Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3 Read online

  Hornblower looked at his watch and raised his voice in a shout to the sentry at the door.

  “Pass the word for Mr. Bush.”

  Hornblower could hear the sentry shouting, and the word being passed on along the quarter-deck. Hotspur rose in a long, long, pitch with hardly any roll about it. She was meeting the long Atlantic swell now, changing her motion considerably, and all for the better, in Hornblower’s opinion—and his seasickness was rapidly coming under control. Bush was taking a long time to respond to the call—he obviously was not on the quarter-deck, and the chances were he was taking a nap or was engaged in some other private business. Well, it would do him no harm and cause him no surprise to be summoned from it, for that was the way of the Navy.

  At last came the knock on the door, and Bush entered.

  “Sir?”

  “Ah, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower pedantically. Bush was the closest friend he had, but this was a formal matter, to be carried through formally. “Can you tell me the ship’s position at this moment?”

  “No, sir, not exactly, sir,” replied the puzzled Bush. “Ushant bears ten leagues to the east’ard, I believe, sir.”

  “At this moment,” said Hornblower, “we are in longitude six degrees and some seconds west. Latitude 48° 40’, but we do not have to devote any thought to our latitude at present, oddly enough. It is our longitude that matters. Would you be so kind as to examine this packet?”

  “Ah. I see, sir,” said Bush, having read the superscription.

  “You observe that the seals are unbroken?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you will have the further kindness, when you leave this cabin, to make sure of the ship’s longitude so that, should it become necessary, you can bear witness that I have carried out my orders?”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” said Bush, and then, after a pause long enough for him to realize that Hornblower intended the inter view to be at an end, “Aye aye, sir.”

  The temptation to tease Bush was a very strong one, Hornblower realized as Bush left the cabin. It was a temptation he must resist. It might be indulged to the extent of causing resentment; in any case, Bush was too easy a target—he was a sitting bird.

  And thinking along those lines had actually delayed for several seconds the exciting moment of opening the orders. Hornblower took out his penknife and cut the stitching. Now the weight of the packet was explained. There were three rolls of coins—golden coins. Hornblower split them out on to his desk. There were fifty small ones, about the size of sixpences; twenty larger ones, and ten larger still. Examination revealed that the medium-sized ones were French twenty-franc pieces, exactly like one he had seen in Lord Parry’s possession a week or two ago, with ‘Napoleon First Consul’ on one side and ‘French Republic’ on the other. The small ones were ten franc pieces, the larger ones forty francs. Altogether it made a considerable sum, over fifty pounds without allowing for the premium on gold in an England plagued by a depreciating paper currency.

  And here were his supplementary instructions, explaining how he should employ the money. ‘You are therefore required—’ said the instructions after the preliminary sentences. Hornblower had to make contact with the fishermen of Brest; he had to ascertain if any of them would accept bribes; he had to glean from them all possible information regarding the French fleet in that port; finally he was informed that in case of war information of any kind, even newspapers, would be acceptable.

  Hornblower read his instructions through twice; he referred again to the unsealed orders he had received at the same time; the ones that had sent him to sea. There was need for thought, and automatically he rose to his feet, only to sit down again, for there was no chance whatever of walking about in that cabin. He must postpone his walk for a moment. Maria had stitched neat linen bags in which to put his hair brushes—quite useless, of course, seeing that he always rolled his brushes in his housewife. He reached for one, and swept the money into it, put the bag and the orders back into his chest and was about to lock it when a further thought struck him, and he counted out ten ten-franc pieces and put them into his trouser pocket. Now, with his chest locked, he was free to go on deck.

  Prowse and Bush were pacing the weather side of the quarter-deck in deep conversation; no doubt the news that their captain had opened his sealed orders would spread rapidly through the ship—and no one on board save Hornblower could be really sure that Hotspur was not about to set course for the Cape and India. It was a temptation to keep them all on tenterhooks, but Hornblower put the temptation aside. Besides, it would be to no purpose—after a day or two of hanging about outside Brest everyone would be able to guess Hotspur’s mission. Prowse and Bush were hurriedly moving over to the lee side, leaving the weather side for their captain, but Hornblower halted them.

  “Mr. Bush! Mr. Prowse! We are going to look into Brest and see what our friend Boney is up to.”

  Those few words told the whole story to men who had served in the last war and who had beaten about in the stormy waters off the Brittany coast.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bush, simply.

  Together they looked into the binnacle, out to the horizon, up to the commission pendant. Simple enough to set a course; Bush and Prowse could do that easily, but it was not so simple to deal with problems of international relations, problems of neutrality, problems of espionage.

  “Let’s look at the chart, Mr. Prowse. You can see that we’ll have to keep well clear of Les Fillettes.”

  The Islands of the Little Girls, in the middle of the fairway into Brest; it was a queer name for rocks that would be sites for batteries of guns.

  “Very well, Mr. Prowse. You can square away and set course.”

  There were light airs from the northwestward today, and it was the easiest matter in the world to stand down towards Brest; Hotspur was hardly rolling at all and was pitching only moderately. Hornblower was fast recovering his sea-legs and could trust himself to walk the deck, and could almost trust his stomach to retain its contents. There was a certain feeling of well-being that came with a remission from sea-sickness. The April air was keen and fresh, but not paralysingly cold; Hornblower’s gloves and heavy coat were barely necessary. In fact Hornblower found it hard to concentrate on his problems; he was willing to postpone their consideration, and he halted his step and looked across at Bush with a smile that brought the latter over with hurried steps.

  “I suppose you have plans for exercising the crew, Mr. Bush?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bush did not say, “Of course, sir,” for he was too good a subordinate. But his eyes lit up, for there was nothing Bush enjoyed more than reefing topsails and unreeling them, sending down topgallant yards and sending them up again, rousting out cables and carrying them to a stern port in readiness to be used as a spring, and in fact rehearsing all the dozens—hundreds—of manoeuvres that weather or war might make necessary.

  “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 extraor
dinary proportion, one that would never be seen again as the manning of the fleet continued. Not only than 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 fore-hatchway.

  “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 water-line.

  “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 chose 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’ard, 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 he 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 quarterdeck 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.
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br />   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.