipman whose examination had been fortunately interrupted that evening in Gibraltar. Like his flag lieutenant he had heard something of the story of the capture of the brig already – one more example of the speed with which gossip can fly – and he grasped the details, as Hornblower supplied them, with professional ease.

  ‘And those are the documents?’ he asked, when Hornblower reached that point in his sketchy narrative.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Foster reached out a large hand for them.

  ‘Not everyone would have remembered to bring them away, Captain,’ he said, as he began to turn them over. ‘Log. Day book. Station bill. Quarter bill. Victualling returns.’

  He had noticed the lead-covered dispatch first of all, naturally, but he had laid it aside
to examine last.

  ‘Now what do we have here?’ He studied the label. ‘What does “S.E.” mean?’

  ‘Son Excellence – His Excellency, sir.’

  ‘His Excellency the Captain General of – what’s this, Captain?’

  ‘Windward Isles, sir.’

  ‘I might have guessed that seeing it says “Martinique”,’ admitted Foster. ‘But I never had a head for French. Now –’

  He fingered the penknife on his desk. He studied the tarred twine that bound the leaden sandwich. Then he put the knife down reluctantly and looked up at Hornblower.

  ‘I don’t think I’d better meddle,’ he said. ‘This’ll be best left for Their Lordships.’

  Hornblower had had the same thought although he had not ventured to voice it. Foster was looking at him searchingly.

  ‘You intend going to London, of course, Captain?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Naturally. You want a ship, I think.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Admiral Cornwallis named me for promotion last month.’

  ‘Well – This –’ Foster tapped the dispatch. ‘This will save you time and money. Flags!’

  ‘Sir!’ The flag lieutenant was instantly in attendance.

  ‘Captain Hornblower will need a post-chaise.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Have it at the gate immediately.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Have a travel warrant made out for London.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Foster turned his attention once more to Hornblower and smiled sardonically at the bewilderment and surprise he saw in his face. For once Hornblower had been caught off his guard and had allowed his emotions to show.

  ‘Seventeen guineas that will cost King George, God bless him,’ said Foster. ‘Aren’t you grateful for his bounty?’

  Hornblower had regained control over himself; he was even able to conceal his irritation at his lapse.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, in almost an even tone and with an expressionless face.

  ‘Every day – ten times a day sometimes,’ said Foster, ‘I have officers coming in here, even admirals sometimes, trying to get travel warrants to London. The excuses I’ve heard –! And here you don’t care.’

  ‘Of course I’m delighted, sir,’ said Hornblower. ‘And greatly obliged, too.’

  Maria would be waiting at the gate, but he was too proud to show any further weakness under Foster’s sardonic gaze. A King’s officer had his duty to do. And it was less than three months since he had last seen Maria; some officers had been parted from their wives since the outbreak of war more than two years ago.

  ‘No need to be obliged to me,’ said Foster. ‘This is what decided me.’

  ‘This’ was of course the dispatch which he tapped again.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Their Lordships should think it’s worth seventeen guineas. I’m not doing it for your sweet sake.’

  ‘Naturally, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes. And I’d better give you a note to Marsden. It will get you past the doorkeeper.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Those last two speeches – Hornblower digested them while Foster scribbled away at the letter – were hardly tactful when considered in relation to each other. They implied a certain lack of charm. Marsden was the Secretary to the Lords of the Admiralty, and the suggestion that Hornblower needed a note to gain admittance was an unexpressed but disparaging comment on his appearance.

  ‘Chaise will be at the gates, sir,’ announced the flag lieutenant.

  ‘Very well.’ Foster sanded his letter and poured the sand back into the caster, folded the letter and addressed it, sanded it once more, and once more returned the sand. ‘Seal that, if you please.’

  As the flag lieutenant busied himself with candle and wax and seal Foster folded his hands and looked over again at Hornblower.

  ‘You’re going to be pestered for news at every relay,’ he said. ‘The country can’t think about anything except “What’s Nelson doing?” and “Has Boney crossed yet?”. They’ll discuss Villain-noove and Calder the way they used to discuss Tom Cribb and Jem Belcher.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? I fear I know nothing about any of them.’

  Tom Cribb and Jem Belcher were disputing the heavyweight championship of England at this period.

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘Ready, sir,’ said the flag lieutenant, handing the sealed letter to Hornblower, who held it for an embarrassed second before putting it in his pocket – it seemed rather cavalier treatment for a dispatch to the Secretary of the Admiralty.

  ‘Goodbye, Captain,’ said Foster, ‘and a pleasant journey.’

  ‘I’ve had your baggage put in the chaise, sir,’ said the flag lieutenant on the way to the gate.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hornblower.

  Outside the gate there was the usual small crowd of labourers waiting to be hired, of anxious wives, and of mere sightseers. Their attention was at this moment taken up by the post-chaise which stood waiting with the postilion at the horses’ heads.

  ‘Well, goodbye, sir, and a pleasant journey,’ said the flag lieutenant, handing over the blanket-bundle.

  From outside the gate came a well remembered voice.

  ‘Horry! Horry!’

  Maria in bonnet and shawl stood there by the wicket gate, with little Horatio in her arms.

  ‘That’s my wife and my child,’ said Hornblower abruptly. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  He strode out through the gate and found himself clasping Maria and the child in the same embrace.

  ‘Horry, darling. My precious,’ said Maria. ‘You’re back again. Here’s your son – look how he’s growing up. He runs about all day long. There, smile at your daddy, poppet.’

  Little Horatio did indeed smile, for a fleeting instant, before hiding his face in Maria’s bosom.

  ‘He looks well indeed,’ said Hornblower. ‘And how about you, my dear?’

  He stood back to look her over. There was no visible sign at present of her pregnancy, except perhaps in the expression in her face.

  ‘To see you is to give me new life, my loved one,’ said Maria.

  It was painful to realize that what she said was so close to the truth. And it was horribly painful to know that he had next to tell her that he was leaving her in this very moment of meeting.

  Already, and inevitably, Maria had put out her right hand to twitch at his coat, while holding little Horatio in her left arm.

  ‘Your clothes look poorly, Horry darling,’ she said. ‘How crumpled this coat is. I’d like to get at it with an iron.’

  ‘My dear –’ said Hornblower.

  This was the moment to break the news, but Maria anticipated him.

  ‘I know,’ she said, quickly. ‘I saw your chest and bag being put into the chaise. You’re going away.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘To London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not one little moment with me – with us?’

  ‘I fear not, my dear.’

  Maria was being very brave. She held her head back and looked straight at him unflinchingly; there was just the tiniest quiver of her lips to indicate the stresses within.

  ‘And after that, darling?’ asked Maria; when she spoke her tone gave a further hint of those stresses.

  ‘I hope to get a ship. I shall be a captain, remember, dear.’

  ‘Yes.’ Just the one word, of heartbroken acquiescence.

  Perhaps it was fortunate then that Maria noticed something that distracted her, but Hornblower was inclined to believe that Maria deliberately and bravely distracted herself. She lifted her hand to his cheek, to his jawbone below his left ear.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘It looks like paint. Black paint. You haven’t looked after yourself very well, dear.’

  ‘Very likely it’s paint,’ agreed Hornblower.

  He had repressed the almost automatic reaction to draw back from a public cares
s, before he realized what it was that Maria had observed. Now there was a flood of recollection. The night before last he had stormed on to the deck of the Guèpe with a gang of yelling madmen with blackened faces. He had heard a cutlass blade crunch on bone, he had heard screams for mercy, he had seen nine pounds of canister fired down into a crowded ’tween-decks. Only the night before last, and here was Maria, simple and innocent and ignorant, and his child, and the staring onlookers, in the English sunshine. It was only a step out of one world into another, but it was a step infinitely long, over a bottomless chasm.

  ‘Horry, darling?’ said Maria, inquiringly, and broke the spell.

  She was looking at him anxiously, studying him and frightened by what she saw; he felt he must have been scowling, even snarling, as his expression revealed the emotions he was re-experiencing. It was time to smile.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to clean up in Princess,’ he said. It had been hard to apply turpentine to his face before a mirror in the leaping water-hoy with the wind on the quarter.

  ‘You must do it as soon as ever you can,’ said Maria. She was scrubbing at his jaw with her handkerchief. ‘It won’t come off for me.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  He realized that what had been a death’s-head grin was softening into something more natural, and this was the moment, with reassurance restored to Maria’s face, to tear himself from her.

  ‘And now goodbye, dear,’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  She had learned her lesson well during half a dozen farewells since their marriage. She knew that her incomprehensible husband disliked any show of emotion even in private, and disliked it twenty times as much with a third party present. She had learned that he had moments of withdrawal which she should not resent because he was sorry for them afterwards. And above all that she had learned that she weighed in the scale nothing, nothing at all, against his duty. She knew that if she were to pit herself and her child against this it would only end in a terrible hurt which she could not risk because it would hurt him as much or more.

  It was only a few steps to the waiting chaise; he took note that his sea chest and ditty bag were under the seat on which he put his precious bundle, and turned back to his wife and child.