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Title: Mr. Midshipman Hornblower
Author: Forester, C. S. [Cecil Scott]
   [Smith, Cecil Louis Troughton] (1899-1966]
Date of first publication: May 1950
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Michael Joseph, November 1950
   ["sixth impression"]
Date first posted: 11 February 2017
Date last updated: 11 February 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1401

This ebook was produced by Iona Vaughan, Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.





                             C. S. FORESTER

                            MR.  MIDSHIPMAN
                               HORNBLOWER



                                 London
                             MICHAEL JOSEPH




                          _First published by_
                           MICHAEL JOSEPH LTD
                         _26 Bloomsbury Street_
                            _London, W.C.1_
                                MAY 1950

                  SECOND IMPRESSION BEFORE PUBLICATION
                       THIRD IMPRESSION MAY 1950
                      FOURTH IMPRESSION JULY 1950
                    FIFTH IMPRESSION SEPTEMBER 1950
                     SIXTH IMPRESSION NOVEMBER 1950


      MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS, LTD.
                     PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON




                                CONTENTS
                                   *

                            THE EVEN CHANCE

                           THE CARGO OF RICE

                         THE PENALTY OF FAILURE

                         THE MAN WHO FELT QUEER

                          THE MAN WHO SAW GOD

                       THE FROGS AND THE LOBSTERS

                          THE SPANISH GALLEYS

                     THE EXAMINATION FOR LIEUTENANT

                               NOAH'S ARK

                       THE DUCHESS AND THE DEVIL





                            THE EVEN CHANCE
                                    *


A January gale was roaring up the Channel, blustering loudly, and
bearing in its bosom rain squalls whose big drops rattled loudly on the
tarpaulin clothing of those among the officers and men whose duties kept
them on deck. So hard and so long had the gale blown that even in the
sheltered waters of Spithead the battleship moved uneasily at her
anchors, pitching a little in the choppy seas, and snubbing herself
against the tautened cables with unexpected jerks. A shore boat was on
its way out to her, propelled by oars in the hands of two sturdy women;
it danced madly on the steep little waves, now and then putting its nose
into one and sending a sheet of spray flying aft. The oarswoman in the
bow knew her business, and with rapid glances over her shoulder not only
kept the boat on its course but turned the bows into the worst of the
waves to keep from capsizing. It slowly drew up along the starboard side
of the _Justinian_, and as it approached the mainchains the midshipman
of the watch hailed it.

"Aye aye" came back the answering hail from the lusty lungs of the woman
at the stroke oar; by the curious and ages-old convention of the Navy
the reply meant that the boat had an officer on board--presumably the
huddled figure in the sternsheets looking more like a heap of trash with
a boat-cloak thrown over it.

That was as much as Mr. Masters, the lieutenant of the watch, could see;
he was sheltering as best he could in the lee of the mizzen-mast bitts,
and in obedience to the order of the midshipman of the watch the boat
drew up towards the mainchains and passed out of his sight. There was a
long delay; apparently the officer had some difficulty in getting up the
ship's side. At last the boat reappeared in Master's field of vision;
the women had shoved off and were setting a scrap of lugsail, under
which the boat, now without its passenger, went swooping back towards
Portsmouth, leaping on the waves like a steeplechaser. As it departed
Mr. Masters became aware of the near approach of someone along the
quarterdeck; it was the new arrival under the escort of the midshipman
of the watch, who, after pointing Masters out, retired to the mainchains
again. Mr. Masters had served in the Navy until his hair was white; he
was lucky to have received his commission as lieutenant, and he had long
known that he would never receive one as captain, but the knowledge had
not greatly embittered him, and he diverted his mind by the study of his
fellow men.

So he looked with attention at the approaching figure. It was that of a
skinny young man only just leaving boyhood behind, something above
middle height, with feet whose adolescent proportions to his size were
accentuated by the thinness of his legs and his big half-boots. His
gawkiness called attention to his hands and elbows. The newcomer was
dressed in a badly fitting uniform which was soaked right through by the
spray; a skinny neck stuck out of the high stock, and above the neck was
a white bony face. A white face was a rarity on the deck of a ship of
war, whose crew soon tanned to a deep mahogany, but this face was not
merely white; in the hollow cheeks there was a faint shade of
green--clearly the newcomer had experienced sea-sickness in his passage
out in the shore boat. Set in the white face were a pair of dark eyes
which by contrast looked like holes cut in a sheet of paper; Masters
noted with a slight stirring of interest that the eyes, despite their
owner's seasickness, were looking about keenly, taking in what were
obviously new sights; there was a curiosity and interest there which
could not be repressed and which continued to function notwithstanding
either seasickness or shyness, and Mr. Masters surmised in his
far-fetched fashion that this boy had a vein of caution or foresight in
his temperament and was already studying his new surroundings with a
view to being prepared for his next experiences. So might Daniel have
looked about him at the lions when he first entered their den.

The dark eyes met Masters', and the gawky figure came to a halt, raising
a hand selfconsciously to the brim of his dripping hat. His mouth opened
and tried to say something, but closed again without achieving its
object as shyness overcame him, but then the newcomer nerved himself
afresh and forced himself to say the formal words he had been coached to
utter.

"Come aboard, sir."

"Your name?" asked Masters, after waiting for it for a moment.

"H-Horatio Hornblower, sir. Midshipman" stuttered the boy.

"Very good, Mr. Hornblower" said Masters, with the equally formal
response. "Did you bring your dunnage aboard with you?"

Hornblower had never heard that word before, but he still had enough of
his wits about him to deduce what it meant.

"My sea chest, sir. It's--it's forrard, at the entry port."

Hornblower said these things with the barest hesitation; he knew that at
sea they said them, that they pronounced the word 'forward' like that,
and that he had come on board through the 'entry port', but it called
for a slight effort to utter them himself.

"I'll see that it's sent below" said Masters. "And that's where you'd
better go, too. The captain's ashore, and the first lieutenant's orders
were that he's not to be called on any account before eight bells, so I
advise you, Mr. Hornblower, to get out of those wet clothes while you
can."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower; his senses told him, the moment he said it,
that he had used an improper expression--the look on Masters' face told
him, and he corrected himself (hardly believing that men really said
these things off the boards of the stage) before Masters had time to
correct him.

"Aye aye, sir" said Hornblower, and as a second afterthought he put his
hand to the brim of his hat again.

Masters returned the compliment and turned to one of the shivering
messengers cowering in the inadequate shelter of the bulwark. "Boy! Take
Mr. Hornblower down to the midshipman's berth."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower accompanied the boy forward to the main hatchway. Seasickness
alone would have made him unsteady on his feet, but twice on the short
journey he stumbled like a man tripping over a rope as a sharp gust
brought the _Justinian_ up against her cables with a jerk. At the
hatchway the boy slid down the ladder like an eel over a rock;
Hornblower had to brace himself and descend far more gingerly and
uncertainly into the dim light of the lower gundeck and then into the
twilight of the 'tweendecks. The smells that entered his nostrils were
as strange and as assorted as the noises that assailed his ears. At the
foot of each ladder the boy waited for him with a patience whose
tolerance was just obvious. After the last descent, a few
steps--Hornblower had already lost his sense of direction and did not
know whether it was aft or forward--took them to a gloomy recess whose
shadows were accentuated rather than lightened by a tallow dip spiked
onto a bit of copper plate on a table round which were seated half a
dozen shirt-sleeved men. The boy vanished and left Hornblower standing
there, and it was a second or two before the whiskered man at the head
of the table looked up at him.

"Speak, thou apparition" said he.

Hornblower felt a wave of nausea overcoming him--the after effects of
his trip in the shore boat were being accentuated by the incredible
stuffiness and smelliness of the 'tweendecks. It was very hard to speak,
and the fact that he did not know how to phrase what he wanted to say
made it harder still.

"My name is Hornblower" he quavered at length.

"What an infernal piece of bad luck for you" said a second man at the
table, with a complete absence of sympathy.

At that moment in the roaring world outside the ship the wind veered
sharply, heeling the _Justinian_ a trifle and swinging her round to snub
at her cables again. To Hornblower it seemed more as if the world had
come loose from its fastenings. He reeled where he stood, and although
he was shuddering with cold he felt sweat on his face.

"I suppose you have come" said the whiskered man at the head of the
table "to thrust yourself among your betters. Another soft-headed
ignoramus come to be a nuisance to those who have to try to teach you
your duties. Look at him"--the speaker with a gesture demanded the
attention of everyone at the table--"look at him, I say! The King's
latest bad bargain. How old are you?"

"S-seventeen, sir" stuttered Hornblower.

"Seventeen!" the disgust in the speaker's voice was only too evident.
"You must start at twelve if you ever wish to be a seaman. Seventeen! Do
you know the difference between a head and a halliard?"

That drew a laugh from the group, and the quality of the laugh was just
noticeable to Hornblower's whirling brain, so that he guessed that
whether he said 'yes' or 'no' he would be equally exposed to ridicule.
He groped for a neutral reply.

"That's the first thing I'll look up in Norie's _Seamanship_" he said.

The ship lurched again at that moment, and he clung on to the table.

"Gentlemen" he began pathetically, wondering how to say what he had in
mind.

"My God!" exclaimed somebody at the table. "He's seasick!"

"Seasick in Spithead!" said somebody else, in a tone in which amazement
had as much place as disgust.

But Hornblower ceased to care; he was not really conscious of what was
going on round him for some time after that. The nervous excitement of
the last few days was as much to blame, perhaps, as the journey in the
shore boat and the erratic behaviour of the _Justinian_ at her anchors,
but it meant for him that he was labelled at once as the midshipman who
was seasick in Spithead, and it was only natural that the label added to
the natural misery of the loneliness and homesickness which oppressed
him during those days when that part of the Channel Fleet which had not
succeeded in completing its crews lay at anchor in the lee of the Isle
of Wight. An hour in the hammock into which the messman hoisted him
enabled him to recover sufficiently to be able to report himself to the
first lieutenant; after a few days on board he was able to find his way
round the ship without (as happened at first) losing his sense of
direction below decks, so that he did not know whether he was facing
forward or aft. During that period his brother officers ceased to have
faces which were mere blurs and came to take on personalities; he came
painfully to learn the stations allotted him when the ship was at
quarters, when he was on watch, and when hands were summoned for setting
or taking in sail. He even came to have an acute enough understanding of
his new life to realise that it could have been worse--that destiny
might have put him on board a ship ordered immediately to sea instead of
one lying at anchor. But it was a poor enough compensation; he was a
lonely and unhappy boy. Shyness alone would long have delayed his making
friends, but as it happened the midshipmen's berth in the _Justinian_
was occupied by men all a good deal older than he; elderly master's
mates recruited from the merchant service, and midshipmen in their
twenties who through lack of patronage or inability to pass the
necessary examination had never succeeded in gaming for themselves
commissions as lieutenants. They were inclined, after the first moments
of amused interest, to ignore him, and he was glad of it, delighted to
shrink into his shell and attract no notice to himself.

For the _Justinian_ was not a happy ship during those gloomy January
days. Captain Keene--it was when he came aboard that Hornblower first
saw the pomp and ceremony that surrounds the captain of a ship of the
line--was a sick man, of a melancholy disposition. He had not the fame
which enabled some captains to fill their ships with enthusiastic
volunteers, and he was devoid of the personality which might have made
enthusiasts out of the sullen pressed men whom the press gangs were
bringing in from day to day to complete the ship's complement. His
officers saw little of him, and did not love what they saw. Hornblower,
summoned to his cabin for his first interview, was not impressed--a
middle-aged man at a table covered with papers, with the hollow and
yellow cheeks of prolonged illness.

"Mr. Hornblower" he said formally "I am glad to have this opportunity of
welcoming you on board my ship."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower--that seemed more appropriate to the occasion
than 'Aye aye, sir', and a junior midshipman seemed to be expected to
say one or the other on all occasions.

"You are--let me see--seventeen?" Captain Keene picked up the paper
which apparently covered Hornblower's brief official career.

"Yes, sir."

"July 4th, 1776" mused Keene, reading Hornblower's date of birth to
himself. "Five years to the day before I was posted as captain. I had
been six years as lieutenant before you were born."

"Yes, sir" agreed Hornblower--it did not seem the occasion for any
further comment.

"A doctor's son--you should have chosen a lord for your father if you
wanted to make a career for yourself."

"Yes, sir."

"How far did your education go?"

"I was a Grecian at school, sir."

"So you can construe Xenophon as well as Cicero?"

"Yes, sir. But not very well, sir."

"Better if you knew something about sines and cosines. Better if you
could foresee a squall in time to get t'gallants in. We have no use for
ablative absolutes in the Navy."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower.

He had only just learned what a topgallant was, but he could have told
his captain that his mathematical studies were far advanced. He
refrained nevertheless; his instincts combined with his recent
experiences urged him not to volunteer unsolicited information.

"Well, obey orders, learn your duties, and no harm can come to you. That
will do."

"Thank you, sir" said Hornblower, retiring.

But the captain's last words to him seemed to be contradicted
immediately. Harm began to come to Hornblower from that day forth,
despite his obedience to orders and diligent study of his duties, and it
stemmed from the arrival in the midshipmen's berth of John Simpson as
senior warrant officer. Hornblower was sitting at mess with his
colleagues when he first saw him--a brawny good-looking man in his
thirties, who came in and stood looking at them just as Hornblower had
stood a few days before.

"Hullo!" said somebody, not very cordially.

"Cleveland, my bold friend" said the newcomer "come out from that seat.
I am going to resume my place at the head of the table."

"But----"

"Come out, I said" snapped Simpson.

Cleveland moved along with some show of reluctance, and Simpson took his
place, and glowered round the table in reply to the curious glances with
which everyone regarded him.

"Yes, my sweet brother officers" he said "I am back in the bosom of the
family. And I am not surprised that nobody is pleased. You will all be
less pleased by the time I am done with you, I may add."

"But your commission----?" asked somebody, greatly daring.

"My commission?" Simpson leaned forward and tapped the table, staring
down the inquisitive people on either side of it. "I'll answer that
question this once, and the man who asks it again will wish he had never
been born. A board of turnip-headed captains has refused me my
commission. It decided that my mathematical knowledge was insufficient
to make me a reliable navigator. And so Acting-Lieutenant Simpson is
once again Mr. Midshipman Simpson, at your service. At your service. And
may the Lord have mercy on your souls."

It did not seem, as the days went by, that the Lord had any mercy at
all, for with Simpson's return life in the midshipmen's berth ceased to
be one of passive unhappiness and became one of active misery. Simpson
had apparently always been an ingenious tyrant, but now, embittered and
humiliated by his failure to pass his examination for his commission, he
was a worse tyrant, and his ingenuity had multiplied itself. He may have
been weak in mathematics, but he was diabolically clever at making other
people's lives a burden to them. As senior officer in the mess he had
wide official powers; as a man with a blistering tongue and a morbid
sense of mischief he would have been powerful anyway, even if the
_Justinian_ had possessed an alert and masterful first lieutenant to
keep him in check, while Mr. Clay was neither. Twice midshipmen rebelled
against Simpson's arbitrary authority, and each time Simpson thrashed
the rebel, pounding him into insensibility with his huge fists, for
Simpson would have made a successful prize-fighter. Each time Simpson
was left unmarked; each time his opponent's blackened eyes and swollen
lips called down the penalty of mast heading and extra duty from the
indignant first lieutenant. The mess seethed with impotent rage. Even
the toadies and lickspittles among the midshipmen--and naturally there
were several--hated the tyrant.

Significantly, it was not his ordinary exactions which roused the
greatest resentment--his levying toll upon their sea chests for clean
shirts for himself, his appropriation of the best cuts of the meat
served, nor even his taking their coveted issues of spirits. These
things could be excused as understandable, the sort of thing they would
do themselves if they had the power. But he displayed a whimsical
arbitrariness which reminded Hornblower, with his classical education,
of the freaks of the Roman emperors. He forced Cleveland to shave the
whiskers which were his inordinate pride; he imposed upon Hether the
duty of waking up Mackenzie every half hour, day and night, so that
neither of them was able to sleep--and there were toadies ready to tell
him if Hether ever failed in his task. Early enough he had discovered
Hornblower's most vulnerable points, as he had with everyone else. He
knew of Hornblower's shyness; at first it was amusing to compel
Hornblower to recite verses from Gray's 'Elegy in a Country Churchyard'
to the assembled mess. The toadies could compel Hornblower to do it;
Simpson would lay his dirk-scabbard on the table in front of him with a
significant glance, and the toadies would close round Hornblower, who
knew that any hesitation on his part would mean that he would be
stretched across the table and the dirk-scabbard applied; the flat of
the scabbard was painful, the edge of it was agonising, but the pain was
nothing to the utter humiliation of it all. And the torment grew worse
when Simpson instituted what he aptly called 'The Proceedings of the
Inquisition' when Hornblower was submitted to a slow and methodical
questioning regarding his homelife and his boyhood. Every question had
to be answered, on pain of the dirk-scabbard; Hornblower could fence and
prevaricate, but he had to answer and sooner or later the relentless
questioning would draw from him some simple admission which would rouse
a peal of laughter from his audience. Heaven knows that in Hornblower's
lonely childhood there was nothing to be ashamed of, but boys are odd
creatures, especially reticent ones like Hornblower, and are ashamed of
things no one else would think twice about. The ordeal would leave him
weak and sick; someone less solemn might have clowned his way out of his
difficulties and even into popular favour, but Hornblower at seventeen
was too ponderous a person to clown. He had to endure the persecution,
experiencing all the black misery which only a seventeen-year-old can
experience; he never wept in public, but at night more than once he shed
the bitter tears of seventeen. He often thought about death; he often
even thought about desertion, but he realised that desertion would lead
to something worse than death, and then his mind would revert to death,
savouring the thought of suicide. He came to long for death, friendless
as he was, and brutally ill-treated, and lonely as only a boy among
men--and a very reserved boy--can be. More and more he thought about
ending it all the easiest way, hugging the secret thought of it to his
friendless bosom.

If the ship had only been at sea everyone would have been kept busy
enough to be out of mischief; even at anchor an energetic captain and
first lieutenant would have kept all hands hard enough at work to
obviate abuses, but it was Hornblower's hard luck that the _Justinian_
lay at anchor all through that fatal January of 1794 under a sick
captain and an inefficient first lieutenant. Even the activities which
were at times enforced often worked to Hornblower's disadvantage. There
was an occasion when Mr. Bowles, the master, was holding a class in
navigation for his mates and for the midshipmen, and the captain by bad
luck happened by and glanced through the results of the problem the
class had individually been set to solve. His illness made Keene a man
of bitter tongue, and he cherished no liking for Simpson. He took a
single glance at Simpson's paper, and chuckled sarcastically.

"Now let us all rejoice" he said "the sources of the Nile have been
discovered at last."

"Pardon, sir?" said Simpson.

"Your ship" said Keene "as far as I can make out from your illiterate
scrawl, Mr. Simpson, is in Central Africa. Let us now see what other
_terrae incognitae_ have been opened up by the remaining intrepid
explorers of this class."

It must have been Fate--it was dramatic enough to be art and not an
occurrence in real life; Hornblower knew what was going to happen even
as Keene picked up the other papers, including his. The result he had
obtained was the only one which was correct; everybody else had added
the correction for refraction instead of subtracting it, or had worked
out the multiplication wrongly, or had, like Simpson, botched the whole
problem.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hornblower" said Keene. "You must be proud to be
alone successful among this crowd of intellectual giants. You are half
Mr. Simpson's age, I fancy. If you double your attainments while you
double your years, you will leave the rest of us far behind. Mr. Bowles,
you will be so good as to see that Mr. Simpson pays even further
attention to his mathematical studies."

With that he went off along the 'tweendecks with the halting step
resulting from his mortal disease, and Hornblower sat with his eyes cast
down, unable to meet the glances he knew were being darted at him, and
knowing full well what they portended. He longed for death at that
moment; he even prayed for it that night.

Within two days Hornblower found himself on shore, and under Simpson's
command. The two midshipmen were in charge of a party of seamen, landed
to act along with parties from the other ships of the squadron as a
press gang. The West India convoy was due to arrive soon; most of the
hands would be pressed as soon as the convoy reached the Channel, and
the remainder, left to work the ships to an anchorage, would sneak
ashore, using every device to conceal themselves and find a safe
hiding-place. It was the business of the landing parties to cut off this
retreat, to lay a cordon along the waterfront which would sweep them all
up. But the convoy was not yet signalled, and all arrangements were
completed.

"All is well with the world" said Simpson.

It was an unusual speech for him, but he was in unusual circumstances.
He was sitting in the back room of the Lamb Inn, comfortable in one
armchair with his legs on another, in front of a roaring fire and with a
pot of beer with gin in it at his elbow.

"Here's to the West India convoy" said Simpson, taking a pull at his
beer. "Long may it be delayed."

Simpson was actually genial, activity and beer and a warm fire thawing
him into a good humour; it was not time yet for the liquor to make him
quarrelsome; Hornblower sat on the other side of the fire and sipped
beer without gin in it and studied him, marvelling that for the first
time since he had boarded the _Justinian_ his unhappiness should have
ceased to be active but should have subsided into a dull misery like the
dying away of the pain of a throbbing tooth.

"Give us a toast, boy" said Simpson.

"Confusion to Robespierre" said Hornblower lamely.

The door opened and two more officers came in, one a midshipman while
the other wore the single epaulette of a lieutenant--it was Chalk of the
_Goliath_, the officer in general charge of the press gangs sent ashore.
Even Simpson made room for his superior rank before the fire.

"The convoy is still not signalled" announced Chalk. And then he eyed
Hornblower keenly. "I don't think I have the pleasure of your
acquaintance."

"Mr. Hornblower--Lieutenant Chalk" introduced Simpson. "Mr. Hornblower
is distinguished as the midshipman who was seasick in Spithead."

Hornblower tried not to writhe as Simpson tied that label on him. He
imagined that Chalk was merely being polite when he changed the subject.

"Hey, potman! Will you gentlemen join me in a glass? We have a long wait
before us, I fear. Your men are all properly posted, Mr. Simpson?"

"Yes, sir."

Chalk was an active man. He paced about the room, stared out of the
window at the rain, presented his midshipman--Caldwell--to the other two
when the drinks arrived, and obviously fretted at his enforced
inactivity.

"A game of cards to pass the time?" he suggested. "Excellent! Hey,
potman! Cards and a table and another light."

The table was set before the fire, the chairs arranged, the cards
brought in.

"What game shall it be?" asked Chalk, looking round.

He was a lieutenant among three midshipmen, and any suggestion of his
was likely to carry a good deal of weight; the other three naturally
waited to hear what he had to say.

"Vingt-et-un? That is a game for the half-witted. Loo? That is a game
for the wealthier half-witted. But whist, now? That would give us all
scope for the exercise of our poor talents. Caldwell, there, is
acquainted with the rudiments of the game, I know. Mr. Simpson?"

A man like Simpson, with a blind mathematical spot, was not likely to be
a good whist player, but he was not likely to know he was a bad one.

"As you wish, sir" said Simpson. He enjoyed gambling, and one game was
as good as another for that purpose to his mind.

"Mr. Hornblower?"

"With pleasure, sir."

That was more nearly true than most conventional replies. Hornblower had
learned his whist in a good school; ever since the death of his mother
he had made a fourth with his father and the parson and the parson's
wife. The game was already something of a passion with him. He revelled
in the nice calculation of chances, in the varying demands it made upon
his boldness or caution. There was even enough warmth in his acceptance
to attract a second glance from Chalk, who--a good card player
himself--at once detected a fellow spirit.

"Excellent!" he said again. "Then we may as well cut at once for places
and partners. What shall be the stakes, gentlemen? A shilling a trick
and a guinea on the rub, or is that too great? No? Then we are agreed."

For some time the game proceeded quietly. Hornblower cut first Simpson
and then Caldwell as his partner. Only a couple of hands were necessary
to show up Simpson as a hopeless whist player, the kind who would always
lead an ace when he had one, or a singleton when he had four trumps, but
he and Hornblower won the first rubber thanks to overwhelming card
strength. But Simpson lost the next in partnership with Chalk, cut Chalk
again as partner, and lost again. He gloated over good hands and sighed
over poor ones; clearly he was one of those unenlightened people who
looked upon whist as a social function, or as a mere crude means, like
throwing dice, of arbitrarily transferring money. He never thought of
the game either as a sacred rite or as an intellectual exercise.
Moreover, as his losses grew, and as the potman came and went with
liquor, he grew restless, and his face was flushed with more than the
heat of the fire. He was both a bad loser and a bad drinker, and even
Chalk's punctilious good manners were sufficiently strained so that he
displayed a hint of relief when the next cut gave him Hornblower as a
partner. They won the rubber easily, and another guinea and several
shillings were transferred to Hornblower's lean purse; he was now the
only winner, and Simpson was the heaviest loser. Hornblower was lost in
the pleasure of playing the game again; the only attention he paid to
Simpson's writhings and muttered objurgations was to regard them as a
distracting nuisance; he even forgot to think of them as danger signals.
Momentarily he was oblivious to the fact that he might pay for his
present success by future torment.

Once more they cut, and he found himself Chalk's partner again. Two good
hands gave them the first game. Then twice, to Simpson's unconcealed
triumph, Simpson and Caldwell made a small score, approaching game, and
in the next hand an overbold finesse by Hornblower left him and Chalk
with the odd trick when their score should have been two tricks
greater--Simpson laid his knave on Hornblower's ten with a grin of
delight which turned to dismay when he found that he and Caldwell had
still only made six tricks; he counted them a second time with
annoyance. Hornblower dealt and turned the trump, and Simpson led--an
ace as usual, assuring Hornblower of his re-entry. He had a string of
trumps and a good suit of clubs which a single lead might establish.
Simpson glanced muttering at his hand; it was extraordinary that he
still had not realised the simple truth that the lead of an ace involved
leading a second time with the problem no clearer. He made up his mind
at last and led again; Hornblower's king took the trick and he instantly
led his knave of trumps. To his delight it took the trick; he led again
and Chalk's queen gave them another trick. Chalk laid down the ace of
trumps and Simpson with a curse played the king. Chalk led clubs of
which Hornblower had five to the king queen--it was significant that
Chalk should lead them, as it could not be a singleton lead when
Hornblower held the remaining trumps. Hornblower's queen took the trick;
Caldwell must hold the ace, unless Chalk did. Hornblower led a small
one; everyone followed suit, Chalk playing the knave, and Caldwell
played the ace. Eight clubs had been played, and Hornblower had three
more headed by the king and ten--three certain tricks, with the last
trumps as re-entries. Caldwell played the queen of diamonds, Hornblower
played his singleton, and Chalk produced the ace.

"The rest are mine" said Hornblower, laying down his cards.

"What do you mean?" said Simpson, with the king of diamonds in his hand.

"Five tricks" said Chalk briskly. "Game and rubber."

"But don't I take another?" persisted Simpson.

"I trump a lead of diamonds or hearts and make three more clubs"
explained Hornblower. To him the situation was as simple as two and two,
a most ordinary finish to a hand; it was hard for him to realise that
foggy-minded players like Simpson could find difficulty in keeping tally
of fifty-two cards. Simpson flung down his hand.

"You know too much about the game" he said. "You know the backs of the
cards as well as the fronts."

Hornblower gulped. He recognized that this could be a decisive moment if
he chose. A second before he had merely been playing cards, and enjoying
himself. Now he was faced with an issue of life or death. A torrent of
thought streamed through his mind. Despite the comfort of his present
surroundings he remembered acutely the hideous misery of the life in the
_Justinian_ to which he must return. This was an opportunity to end that
misery one way or the other. He remembered how he had contemplated
killing himself, and into the back of his mind stole the germ of the
plan upon which he was going to act. His decision crystallised.

"That is an insulting remark, Mr. Simpson" he said. He looked round and
met the eyes of Chalk and Caldwell, who were suddenly grave; Simpson was
still merely stupid. "For that I shall have to ask satisfaction."

"Satisfaction?" said Chalk hastily. "Come, come. Mr. Simpson had a
momentary loss of temper. I am sure he will explain."

"I have been accused of cheating at cards" said Hornblower. "That is a
hard thing to explain away."

He was trying to behave like a grown man; more than that, he was trying
to act like a man consumed with indignation, while actually there was no
indignation within him over the point in dispute, for he understood too
well the muddled state of mind which had led Simpson to say what he did.
But the opportunity had presented itself, he had determined to avail
himself of it, and now what he had to do was to play the part
convincingly of the man who has received a mortal insult.

"The wine was in and the wit was out" said Chalk, still determined on
keeping the peace. "Mr. Simpson was speaking in jest, I am sure. Let's
call for another bottle and drink it in friendship."

"With pleasure" said Hornblower, fumbling for the words which would set
the dispute beyond reconciliation. "If Mr. Simpson will beg my pardon at
once before you two gentlemen, and admit that he spoke without
justification and in a manner no gentleman would employ."

He turned and met Simpson's eyes with defiance as he spoke,
metaphorically waving a red rag before the bull, who charged with
gratifying fury.

"Apologise to _you_, you little whippersnapper!" exploded Simpson,
alcohol and outraged dignity speaking simultaneously. "Never this side
of Hell."

"You hear that, gentlemen?" said Hornblower. "I have been insulted and
Mr. Simpson refuses to apologise while insulting me further. There is
only one way now in which satisfaction can be given."

For the next two days, until the West India convoy came in, Hornblower
and Simpson, under Chalk's orders, lived the curious life of two
duellists forced into each other's society before the affair of honour.
Hornblower was careful--as he would have been in any case--to obey every
order given him, and Simpson gave them with a certain amount of
self-consciousness and awkwardness. It was during those two days that
Hornblower elaborated on his original idea. Pacing through the dockyards
with his patrol of seamen at his heels he had plenty of time to think
the matter over. Viewed coldly--and a boy of seventeen in a mood of
black despair can be objective enough on occasions--it was as simple as
the calculations of the chances in a problem at whist. Nothing could be
worse than his life in the _Justinian_, not even (as he had thought
already) death itself. Here was an easy death open to him, with the
additional attraction that there was a chance of Simpson dying instead.
It was at that moment that Hornblower advanced his idea one step
further--a new development, startling even to him, bringing him to a
halt so that the patrol behind him bumped into him before they could
stop.

"Beg your pardon, sir" said the petty officer.

"No matter" said Hornblower, deep in his thoughts.

He first brought forward his suggestion in conversation with Preston and
Danvers, the two master's mates whom he asked to be his seconds as soon
as he returned to the _Justinian_.

"We'll act for you, of course" said Preston, looking dubiously at the
weedy youth when he made his request. "How do you want to fight him? As
the aggrieved party you have the choice of weapons."

"I've been thinking about it ever since he insulted me" said Hornblower
temporising. It was not easy to come out with his idea in bald words,
after all.

"Have you any skill with the small-sword?" asked Danvers.

"No" said Hornblower. Truth to tell, he had never even handled one.

"Then it had better be pistols" said Preston.

"Simpson is probably a good shot" said Danvers. "I wouldn't care to
stand up before him myself."

"Easy now" said Preston hastily. "Don't dishearten the man."

"I'm not disheartened" said Hornblower, "I was thinking the same thing
myself."

"You're cool enough about it, then" marvelled Danvers.

Hornblower shrugged.

"Maybe I am. I hardly care. But I've thought that we might make the
chances more even."

"How?"

"We could make them exactly even" said Hornblower, taking the plunge.
"Have two pistols, one loaded and the other empty. Simpson and I would
take our choice without knowing which was which. Then we stand within a
yard of each other, and at the word we fire."

"My God!" said Danvers.

"I don't think that would be legal" said Preston. "It would mean one of
you would be killed for certain."

"Killing is the object of duelling" said Hornblower. "If the conditions
aren't unfair I don't think any objection can be raised."

"But would you carry it out to the end?" marvelled Danvers.

"Mr. Danvers----" began Hornblower; but Preston interfered.

"We don't want another duel on our hands" he said. "Danvers only meant
he wouldn't care to do it himself. We'll discuss it with Cleveland and
Hether, and see what they say."

Within an hour the proposed conditions of the duel were known to
everyone in the ship. Perhaps it was to Simpson's disadvantage that he
had no real friend in the ship, for Cleveland and Hether, his seconds,
were not disposed to take too firm a stand regarding the conditions of
the duel, and agreed to the terms with only a show of reluctance. The
tyrant of the midshipmen's berth was paying the penalty for his tyranny.
There was some cynical amusement shown by some of the officers; some of
both officers and men eyed Hornblower and Simpson with the curiosity
that the prospect of death excites in some minds, as if the two destined
opponents were men condemned to the gallows. At noon Lieutenant Masters
sent for Hornblower.

"The captain has ordered me to make inquiry into this duel, Mr.
Hornblower" he said. "I am instructed to use my best endeavours to
compose the quarrel."

"Yes, sir."

"Why insist on this satisfaction, Mr. Hornblower? I understand there
were a few hasty words over wine and cards."

"Mr. Simpson accused me of cheating, sir, before witnesses who were not
officers of this ship."

That was the point. The witnesses were not members of the ship's
company. If Hornblower had chosen to disregard Simpson's words as the
ramblings of a drunken ill-tempered man, they might have passed
unnoticed. But as he had taken the stand he did, there could be no
hushing it up now, and Hornblower knew it.

"Even so, there can be satisfaction without a duel, Mr. Hornblower."

"If Mr. Simpson will make me a full apology before the same gentlemen, I
would be satisfied, sir."

Simpson was no coward. He would die rather than submit to such a formal
humiliation.

"I see. Now I understand you are insisting on rather unusual conditions
for the duel?"

"There are precedents for it, sir. As the insulted party I can choose
any conditions which are not unfair."

"You sound like a sea lawyer to me, Mr. Hornblower."

The hint was sufficient to tell Hornblower that he had verged upon being
too glib, and he resolved in future to bridle his tongue. He stood
silent and waited for Masters to resume the conversation.

"You are determined, then, Mr. Hornblower, to continue with this
murderous business?"

"Yes, sir."

"The captain has given me further orders to attend the duel in person,
because of the strange conditions on which you insist. I must inform you
that I shall request the seconds to arrange for that."

"Yes, sir."

"Very good, then, Mr. Hornblower."

Masters looked at Hornblower as he dismissed him even more keenly than
he had done when Hornblower first came on board. He was looking for
signs of weakness or wavering--indeed, he was looking for any signs of
human feeling at all--but he could detect none. Hornblower had reached a
decision, he had weighed all the pros and cons, and his logical mind
told him that having decided in cold blood upon a course of action it
would be folly to allow himself to be influenced subsequently by
untrustworthy emotions. The conditions of the duel on which he was
insisting were mathematically advantageous. If he had once considered
with favour escaping from Simpson's persecution by a voluntary death it
was surely a gain to take an even chance of escaping from it without
dying. Similarly, if Simpson were (as he almost certainly was) a better
swordsman and a better pistol shot than him, the even chance was again
mathematically advantageous. There was nothing to regret about his
recent actions.

All very well; mathematically the conclusions were irrefutable, but
Hornblower was surprised to find that mathematics were not everything.
Repeatedly during that dreary afternoon and evening Hornblower found
himself suddenly gulping with anxiety as the realisation came to him
afresh that tomorrow morning he would be risking his life on the spin of
a coin. One chance out of two and he would be dead, his consciousness at
an end, his flesh cold, and the world, almost unbelievably, would be
going on without him. The thought sent a shiver through him despite
himself. And he had plenty of time for these reflections, for the
convention that forbade him from encountering his destined opponent
before the moment of the duel kept him necessarily in isolation, as far
as isolation could be found on the crowded decks of the _Justinian_. He
slung his hammock that night in a depressed mood, feeling unnaturally
tired; and he undressed in the clammy, stuffy dampness of the
'tweendecks feeling more than usually cold. He hugged the blankets round
himself, yearning to relax in their warmth, but relaxation would not
come. Time after time as he began to drift off to sleep he woke again
tense and anxious, full of thoughts of the morrow. He turned over
wearily a dozen times, hearing the ship's bell ring out each half hour,
feeling a growing contempt at his cowardice. He told himself in the end
that it was as well that his fate tomorrow depended upon pure chance,
for if he had to rely upon steadiness of hand and eye he would be dead
for certain after a night like this.

That conclusion presumably helped him to go to sleep for the last hour
or two of the night, for he awoke with a start to find Danvers shaking
him.

"Five bells" said Danvers. "Dawn in an hour. Rise and shine!"

Hornblower slid out of his hammock and stood in his shirt; the
'tweendecks was nearly dark and Danvers was almost invisible.

"Number One's letting us have the second cutter" said Danvers. "Masters
and Simpson and that lot are going first in the launch. Here's Preston."

Another shadowy figure loomed up in the darkness.

"Hellish cold" said Preston. "The devil of a morning to turn out.
Nelson, where's that tea?"

The mess attendant came with it as Hornblower was hauling on his
trousers. It maddened Hornblower that he shivered enough in the cold for
the cup to clatter in the saucer as he took it. But the tea was
grateful, and Hornblower drank it eagerly.

"Give me another cup" he said, and was proud of himself that he could
think about tea at that moment.

It was still dark as they went down into the cutter.

"Shove off" said the coxswain, and the boat pushed off from the ship's
side. There was a keen cold wind blowing which filled the dipping lug as
the cutter headed for the twin lights that marked the jetty.

"I ordered a hackney coach at the George to be waiting for us" said
Danvers. "Let's hope it is."

It was there, with the driver sufficiently sober to control his horse
moderately well despite his overnight potations. Danvers produced a
pocket flask as they settled themselves in with their feet in the straw.

"Take a sip, Hornblower?" he asked, proffering it. "There's no special
need for a steady hand this morning."

"No thank you" said Hornblower. His empty stomach revolted at the idea
of pouring spirits into it.

"The others will be there before us" commented Preston. "I saw the
quarter boat heading back just before we reached the jetty."

The etiquette of the duel demanded that the two opponents should reach
the ground separately; but only one boat would be necessary for the
return.

"The sawbones is with them" said Danvers. "Though God knows what use he
thinks he'll be today."

He sniggered, and with overlate politeness tried to cut his snigger off
short.

"How are you feeling, Hornblower?" asked Preston.

"Well enough" said Hornblower, forbearing to add that he only felt well
enough while this kind of conversation was not being carried on.

The hackney coach levelled itself off as it came over the crest of the
hill, and stopped beside the common. Another coach stood there waiting,
its single candle-lamp burning yellow in the growing dawn.

"There they are" said Preston; the faint light revealed a shadowy group
standing on frosty turf among the gorse bushes.

Hornblower, as they approached, caught a glimpse of Simpson's face as he
stood a little detached from the others. It was pale, and Hornblower
noticed that at that moment he swallowed nervously, just as he himself
was doing. Masters came towards them, shooting his usual keen
inquisitive look at Hornblower as they came together.

"This is the moment" he said "for this quarrel to be composed. This
country is at war. I hope, Mr. Hornblower, that you can be persuaded to
save a life for the King's service by not pressing this matter."

Hornblower looked across at Simpson, while Danvers answered for him.

"Has Mr. Simpson offered the proper redress?" asked Danvers.

"Mr. Simpson is willing to acknowledge that he wishes the incident had
never taken place."

"That is an unsatisfactory form" said Danvers. "It does not include an
apology, and you must agree that an apology is necessary, sir."

"What does your principal say?" persisted Masters.

"It is not for any principal to speak in these circumstances" said
Danvers, with a glance at Hornblower, who nodded. All this was as
inevitable as the ride in the hangman's cart, and as hideous. There
could be no going back now; Hornblower had never thought for one moment
that Simpson would apologise, and without an apology the affair must be
carried to a bloody conclusion. An even chance that he did not have five
minutes longer to live.

"You are determined, then, gentlemen" said Masters. "I shall have to
state that fact in my report."

"We are determined" said Preston.

"Then there is nothing for it but to allow this deplorable affair to
proceed. I left the pistols in the charge of Doctor Hepplewhite."

He turned and led them towards the other group--Simpson with Hether and
Cleveland, and Doctor Hepplewhite standing with a pistol held by the
muzzle in each hand. He was a bulky man with the red face of a
persistent drinker; he was actually grinning a spirituous grin at that
moment, rocking a little on his feet.

"Are the young fools set in their folly?" he asked; but everyone very
properly ignored him as having no business to ask such a question at
such a moment.

"Now" said Masters. "Here are the pistols, both primed, as you see, but
one loaded and the other unloaded, in accordance with the conditions. I
have here a guinea which I propose to spin to decide the allocation of
the weapons. Now, gentlemen, shall the spin give your principals one
pistol each irrevocably--for instance, if the coin shows heads shall Mr.
Simpson have this one--or shall the winner of the spin have choice of
weapons? It is my design to eliminate all possibility of collusion as
far as possible."

Hether and Cleveland and Danvers and Preston exchanged dubious glances.

"Let the winner of the spin choose" said Preston at length.

"Very well, gentlemen. Please call, Mr. Hornblower."

"Tails!" said Hornblower as the gold piece spun in the air.

Masters caught it and clapped a hand over it.

"Tails it is" said Masters, lifting his hand and revealing the coin to
the grouped seconds. "Please make your choice."

Hepplewhite held out the two pistols to him, death in one hand and life
in the other. It was a grim moment. There was only pure chance to direct
him; it called for a little effort to force his hand out.

"I'll have this one" he said; as he touched it the weapon seemed icy
cold.

"Then now I have done what was required of me" said Masters. "The rest
is for you gentlemen to carry out."

"Take this one, Simpson" said Hepplewhite. "And be careful how you
handle yours, Mr. Hornblower. You're a public danger."

The man was still grinning, gloating over the fact that someone else was
in mortal danger while he himself was in none. Simpson took the pistol
Hepplewhite offered him and settled it into his hand; once more his eyes
met Hornblower's, but there was neither recognition nor expression in
them.

"There are no distances to step out" Danvers was saying. "One spot's as
good as another. It's level enough here."

"Very good" said Hether. "Will you stand here, Mr. Simpson?"

Preston beckoned to Hornblower, who walked over. It was not easy to
appear brisk and unconcerned. Preston took him by the arm and stood him
up in front of Simpson, almost breast to breast--close enough to smell
the alcohol on his breath.

"For the last time, gentlemen" said Masters loudly. "Cannot you be
reconciled?"

There was no answer from anybody, only deep silence, during which it
seemed to Hornblower that the frantic beating of his heart must be
clearly audible. The silence was broken by an exclamation from Hether.

"We haven't settled who's to give the word!" he said. "Who's going to?"

"Let's ask Mr. Masters to give it" said Danvers.

Hornblower did not look round. He was looking steadfastly at the grey
sky past Simpson's right ear--somehow he could not look him in the face,
and he had no idea where Simpson was looking. The end of the world as he
knew it was close to him--soon there might be a bullet through his
heart.

"I will do it if you are agreed, gentlemen" he heard Masters say.

The grey sky was featureless; for this last look on the world he might
as well have been blindfolded. Masters raised his voice again.

"I will say 'one, two, three, fire'" he announced "with those intervals.
At the last word, gentlemen, you can fire as you will. Are you ready?"

"Yes" came Simpson's voice, almost in Hornblower's ear, it seemed.

"Yes" said Hornblower. He could hear the strain in his own voice.

"One" said Masters, and Hornblower felt at that moment the muzzle of
Simpson's pistol against his left ribs, and he raised his own.

It was in that second that he decided he could not kill Simpson even if
it were in his power, and he went on lifting his pistol, forcing himself
to look to see that it was pressed against the point of Simpson's
shoulder. A slight wound would suffice.

"Two" said Masters. "Three. Fire!"

Hornblower pulled his trigger. There was a click and a spun of smoke
from the lock of his pistol. The priming had gone off but no more--his
was the unloaded weapon, and he knew what it was to die. A tenth of a
second later there was a click and spurt of smoke from Simpson's pistol
against his heart. Stiff and still they both stood, slow to realise what
had happened.

"A misfire, by God!" said Danvers.

The seconds crowded round them.

"Give me those pistols!" said Masters, taking them from the weak hands
that held them. "The loaded one might be hanging fire, and we don't want
it to go off now."

"Which was the loaded one?" asked Hether, consumed with curiosity.

"That is something it is better not to know" answered Masters, changing
the two pistols rapidly from hand to hand so as to confuse everyone.

"What about a second shot?" asked Danvers, and Masters looked up
straight and inflexibly at him.

"There will be no second shot" he said. "Honour is completely satisfied.
These two gentlemen have come through this ordeal extremely well. No one
can now think little of Mr. Simpson if he expresses his regret for the
occurrence, and no one can think little of Mr. Hornblower if he accepts
that statement in reparation."

Hepplewhite burst into a roar of laughter.

"Your faces!" he boomed, slapping his thigh. "You ought to see how you
all look! Solemn as cows!"

"Mr. Hepplewhite" said Masters "your behaviour is indecorous. Gentlemen,
our coaches are waiting on the road, the cutter is at the jetty. And I
think all of us would be the better for some breakfast; including Mr.
Hepplewhite."

That should have been the end of the incident. The excited talk which
had gone round the anchored squadron about the unusual duel died away in
time, although everyone knew Hornblower's name now, and not as the
midshipman who was seasick in Spithead but as the man who was willing to
take an even chance in cold blood. But in the _Justinian_ herself there
was other talk; whispers which were circulated forward and aft.

"Mr. Hornblower has requested permission to speak to you, sir" said Mr.
Clay, the first lieutenant, one morning while making his report to the
captain.

"Oh, send him in when you go out" said Keene, and sighed.

Ten minutes later a knock on his cabin door ushered in a very angry
young man.

"Sir!" began Hornblower.

"I can guess what you're going to say" said Keene.

"Those pistols in the duel I fought with Simpson were not loaded!"

"Hepplewhite blabbed, I suppose" said Keene.

"And it was by your orders, I understand, sir."

"You are quite correct. I gave those orders to Mr. Masters."

"It was an unwarrantable liberty, sir!"

That was what Hornblower meant to say, but he stumbled without dignity
over the polysyllables.

"Possibly it was" said Keene patiently, rearranging, as always, the
papers on his desk.

The calmness of the admission disconcerted Hornblower, who could only
splutter for the next few moments.

"I saved a life for the King's service" went on Keene, when the
spluttering died away. "A young life. No one has suffered any harm. On
the other hand, both you and Simpson have had your courage amply proved.
You both know you can stand fire now, and so does every one else."

"You have touched my personal honour, sir" said Hornblower, bringing out
one of his rehearsed speeches "for that there can only be one remedy."

"Restrain yourself, please, Mr. Hornblower." Keene shifted himself in
his chair with a wince of pain as he prepared to make a speech. "I must
remind you of one salutary regulation of the Navy, to the effect that no
junior officer can challenge his superior to a duel. The reasons for it
are obvious--otherwise promotion would be too easy. The mere issuing of
a challenge by a junior to a senior is a court-martial offence, Mr.
Hornblower."

"Oh!" said Hornblower feebly.

"Now here is some gratuitous advice" went on Keene. "You have fought one
duel and emerged with honour. That is good. Never fight another--that is
better. Some people, oddly enough, acquire a taste for duelling, as a
tiger acquires a taste for blood. They are never good officers, and
never popular ones either."

It was then that Hornblower realised that a great part of the keen
excitement with which he had entered the captain's cabin was due to
anticipation of the giving of the challenge. There could be a morbid
desire for danger--and a morbid desire to occupy momentarily the centre
of the stage. Keene was waiting for him to speak, and it was hard to say
anything.

"I understand, sir" he said at last.

Keene shifted in his chair again.

"There is another matter I wanted to take up with you, Mr. Hornblower.
Captain Pellew of the _Indefatigable_ has room for another midshipman.
Captain Pellew is partial to a game of whist, and has no good fourth on
board. He and I have agreed to consider favourably your application for
a transfer should you care to make one. I don't have to point out that
any ambitious young officer would jump at the chance of serving in a
frigate."

"A frigate!" said Hornblower.

Everybody knew of Pellew's reputation and success. Distinction,
promotion, prize money--an officer under Pellew's command could hope for
all these. Competition for nomination to the _Indefatigable_ must be
intense, and this was the chance of a lifetime. Hornblower was on the
point of making a glad acceptance, when further considerations
restrained him.

"That is very good of you, sir" he said. "I do not know how to thank
you. But you accepted me as a midshipman here, and of course I must stay
with you."

The drawn, apprehensive face relaxed into a smile.

"Not many men would have said that" said Keene. "But I am going to
insist on your accepting the offer. I shall not live very much longer to
appreciate your loyalty. And this ship is not the place for you--this
ship with her useless captain--don't interrupt me--and her worn-out
first lieutenant and her old midshipmen. You should be where there may
be speedy opportunities of advancement. I have the good of the service
in mind, Mr. Hornblower, when I suggest you accept Captain Pellew's
invitation--and it might be less disturbing for me if you did."

"Aye aye, sir" said Hornblower.




                           THE CARGO OF RICE
                                    *


The wolf was in among the sheep. The tossing grey water of the Bay of
Biscay was dotted with white sails as far as the eye could see, and
although a strong breeze was blowing every vessel was under perilously
heavy canvas. Every ship but one was trying to escape; the exception was
His Majesty's frigate _Indefatigable_, Captain Sir Edward Pellew.
Farther out in the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away, a great battle was
being fought, where the ships of the line were thrashing out the
question as to whether England or France should wield the weapon of sea
power; here in the Bay the convoy which the French ships were intended
to escort was exposed to the attack of a ship of prey at liberty to
capture any ship she could overhaul. She had come surging up from
leeward, cutting off all chance of escape in that direction, and the
clumsy merchant ships were forced to beat to windward; they were all
filled with the food which revolutionary France (her economy disordered
by the convulsion through which she was passing) was awaiting so
anxiously, and their crews were all anxious to escape confinement in an
English prison. Ship after ship was overhauled; a shot or two, and the
newfangled tri-colour came fluttering down from the gaff, and a
prize-crew was hurriedly sent on board to conduct the captive to an
English port while the frigate dashed after fresh prey.

On the quarterdeck of the _Indefatigable_ Pellew fumed over each
necessary delay. The convoy, each ship as close to the wind as she would
lie, and under all the sail she could carry, was slowly scattering,
spreading farther and farther with the passing minutes, and some of
these would find safety in mere dispersion if any time was wasted.
Pellew did not wait to pick up his boat; at each surrender he merely
ordered away an officer and an armed guard, and the moment the
prize-crew was on its way he filled his maintopsail again and hurried
off after the next victim. The brig they were pursuing at the moment was
slow to surrender. The long nine-pounders in the _Indefatigable's_ bows
bellowed out more than once; on that heaving sea it was not so easy to
aim accurately and the brig continued on her course hoping for some
miracle to save her.

"Very well" snapped Pellew. "He has asked for it. Let him have it."

The gunlayers at the bow chasers changed their point of aim, firing at
the ship instead of across her bows.

"Not into the hull, damn it" shouted Pellew--one shot had struck the
brig perilously close to her waterline. "Cripple her."

The next shot by luck or by judgment was given better elevation. The
slings of the foretopsail yard were shot away, the reefed sail came
down, the yard hanging lopsidedly, and the brig came up into the wind
for the _Indefatigable_ to heave to close beside her, her broadside
ready to fire into her. Under that threat her flag came down.

"What brig's that?" shouted Pellew through his megaphone.

"_Marie Galante_ of Bordeaux" translated the officer beside Pellew as
the French captain made reply. "Twenty-four days out from New Orleans
with rice."

"Rice!" said Pellew. "That'll sell for a pretty penny when we get her
home. Two hundred tons, I should say. Twelve of a crew at most. She'll
need a prize-crew of four, a midshipman's command."

He looked round him as though for inspiration before giving his next
order.

"Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!"

"Take four men of the cutter's crew and board that brig. Mr. Soames will
give you our position. Take her into any English port you can make, and
report there for orders."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower was at his station at the starboard quarterdeck
carronades--which was perhaps how he had caught Pellew's eye--his dirk
at his side and a pistol in his belt. It was a moment for fast thinking,
for anyone could see Pellew's impatience. With the _Indefatigable_
cleared for action, his sea chest would be part of the surgeon's
operating table down below, so that there was no chance of getting
anything out of it. He would have to leave just as he was. The cutter
was even now clawing up to a position on the _Indefatigable's_ quarter,
so he ran to the ship's side and hailed her, trying to make his voice
sound as big and as manly as he could, and at the word of the lieutenant
in command she turned her bows in towards the frigate.

"Here's our latitude and longitude, Mr. Hornblower" said Soames, the
master, handing a scrap of paper to him.

"Thank you" said Hornblower, shoving it into his pocket.

He scrambled awkwardly into the mizzen-chains and looked down into the
cutter. Ship and boat were pitching together, almost bows on to the sea,
and the distance between them looked appallingly great; the bearded
seaman standing in the bows could only just reach up to the chains with
his long boat-hook. Hornblower hesitated for a long second; he knew he
was ungainly and awkward--book learning was of no use when it came to
jumping into a boat--but he had to make the leap, for Pellew was fuming
behind him and the eyes of the boat's crew and of the whole ship's
company were on him. Better to jump and hurt himself, better to jump and
make an exhibition of himself, than to delay the ship. Waiting was
certain failure, while he still had a choice if he jumped. Perhaps at a
word from Pellew the _Indefatigable's_ helmsman allowed the ship's head
to fall off from the sea a little. A somewhat diagonal wave lifted the
_Indefatigable's_ stern and then passed on, so that the cutter's bows
rose as the ship's stern sank a trifle. Hornblower braced himself and
leaped. His feet reached the gunwale and he tottered there for one
indescribable second. A seaman grabbed the breast of his jacket and he
fell forward rather than backward. Not even the stout arm of the seaman,
fully extended, could hold him up, and he pitched headforemost, legs in
the air, upon the hands on the second thwart. He cannoned onto their
bodies, knocking the breath out of his own against their muscular
shoulders, and finally struggled into an upright position.

"I'm sorry" he gasped to the men who had broken his fall.

"Never you mind, sir" said the nearest one, a real tarry sailor,
tattooed and pigtailed. "You're only a featherweight."

The lieutenant in command was looking at him from the sternsheets.

"Would you go to the brig, please, sir?" he asked, and the lieutenant
bawled an order and the cutter swung round as Hornblower made his way
aft.

It was a pleasant surprise not to be received with the broad grins of
tolerantly concealed amusement. Boarding a small boat from a big frigate
in even a moderate sea was no easy matter; probably every man on board
had arrived headfirst at some time or other, and it was not in the
tradition of the service, as understood in the _Indefatigable_, to laugh
at a man who did his best without shirking.

"Are you taking charge of the brig?" asked the lieutenant.

"Yes, sir. The captain told me to take four of your men."

"They had better be topmen, then" said the lieutenant, casting his eyes
aloft at the rigging of the brig. The foretopsail yard was hanging
precariously, and the jib halliard had slacked off so that the sail was
flapping thunderously in the wind. "Do you know these men, or shall I
pick 'em for you?"

"I'd be obliged if you would, sir."

The lieutenant shouted four names, and four men replied.

"Keep 'em away from drink and they'll be all right" said the lieutenant.
"Watch the French crew. They'll recapture the ship and have you in a
French gaol before you can say 'Jack Robinson' if you don't."

"Aye aye, sir" said Hornblower.

The cutter surged alongside the brig, white water creaming between the
two vessels. The tattooed sailor hastily concluded a bargain with
another man on his thwart and pocketed a lump of tobacco--the men were
leaving their possessions behind just like Hornblower--and sprang for
the mainchains. Another man followed him, and they stood and waited
while Hornblower with difficulty made his way forward along the plunging
boat. He stood, balancing precariously, on the forward thwart. The
mainchains of the brig were far lower than the mizzen-chains of the
_Indefatigable_, but this time he had to jump upwards. One of the seamen
steadied him with an arm on his shoulder.

"Wait for it, sir" he said. "Get ready. Now jump, sir."

Hornblower hurled himself, all arms and legs, like a leaping frog, at
the mainchains. His hands reached the shrouds, but his knee slipped off,
and the brig, rolling, lowered him thigh deep into the sea as the
shrouds slipped through his hands. But the waiting seamen grabbed his
wrists and hauled him on board, and two more seamen followed him. He led
the way onto the deck.

The first sight to meet his eyes was a man seated on the hatch cover,
his head thrown back, holding to his mouth a bottle, the bottom pointing
straight up to the sky. He was one of a large group all sitting round
the hatch cover; there were more bottles in evidence; one was passed by
one man to another as he looked, and as he approached a roll of the ship
brought an empty bottle rolling past his toes to clatter into the
scuppers. Another of the group, with white hair blowing in the wind,
rose to welcome him, and stood for a moment with waving arms and rolling
eyes, bracing himself as though to say something of immense importance
and seeking earnestly for the right words to use.

"Goddam English" was what he finally said, and, having said it, he sat
down with a bump on the hatch cover and from a seated position proceeded
to lie down and compose himself to sleep with his head on his arms.

"They've made the best of their time, sir, by the Holy" said the seaman
at Hornblower's elbow.

"Wish we were as happy" said another.

A case still a quarter full of bottles, each elaborately sealed, stood
on the deck beside the hatch cover, and the seaman picked out a bottle
to look at it curiously. Hornblower did not need to remember the
lieutenant's warning; on his shore excursions with press gangs he had
already had experience of the British seaman's tendency to drink. His
boarding party would be as drunk as the Frenchmen in half an hour if he
allowed it. A frightful mental picture of himself drifting in the Bay of
Biscay with a disabled ship and a drunken crew rose in his mind and
filled him with anxiety.

"Put that down" he ordered.

The urgency of the situation made his seventeen-year-old voice crack
like a fourteen-year-old's, and the seaman hesitated, holding the bottle
in his hand.

"Put it down, d'ye hear?" said Hornblower, desperate with worry. This
was his first independent command; conditions were absolutely novel, and
excitement brought out all the passion of his mercurial temperament,
while at the same time the more calculating part of his mind told him
that if he were not obeyed now he never would be. His pistol was in his
belt, and he put his hand on the butt, and it is conceivable that he
would have drawn it and used it (if the priming had not got wet, he said
to himself bitterly when he thought about the incident later on), but
the seaman with one more glance at him put the bottle back into the
case. The incident was closed, and it was time for the next step.

"Take these men forrard" he said, giving the obvious order. "Throw 'em
into the forecastle."

"Aye aye, sir."

Most of the Frenchmen could still walk, but three were dragged by their
collars, while the British herded the others before them.

"Come alongee" said one of the seamen. "Thisa waya."

He evidently believed a Frenchman would understand him better if he
spoke like that. The Frenchman who had greeted their arrival now
awakened, and, suddenly realising he was being dragged forward, broke
away and turned back to Hornblower.

"I officer" he said, pointing to himself. "I not go wit' zem."

"Take him away!" said Hornblower. In his tense condition he could not
stop to debate trifles.

He dragged the case of bottles down to the ship's side and pitched them
overboard two at a time--obviously it was wine of some special vintage
which the Frenchmen had decided to drink before the English could get
their hands on it, but that weighed not at all with Hornblower, for a
British seaman could get drunk on vintage claret as easily as upon
service rum. The task was finished before the last of the Frenchmen
disappeared into the forecastle, and Hornblower had time to look about
him. The strong breeze blew confusingly round his ears, and the
ceaseless thunder of the flapping jib made it hard to think as he looked
at the ruin aloft. Every sail was flat aback, the brig was moving
jerkily, gathering sternway for a space before her untended rudder threw
her round to spill the wind and bring her up again like a jibbing horse.
His mathematical mind had already had plenty of experience with a
well-handled ship, with the delicate adjustment between after sails and
headsails. Here the balance had been disturbed, and Hornblower was at
work on the problem of forces acting on plane surfaces when his men came
trooping back to him. One thing at least was certain, and that was that
the precariously hanging foretopsail yard would tear itself free to do
all sorts of unforeseeable damage if it were tossed about much more. The
ship must be properly hove to, and Hornblower could guess how to set
about it, and he formulated the order in his mind just in time to avoid
any appearance of hesitation.

"Brace the after yards to larboard" he said. "Man the braces, men."

They obeyed him, while he himself went gingerly to the wheel; he had
served a few tricks as helmsman, learning his professional duties under
Pellew's orders, but he did not feel happy about it. The spokes felt
foreign to his fingers as he took hold; he spun the wheel experimentally
but timidly. But it was easy. With the after yards braced round the brig
rode more comfortably at once, and the spokes told their own story to
his sensitive fingers as the ship became a thing of logical construction
again. Hornblower's mind completed the solution of the problem of the
effect of the rudder at the same time as his senses solved it
empirically. The wheel could be safely lashed, he knew, in these
conditions, and he slipped the becket over the spoke and stepped away
from the wheel, with the _Marie Galante_ riding comfortably and taking
the seas on her starboard bow.

The seaman took his competence gratifyingly for granted, but Hornblower,
looking at the tangle on the foremast, had not the remotest idea of how
to deal with the next problem. He was not even sure about what was
wrong. But the hands under his orders were seamen of vast experience,
who must have dealt with similar emergencies a score of times. The
first--indeed the only--thing to do was to delegate his responsibility.

"Who's the oldest seaman among you?" he demanded--his determination not
to quaver made him curt.

"Matthews, sir" said someone at length, indicating with his thumb the
pigtailed and tattooed seaman upon whom he had fallen in the cutter.

"Very well, then. I'll rate you petty officer, Matthews. Get to work at
once and clear that raffle away forrard. I'll be busy here aft."

It was a nervous moment for Hornblower, but Matthews put his knuckles to
his forehead.

"Aye aye, sir" he said, quite as a matter of course.

"Get that jib in first, before it flogs itself to pieces" said
Hornblower, greatly emboldened.

"Aye aye, sir."

"Carry on, then."

The seaman turned to go forward, and Hornblower walked aft. He took the
telescope from its becket on the poop, and swept the horizon. There were
a few sails in sight; the nearest ones he could recognise as prizes,
which, with all sail set that they could carry, were heading for England
as fast as they could go. Far away to windward he could see the
_Indefatigable's_ topsails as she clawed after the rest of the
convoy--she had already overhauled and captured all the slower and less
weatherly vessels, so that each succeeding chase would be longer. Soon
he would be alone on this wide sea, three hundred miles from England.
Three hundred miles--two days with a fair wind; but how long if the wind
turned foul?

He replaced the telescope; the men were already hard at work forward, so
he went below and looked round the neat cabins of the officers; two
single ones for the captain and the mate, presumably, and a double one
for the bos'un and the cook or the carpenter. He found the lazarette,
identifying it by the miscellaneous stores within it; the door was
swinging to and fro with a bunch of keys dangling. The French captain,
faced with the loss of all he possessed, had not even troubled to lock
the door again after taking out the case of wine. Hornblower locked the
door and put the keys in his pocket, and felt suddenly lonely--his first
experience of the loneliness of the man in command at sea. He went on
deck again, and at sight of him Matthews hurried aft and knuckled his
forehead.

"Beg pardon, sir, but we'll have to use the jeers to sling that yard
again."

"Very good."

"We'll need more hands than we have, sir. Can I put some o' they
Frenchies to work?"

"If you think you can. If any of them are sober enough."

"I think I can, sir. Drunk or sober."

"Very good."

It was at that moment that Hornblower remembered with bitter
self-reproach that the priming of his pistol was probably wet, and he
had not scorn enough for himself at having put his trust in a pistol
without re-priming after evolutions in a small boat. While Matthews went
forward he dashed below again. There was a case of pistols which he
remembered having seen in the captain's cabin, with a powder flask and
bullet bag hanging beside it. He loaded both weapons and reprimed his
own, and came on deck again with three pistols in his belt just as his
men appeared from the forecastle herding half a dozen Frenchmen. He
posed himself in the poop, straddling with his hands behind his back,
trying to adopt an air of magnificent indifference and understanding.
With the jeers taking the weight of yard and sail, an hour's hard work
resulted in the yard being slung again and the sail reset.

When the work was advancing towards completion, Hornblower came to
himself again to remember that in a few minutes he would have to set a
course, and he dashed below again to set out the chart and the dividers
and parallel rulers. From his pocket he extracted the crumpled scrap of
paper with his position on it--he had thrust it in there so carelessly a
little while back, at a time when the immediate problem before him was
to transfer himself from the _Indefatigable_ to the cutter. It made him
unhappy to think how cavalierly he had treated that scrap of paper then;
he began to feel that life in the Navy, although it seemed to move from
one crisis to another, was really one continuous crisis, that even while
dealing with one emergency it was necessary to be making plans to deal
with the next. He bent over the chart, plotted his position, and laid
off his course. It was a queer uncomfortable feeling to think that what
had up to this moment been an academic exercise conducted under the
reassuring supervision of Mr. Soames was now something on which hinged
his life and his reputation. He checked his working, decided on his
course, and wrote it down on a scrap of paper for fear he should forget
it.

So when the foretopsail yard was re-slung, and the prisoners herded back
into the forecastle, and Matthews looked to him for further orders, he
was ready.

"We'll square away" he said. "Matthews, send a man to the wheel."

He himself gave a hand at the braces; the wind had moderated and he felt
his men could handle the brig under her present sail.

"What course, sir?" asked the man at the wheel, and Hornblower dived
into his pocket for his scrap of paper.

"Nor'-east by north" he said, reading it out.

"Nor'-east by north, sir" said the helmsman; and the _Marie Galante_,
running free, set her course for England.

Night was closing in by now, and all round the circle of the horizon
there was not a sail in sight. There must be plenty of ships just over
the horizon, he knew, but that did not do much to ease his feeling of
loneliness as darkness came on. There was so much to do, so much to bear
in mind, and all the responsibility lay on his unaccustomed shoulders.
The prisoners had to be battened down in the forecastle, a watch had to
be set--there was even the trivial matter of hunting up flint and steel
to light the binnacle lamp. A hand forward as a lookout, who could also
keep an eye on the prisoners below; a hand aft at the wheel. Two hands
snatching some sleep--knowing that to get in any sail would be an
all-hands job--a hasty meal of water from the scuttlebutt and of biscuit
from the cabin stores in the lazarette--a constant eye to be kept on the
weather. Hornblower paced the deck in the darkness.

"Why don't you get some sleep, sir?" asked the man at the wheel.

"I will, later on, Hunter" said Hornblower, trying not to allow his tone
to reveal the fact that such a thing had never occurred to him.

He knew it was sensible advice, and he actually tried to follow it,
retiring below to fling himself down on the captain's cot; but of course
he could not sleep. When he heard the lookout bawling down the
companionway to rouse the other two hands to relieve the watch (they
were asleep in the next cabin to him) he could not prevent himself from
getting up again and coming on deck to see that all was well. With
Matthews in charge he felt he should not be anxious, and he drove
himself below again, but he had hardly fallen onto the cot again when a
new thought brought him to his feet again, his skin cold with anxiety,
and a prodigious self-contempt vying with anxiety for first place in his
emotions. He rushed on deck and walked forward to where Matthews was
squatting by the knightheads.

"Nothing has been done to see if the brig is taking in any water" he
said--he had hurriedly worked out the wording of that sentence during
his walk forward, so as to cast no aspersion on Matthews and yet at the
same time, for the sake of discipline, attributing no blame to himself.

"That's so, sir" said Matthews.

"One of those shots fired by the _Indefatigable_ hulled her" went on
Hornblower. "What damage did it do?"

"I don't rightly know, sir" said Matthews. "I was in the cutter at the
time."

"We must look as soon as it's light" said Hornblower. "And we'd better
sound the well now."

Those were brave words; during his rapid course in seamanship aboard the
_Indefatigable_ Hornblower had had a little instruction everywhere,
working under the orders of every head of department in rotation. Once
he had been with the carpenter when he sounded the well--whether he
could find the well in this ship and sound it he did not know.

"Aye aye, sir" said Matthews, without hesitation, and strolled aft to
the pump. "You'll need a light, sir. I'll get one."

When he came back with the lantern he shone it on the coiled sounding
line hanging beside the pump, so that Hornblower recognised it at once.
He lifted it down, inserted the three-foot weighted rod into the
aperture of the well, and then remembered in time to take it out again
and make sure it was dry. Then he let it drop, paying out the line until
he felt the rod strike the ship's bottom with a satisfactory thud. He
hauled out the line again, and Matthews held the lantern as Hornblower
with some trepidation brought out the timber to examine it.

"Not a drop, sir!" said Matthews. "Dry as yesterday's pannikin."

Hornblower was agreeably surprised. Any ship he had ever heard of leaked
to a certain extent; even in the well-found _Indefatigable_ pumping had
been necessary every day. He did not know whether this dryness was a
remarkable phenomenon or a very remarkable one. He wanted to be both
noncommittal and imperturbable.

"H'm" was the comment he eventually produced. "Very good, Matthews. Coil
that line again."

The knowledge that the _Marie Galante_ was making no water at all might
have encouraged him to sleep, if the wind had not chosen to veer
steadily and strengthen itself somewhat soon after he retired again. It
was Matthews who came down and pounded on his door with the unwelcome
news.

"We can't keep the course you set much longer, sir" concluded Matthews.
"And the wind's coming gusty-like."

"Very good, I'll be up. Call all hands" said Hornblower, with a
testiness that might have been the result of a sudden awakening if it
had not really disguised his inner quaverings.

With such a small crew he dared not run the slightest risk of being
taken by surprise by the weather. Nothing could be done in a hurry, as
he soon found. He had to take the wheel while his four hands laboured at
reefing topsails and snugging the brig down; the task took half the
night, and by the time it was finished it was quite plain that with the
wind veering northerly the _Marie Galante_ could not steer north-east by
north any longer. Hornblower gave up the wheel and went below to the
chart, but what he saw there only confirmed the pessimistic decision he
had already reached by mental calculation. As close to the wind as they
could lie on this tack they could not weather Ushant. Shorthanded as he
was he did not dare continue in the hope that the wind might back; all
his reading and all his instruction had warned him of the terrors of a
lee shore. There was nothing for it but to go about; he returned to the
deck with a heavy heart.

"All hands wear ship" he said, trying to bellow the order in the manner
of Mr. Bolton, the third lieutenant of the _Indefatigable_.

They brought the brig safely round, and she took up her new course,
close hauled on the starboard tack. Now she was heading away from the
dangerous shores of France, without a doubt, but she was heading nearly
as directly away from the friendly shores of England--gone was all hope
of an easy two days' run to England; gone was any hope of sleep that
night for Hornblower.

During the year before he joined the Navy Hornblower had attended
classes given by a penniless French migr in French, music, and
dancing. Early enough the wretched migr had found that Hornblower had
no ear for music whatever, which made it almost impossible to teach him
to dance, and so he had endeavoured to earn his fee by concentrating on
French. A good deal of what he had taught Hornblower had found a
permanent resting place in Hornblower's tenacious memory. He had never
thought it would be of much use to him, but he discovered the contrary
when the French captain at dawn insisted on an interview with him. The
Frenchman had a little English, but it was a pleasant surprise to
Hornblower to find that they actually could get along better in French,
as soon as he could fight down his shyness sufficiently to produce the
halting words.

The captain drank thirstily from the scuttlebutt; his cheeks were of
course unshaven and he wore a bleary look after twelve hours in a
crowded forecastle, where he had been battened down three parts drunk.

"My men are hungry" said the captain; he did not look hungry himself.

"Mine also" said Hornblower. "I also."

It was natural when one spoke French to gesticulate, to indicate his men
with a wave of the hand and himself with a tap on the chest.

"I have a cook" said the captain.

It took some time to arrange the terms of a truce. The Frenchmen were to
be allowed on deck, the cook was to provide food for everyone on board,
and while these amenities were permitted, until noon, the French would
make no attempt to take the ship.

"Good" said the captain at length; and when Hornblower had given the
necessary orders permitting the release of the crew he shouted for the
cook and entered into an urgent discussion regarding dinner. Soon smoke
was issuing satisfactorily from the galley chimney.

Then the captain looked up at the grey sky, at the close reefed
topsails, and glanced into the binnacle at the compass.

"A foul wind for England" he remarked.

"Yes" said Hornblower shortly. He did not want this Frenchman to guess
at his trepidation and bitterness. The captain seemed to be feeling the
motion of the brig under his feet with attention.

"She rides a little heavily, does she not?" he said.

"Perhaps" said Hornblower. He was not familiar with the _Marie Galante_,
nor with ships at all, and he had no opinion on the subject, but he was
not going to reveal his ignorance.

"Does she leak?" asked the captain.

"There is no water in her" said Hornblower.

"Ah!" said the captain. "But you would find none in the well. We are
carrying a cargo of rice, you must remember."

"Yes" said Hornblower.

He found it very hard at that moment to remain outwardly unperturbed, as
his mind grasped the implications of what was being said to him. Rice
would absorb every drop of water taken in by the ship, so that no leak
would be apparent on sounding the well--and yet every drop of water
taken in would deprive her of that much buoyancy, all the same.

"One shot from your cursed frigate struck us in the hull" said the
captain. "Of course you have investigated the damage?"

"Of course" said Hornblower, lying bravely.

But as soon as he could he had a private conversation with Matthews on
the point, and Matthews instantly looked grave.

"Where did the shot hit her, sir?" he asked.

"Somewhere on the port side, forrard, I should judge."

He and Matthews craned their necks over the ship's side.

"Can't see nothin', sir" said Matthews. "Lower me over the side in a
bowline and I'll see what I can find, sir."

Hornblower was about to agree and then changed his mind.

"I'll go over the side myself" he said.

He could not analyse the motives which impelled him to say that. Partly
he wanted to see things with his own eyes; partly he was influenced by
the doctrine that he should never give an order he was not prepared to
carry out himself--but mostly it must have been the desire to impose a
penance on himself for his negligence.

Matthews and Carson put a bowline round him and lowered him over. He
found himself dangling against the ship's side, with the sea bubbling
just below him; as the ship pitched the sea came up to meet him, and he
was wet to the waist in the first five seconds; and as the ship rolled
he was alternately swung away from the side and bumped against it. The
men with the line walked steadily aft, giving him the chance to examine
the whole side of the brig above water, and there was not a shot-hole to
be seen. He said as much to Matthews when they hauled him on deck.

"Then it's below the waterline, sir" said Matthews, saying just what was
in Hornblower's mind. "You're sure the shot hit her, sir?"

"Yes, I'm sure" snapped Hornblower.

Lack of sleep and worry and a sense of guilt were all shortening his
temper, and he had to speak sharply or break down in tears. But he had
already decided on the next move--he had made up his mind about that
while they were hauling him up.

"We'll heave her to on the other tack and try again" he said.

On the other tack the ship would incline over to the other side, and the
shot-hole, if there was one, would not be so deeply submerged.
Hornblower stood with the water dripping from his clothes as they wore
the brig round; the wind was keen and cold, but he was shivering with
expectancy rather than cold. The heeling of the brig laid him much more
definitely against the side, and they lowered him until his legs were
scraping over the marine growths which she carried there between wind
and water. They then walked aft with him, dragging him along the side of
the ship, and just abaft the foremast he found what he was seeking.

"Avast, there!" he yelled up to the deck, mastering the sick despair
that he felt. The motion of the bowline along the ship ceased. "Lower
away! Another two feet!"

Now he was waist-deep in the water, and when the brig swayed the water
closed briefly over his head, like a momentary death. Here it was, two
feet below the waterline even with the brig hove to on this tack--a
splintered, jagged hole, square rather than round, and a foot across. As
the sea boiled round him Hornblower even fancied he could hear it
bubbling into the ship, but that might be pure fancy.

He hailed the deck for them to haul him up again, and they stood eagerly
listening for what he had to say.

"Two feet below the waterline, sir?" said Matthews. "She was close
hauled and heeling right over, of course, when we hit her. But her bows
must have lifted just as we fired. And of course she's lower in the
water now."

That was the point. Whatever they did now, however much they heeled her,
that hole would be under water. And on the other tack it would be far
under water, with much additional pressure; yet on the present tack they
were headed for France. And the more water they took in, the lower the
brig would settle, and the greater would be the pressure forcing water
in through the hole. Something must be done to plug the leak, and
Hornblower's reading of the manuals of seamanship told him what it was.

"We must fother a sail and get it over that hole" he announced. "Call
those Frenchmen over."

To fother a sail was to make something like a vast hairy doormat out of
it, by threading innumerable lengths of half-unravelled line through it.
When this was done the sail would be lowered below the ship's bottom and
placed against the hole. The inward pressure would then force the hairy
mass so tightly against the hole that the entrance of water would be
made at least much more difficult.

The Frenchmen were not quick to help in the task; it was no longer their
ship, and they were heading for an English prison, so that even with
their lives at stake they were somewhat apathetic. It took time to get
out a new topgallant sail--Hornblower felt that the stouter the canvas
the better--and to set a party to work cutting lengths of line,
threading them through, and unravelling them. The French captain looked
at them squatting on the deck all at work.

"Five years I spent in a prison hulk in Portsmouth during the last war"
he said. "Five years."

"Yes" said Hornblower.

He might have felt sympathy, but he was not only preoccupied with his
own problems but he was numb with cold. He not only had every intention
if possible of escorting the French captain to England and to prison
again but he also at that very moment intended to go below and
appropriate some of his spare clothing.

Down below it seemed to Hornblower as if the noises all about him--the
creaks and groans of a wooden ship at sea--were more pronounced than
usual. The brig was riding easily enough hove-to, and yet the bulkheads
down below were cracking and creaking as if the brig were racking
herself to pieces in a storm. He dismissed the notion as a product of
his over-stimulated imagination, but by the time he had towelled himself
into something like warmth and put on the captain's best suit it
recurred to him; the brig was groaning as if in stress.

He came on deck again to see how the working party was progressing. He
had hardly been on deck two minutes when one of the Frenchmen, reaching
back for another length of line, stopped in his movement to stare at the
deck. He picked at a deck seam, looked up and caught Hornblower's eye,
and called to him. Hornblower made no pretence of understanding the
words; the gestures explained themselves. The deck seam was opening a
little; the pitch was bulging out of it. Hornblower looked at the
phenomenon without understanding it--only a foot or two of the seam was
open, and the rest of the deck seemed solid enough. No! Now that his
attention was called to it, and he looked further, there were one or two
other places in the deck where the pitch had risen in ridges from out of
the seams. It was something beyond his limited experience, even beyond
his extensive reading. But the French captain was at his side staring at
the deck too.

"My God!" he said "The rice! The rice!"

The French word 'riz' that he used was unknown to Hornblower, but he
stamped his foot on the deck and pointed down through it.

"The cargo!" he said in explanation. "It--it grows bigger."

Matthews was with them now, and without knowing a word of French he
understood.

"Didn't I hear this brig was full of rice, sir?" he asked. "Yes."

"That's it, then. The water's got into it and it's swelling." So it
would. Dry rice soaked in water would double or treble its volume. The
cargo was swelling and bursting the seams of the ship open. Hornblower
remembered the unnatural creaks and groans below. It was a black moment;
he looked round at the unfriendly sea for inspiration and support, and
found neither. Several seconds passed before he was ready to speak, and
ready to maintain the dignity of a naval officer in face of
difficulties.

"The sooner we get that sail over that hole the better, then" he said.
It was too much to be expected that his voice should sound quite
natural. "Hurry those Frenchmen up."

He turned to pace the deck, so as to allow his feelings to subside and
to set his thoughts running in an orderly fashion again, but the French
captain was at his elbow, voluble as a Job's comforter.

"I said I thought the ship was riding heavily" he said. "She is lower in
the water."

"Go to the devil" said Hornblower, in English--he could not think up the
French for that phrase.

Even as he stood he felt a sudden sharp shock beneath his feet, as if
someone had hit the deck underneath them with a mallet. The ship was
springing apart bit by bit.

"Hurry with that sail!" he yelled, turning back to the working party,
and then was angry with himself because the tone of his voice must have
betrayed undignified agitation.

At last an area five feet square of the sail was fothered, lines were
rove through the grommets, and the working party hurried forward to work
the sail under the brig and drag it aft to the hole. Hornblower was
taking off his clothes, not out of regard for the captain's property but
so as to keep them dry for himself.

"I'll go over and see that it's in place" he said. "Matthews, get a
bowline ready for me."

Naked and wet, it seemed to him as if the wind blew clear through him;
rubbing against the ship's side as she rolled he lost a good deal of
skin, and the waves passing down the ship smacked at him with a
boisterous lack of consideration. But he saw the fothered sail placed
against the hole, and with intense satisfaction he saw the hairy mass
suck into position, dimpling over the hole to form a deep hollow so that
he could be sure that the hole was plugged solid. They hauled him up
again when he hailed, and awaited his orders; he stood naked, stupid
with cold and fatigue and lack of sleep, struggling to form his next
decision.

"Lay her on the starboard tack" he said at length.

If the brig were going to sink, it hardly mattered if it were one
hundred or two hundred miles from the French coast; if she were to stay
afloat he wanted to be well clear of that lee shore and the chance of
recapture. The shot-hole with its fothered sail would be deeper under
water to increase the risk, but it seemed to be the best chance. The
French captain saw them making preparations to wear the brig round, and
turned upon Hornblower with voluble protests. With this wind they could
make Bordeaux easily on the other tack. Hornblower was risking all their
lives, he said. Into Hornblower's numb mind crept, uninvited, the
translation of something he had previously wanted to say. He could use
it now.

"Allez au diable" he snapped, as he put the Frenchman's stout woollen
shirt on over his head.

When his head emerged the Frenchman was still protesting volubly, so
violently indeed that a new doubt came into Hornblower's mind. A word to
Matthews sent him round the French prisoners to search for weapons.
There was nothing to be found except the sailors' knives, but as a
matter of precaution Hornblower had them all impounded, and when he had
dressed he went to special trouble with his three pistols, drawing the
charges from them and reloading and repriming afresh. Three pistols in
his belt looked piratical, as though he were still young enough to be
playing imaginative games, but Hornblower felt in his bones that there
might be a time when the Frenchmen might try to rise against their
captors, and three pistols would not be too many against twelve
desperate men who had makeshift weapons ready to hand, belaying pins and
the like.

Matthews was awaiting him with a long face.

"Sir" he said "begging your pardon, but I don't like the looks of it.
Straight, I don't. I don't like the feel of her. She's settlin' down and
she's openin' up, I'm certain sure. Beg your pardon, sir, for saying
so."

Down below Hornblower had heard the fabric of the ship continuing to
crack and complain; up here the deck seams were gaping more widely.
There was a very likely explanation; the swelling of the rice must have
forced open the ship's seams below water, so that plugging the shot-hole
would have only eliminated what would be by now only a minor leak. Water
must still be pouring in, the cargo still swelling, opening up the ship
like an overblown flower. Ships were built to withstand blows from
without, and there was nothing about their construction to resist an
outward pressure. Wider and wider would gape the seams, and faster and
faster the sea would gain access to the cargo.

"Look'e there, sir!" said Matthews suddenly.

In the broad light of day a small grey shape was hurrying along the
weather scuppers; another one followed it and another after that. Rats!
Something convulsive must be going on down below to bring them on deck
in daytime, from out of their comfortable nests among the unlimited food
of the cargo. The pressure must be enormous. Hornblower felt another
small shock beneath his feet at that moment, as something further parted
beneath them. But there was one more card to play, one last line of
defence that he could think of.

"I'll jettison the cargo" said Hornblower. He had never uttered that
word in his life, but he had read it. "Get the prisoners and we'll
start."

The battened down hatch cover was domed upwards curiously and
significantly; as the wedges were knocked out one plank tore loose at
one end with a crash, pointing diagonally upwards, and as the working
party lifted off the cover a brown form followed it upwards--a bag of
rice, forced out by the underlying pressure until it jammed in the
hatchway.

"Tail onto those tackles and sway it up" said Hornblower.

Bag by bag the rice was hauled up from the hold; sometimes the bags
split, allowing a torrent of rice to pour onto the deck, but that did
not matter. Another section of the working party swept rice and bags to
the lee side and into the ever-hungry sea. After the first three bags
the difficulties increased, for the cargo was so tightly jammed below
that it called for enormous force to tear each bag out of its position.
Two men had to go down the hatchway to pry the bags loose and adjust the
slings. There was a momentary hesitation on the part of the two
Frenchmen to whom Hornblower pointed--the bags might not all be jammed
and the hold of a tossing ship was a dangerous place wherein a roll
might bury them alive--but Hornblower had no thought at that moment for
other people's human fears. He scowled at the brief check and they
hastened to lower themselves down the hatchway. The labour was enormous
as it went on hour after hour; the men at the tackles were dripping with
sweat and drooping with fatigue, but they had to relieve periodically
the men below, for the bags had jammed themselves in tiers, pressed hard
against the ship's bottom below and the deck-beams above, and when the
bags immediately below the hatchway had been swayed up the surrounding
ones had to be pried loose, out of each tier. Then when a small
clearance had been made in the neighbourhood of the hatchway, and they
were getting deeper down into the hold, they made the inevitable
discovery. The lower tiers of bags had been wetted, their contents had
swelled, and the bags had burst. The lower half of the hold was packed
solid with damp rice which could only be got out with shovels and a
hoist. The still intact bags of the upper tiers, farther away from the
hatchway, were still jammed tight, calling for much labour to free them
and to manhandle them under the hatchway to be hoisted out.

Hornblower, facing the problem, was distracted by a touch on his elbow
when Matthews came up to speak to him.

"It ain't no go, sir" said Matthews. "She's lower in the water an'
settlin' fast."

Hornblower walked to the ship's side with him and looked over. There
could be no doubt about it. He had been over the side himself and could
remember the height of the waterline, and he had for a more exact guide
the level of the fothered sail under the ship's bottom. The brig was a
full six inches lower in the water--and this after fifty tons of rice at
least had been hoisted out and flung over the side. The brig must be
leaking like a basket, with water pouring in through the gaping seams to
be sucked up immediately by the thirsty rice.

Hornblower's left hand was hurting him, and he looked down to discover
that he was gripping the rail with it so tightly as to cause him pain,
without knowing he was doing so. He released his grip and looked about
him, at the afternoon sun, at the tossing sea. He did not want to give
in and admit defeat. The French captain came up to him.

"This is folly" he said. "Madness, sir. My men are overcome by fatigue."

Over by the hatchway, Hornblower saw, Hunter was driving the French
seamen to their work with a rope's end, which he was using furiously.
There was not much more work to be got out of the Frenchmen; and at that
moment the _Marie Galante_ rose heavily to a wave and wallowed down the
further side. Even his inexperience could detect the sluggishness and
ominous deadness of her movements. The brig had not much longer to
float, and there was a good deal to do.

"I shall make preparations for abandoning the ship, Matthews" he said.

He poked his chin upwards as he spoke; he would not allow either a
Frenchman or a seaman to guess at his despair.

"Aye aye, sir" said Matthews.

The _Marie Galante_ carried a boat on chocks abaft the mainmast; at
Matthews' summons the men abandoned their work on the cargo and hurried
to the business of putting food and water in her.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir" said Hunter aside to Hornblower, "but you
ought to see you have warm clothes, sir. I been in an open boat ten days
once, sir."

"Thank you, Hunter" said Hornblower.

There was much to think of. Navigating instruments, charts,
compass--would he be able to get a good observation with his sextant in
a tossing little boat? Common prudence dictated that they should have
all the food and water with them that the boat could carry;
but--Hornblower eyed the wretched craft dubiously--seventeen men would
fill it to overflowing anyway. He would have to leave much to the
judgment of the French captain and of Matthews.

The tackles were manned and the boat was swayed up from the chocks and
lowered into the water in the tiny lee afforded on the lee quarter. The
_Marie Galante_ put her nose into a wave, refusing to rise to it; green
water came over the starboard bow and poured aft along the deck before a
sullen wallow on the part of the brig sent it into the scuppers. There
was not much time to spare--a rending crash from below told that the
cargo was still swelling and forcing the bulkheads. There was a panic
among the Frenchmen, who began to tumble down into the boat with loud
cries. The French captain took one look at Hornblower and then followed
them; two of the British seamen were already over the side fending off
the boat.

"Go along" said Hornblower to Matthews and Carson, who still lingered.
He was the captain; it was his place to leave the ship last.

So waterlogged was the brig now that it was not at all difficult to step
down into the boat from the deck; the British seamen were in the
sternsheets and made room for him.

"Take the tiller, Matthews" said Hornblower; he did not feel he was
competent to handle that over-loaded boat. "Shove off, there!"

The boat and the brig parted company; the _Marie Galante_, with her helm
lashed, poked her nose into the wind and hung there. She had acquired a
sudden list, with the starboard side scuppers nearly under water.
Another wave broke over her deck, pouring up to the open hatchway. Now
she righted herself, her deck nearly level with the sea, and then she
sank, on an even keel, the water closing over her, her masts slowly
disappearing. For an instant her sails even gleamed under the green
water.

"She's gone" said Matthews.

Hornblower watched the disappearance of his first command. The _Marie
Galante_ had been entrusted to him to bring into port, and he had
failed, failed on his first independent mission. He looked very hard at
the setting sun, hoping no one would notice the tears that were filling
his eyes.




                         THE PENALTY OF FAILURE
                                    *


Daylight crept over the tossing waters of the Bay of Biscay to reveal
a small boat riding on its wide expanses. It was a very crowded boat; in
the bows huddled the French crew of the sunken brig _Marie Galante_,
amidships sat the captain and his mate, and in the sternsheets sat
Midshipman Horatio Hornblower and the four English seamen who had once
constituted the prize-crew of the brig. Hornblower was seasick, for his
delicate stomach, having painfully accustomed itself to the motion of
the _Indefatigable_, rebelled at the antics of the small boat as she
pitched jerkily to her sea anchor. He was cold and weary as well as
seasick after his second night without sleep--he had been vomiting
spasmodically all through the hours of darkness, and in the depression
which seasickness brings he had thought gloomily about the loss of the
_Marie Galante_. If he had only remembered earlier to plug that
shot-hole! Excuses came to his mind only to be discarded. There had been
so much to do, and so few men to do it with--the French crew to guard,
the damage aloft to repair, the course to set. The absorbent qualities
of the cargo of rice which the _Marie Galante_ carried had deceived him
when he had remembered to sound the well. All this might be true, but
the fact remained that he had lost his ship, his first command. In his
own eyes there was no excuse for his failure.

The French crew had wakened with the dawn and were chattering like a
nest of magpies; Matthews and Carson beside him were moving stiffly to
ease their aching joints.

"Breakfast, sir?" said Matthews.

It was like the games Hornblower had played as a lonely little boy, when
he had sat in the empty pig-trough and pretended he was cast away in an
open boat. Then he had parcelled out the bit of bread or whatever it was
which he had obtained from the kitchen into a dozen rations, counting
them carefully, each one to last a day. But a small boy's eager appetite
had made those days very short, not more than five minutes long; after
standing up in the pig-trough and shading his eyes and looking round the
horizon for the succour that he could not discover, he would sit down
again, tell himself that the life of a castaway was hard, and then
decide that another night had passed and that it was time to eat another
ration from his dwindling supply. So here under Hornblower's eye the
French captain and mate served out a biscuit of hard bread to each
person in the boat, and filled the pannikin for each man in turn from
the water breakers under the thwarts. But Hornblower when he sat in the
pig-trough, despite his vivid imagination, never thought of this hideous
seasickness, of the cold and the cramps, nor of how his skinny posterior
would ache with its constant pressure against the hard timbers of the
sternsheets; nor, in the sublime self-confidence of childhood, had he
ever thought how heavy could be the burden of responsibility on the
shoulders of a senior naval officer aged seventeen.

He dragged himself back from the memories of that recent childhood to
face the present situation. The grey sky, as far as his inexperienced
eye could tell, bore no presage of deterioration in the weather. He
wetted his finger and held it up, looking in the boat's compass to gauge
the direction of the wind.

"Backing westerly a little, sir" said Matthews, who had been copying his
movements.

"That's so" agreed Hornblower, hurriedly going through in his mind his
recent lessons in boxing the compass. His course to weather Ushant was
nor'-east by north, he knew, and the boat close hauled would not lie
closer than eight points off the wind--he had lain-to to the sea anchor
all night because the wind had been coming from too far north to enable
him to steer for England. But now the wind had backed. Eight points from
nor'-east by north was nor'-west by west, and the wind was even more
westerly than that. Close hauled he could weather Ushant and even have a
margin for contingencies, to keep him clear of the lee shore, which the
seamanship books and his own common sense told him was so dangerous.

"We'll make sail, Matthews" he said; his hand was still grasping the
biscuit which his rebellious stomach refused to accept.

"Aye aye, sir."

A shout to the Frenchmen crowded in the bows drew their attention; in
the circumstances it hardly needed Hornblower's halting French to direct
them to carry out the obvious task of getting in the sea anchor. But it
was not too easy, with the boat so crowded and hardly a foot of
free-board. The mast was already stepped, and the lugsail bent ready to
hoist. Two Frenchmen, balancing precariously, tailed onto the halliard
and the sail rose up the mast.

"Hunter, take the sheet" said Hornblower. "Matthews, take the tiller.
Keep her close hauled on the port tack."

"Close hauled on the port tack, sir."

The French captain had watched the proceedings with intense interest
from his seat amidships. He had not understood the last, decisive order,
but he grasped its meaning quickly enough when the boat came round and
steadied on the port tack, heading for England. He stood up, spluttering
angry protests.

"The wind is fair for Bordeaux" he said, gesticulating with clenched
fists. "We could be there by tomorrow. Why do we go north?"

"We go to England" said Hornblower.

"But--but--it will take us a week! A week even if the wind stays fair.
This boat--it is too crowded. We cannot endure a storm. It is madness."

Hornblower had guessed at the moment the captain stood up what he was
going to say, and he hardly bothered to translate the expostulations to
himself. He was too tired and too seasick to enter into an argument in a
foreign language. He ignored the captain. Not for anything on earth
would he turn the boat's head towards France. His naval career had only
just begun, and even if it were to be blighted on account of the loss of
the _Marie Galante_ he had no intention of rotting for years in a French
prison.

"Sir!" said the French captain.

The mate who shared the captain's thwart was protesting too, and now
they turned to their crew behind them and told them what was going on.
An angry movement stirred the crowd.

"Sir!" said the captain again "I insist that you head towards Bordeaux."

He showed signs of advancing upon them; one of the crew behind him began
to pull the boat-hook clear, and it would be a dangerous weapon.
Hornblower pulled one of the pistols from his belt and pointed it at the
captain, who, with the muzzle four feet from his breast, fell back
before the gesture. Without taking his eyes off him Hornblower took a
second pistol with his left hand.

"Take this, Matthews" he said.

"Aye aye, sir" said Matthews, obeying; and then, after a respectful
pause, "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but hadn't you better cock your
pistol, sir?"

"Yes" said Hornblower, exasperated at his own forgetfulness.

He drew the hammer back with a click, and the menacing sound made more
acute still the French captain's sense of his own danger, with a cocked
and loaded pistol pointed at his stomach in a heaving boat. He waved his
hands desperately.

"Please" he said "point it some other way, sir."

He drew farther back, huddling against the men behind him.

"Hey, avast there, you" shouted Matthews loudly--a French sailor was
trying to let go the halliard unobserved.

"Shoot any man who looks dangerous, Matthews" said Hornblower.

He was so intent on enforcing his will upon these men, so desperately
anxious to retain his liberty, that his face was contracted into a
beast-like scowl. No one looking at him could doubt his determination
for a moment. He would allow no human life to come between him and his
decisions. There was still a third pistol in his belt, and the Frenchmen
could guess that if they tried a rush a quarter of them at least would
meet their deaths before they overpowered the Englishmen, and the French
captain knew he would be the first to die. His expressive hands, waving
out from his sides--he could not take his eyes from the pistol--told his
men to make no further resistance. Their murmurings died away, and the
captain began to plead.

"Five years I was in an English prison during the last war" he said.
"Let us reach an agreement. Let us go to France. When we reach the
shore--anywhere you choose, sir--we will land and you can continue on
your journey. Or we can all land, and I will use all my influence to
have you and your men sent back to England under cartel, without
exchange or ransom. I swear I will."

"No" said Hornblower.

England was far easier to reach from here than from the French Biscay
coast; as for the other suggestion, Hornblower knew enough about the new
government washed up by the revolution in France to be sure that they
would never part with prisoners on the representation of a merchant
captain. And trained seamen were scarce in France; it was his duty to
keep these dozen from returning.

"No" he said again, in reply to the captain's fresh protests.

"Shall I clout 'im on the jaw, sir?" asked Hunter, at Hornblower's side.

"No" said Hornblower again; but the Frenchman saw the gesture and
guessed at the meaning of the words, and subsided into sullen silence.

But he was roused again at the sight of Hornblower's pistol on his knee,
still pointed at him. A sleepy finger might press that trigger.

"Sir" he said "put that pistol away, I beg of you. It is dangerous."

Hornblower's eye was cold and unsympathetic.

"Put it away, please. I will do nothing to interfere with your command
of this boat. I promise you that."

"Do you swear it?"

"I swear it."

"And these others?"

The captain looked round at his crew with voluble explanations, and
grudgingly they agreed.

"They swear it too."

"Very well, then."

Hornblower started to replace the pistol in his belt, and remembered to
put it on half-cock in time to save himself from shooting himself in the
stomach. Everyone in the boat relaxed into apathy. The boat was rising
and swooping rhythmically now, a far more comfortable motion than when
it had jerked to a sea anchor, and Hornblower's stomach lost some of its
resentment. He had been two nights without sleep. His head lowered on
his chest, and then he leaned sideways against Hunter, and slept
peacefully, while the boat, with the wind nearly abeam, headed steadily
for England. What woke him late in the day was when Matthews, cramped
and weary, was compelled to surrender the tiller to Carson, and after
that they kept watch and watch, a hand at the sheet and a hand at the
tiller and the others trying to rest. Hornblower took his turn at the
sheet, but he would not trust himself with the tiller, especially when
night fell; he knew he had not the knack of keeping the boat on her
course by the feel of the wind on his cheek and the tiller in his hand.

It was not until long after breakfast the next day--almost noon in
fact--that they sighted the sail. It was a Frenchman who saw it first,
and his excited cry roused them all. There were three square topsails
coming up over the horizon on their weather bow, nearing them so rapidly
on a converging course that each time the boat rose on a wave a
considerably greater area of canvas was visible.

"What do you think she is, Matthews?" asked Hornblower, while the boat
buzzed with the Frenchmen's excitement.

"I can't tell, sir, but I don't like the looks of her" said Matthews
doubtfully. "She ought to have her t'gallants set in this breeze--and
her courses too, an' she hasn't. An' I don't like the cut of her jib,
sir. She--she might be a Frenchie to me, sir."

Any ship travelling for peaceful purposes would naturally have all
possible sail set. This ship had not. Hence she was engaged in some
belligerent design, but there were more chances that she was British
than that she was French, even in here in the Bay. Hornblower took a
long look at her; a smallish vessel, although ship-rigged. Flush-decked,
with a look of speed about her--her hull was visible at intervals now,
with a line of gunports.

"She looks French all over to me, sir" said Hunter. "Privateer, seemly."

"Standby to jibe" said Hornblower.

They brought the boat round before the wind, heading directly away from
the ship. But in war as in the jungle, to fly is to invite pursuit and
attack. The ship set courses and topgallants and came tearing down upon
them, passed them at half a cable's length and then hove-to, having cut
off their escape. The ship's rail was lined with a curious crowd--a
large crew for a vessel that size. A hail came across the water to the
boat, and the words were French. The English seamen subsided into
curses, while the French captain cheerfully stood up and replied, and
the French crew brought the boat alongside the ship.

A handsome young man in a plum-coloured coat with a lace stock greeted
Hornblower when he stepped on the deck.

"Welcome, sir, to the _Pique_" he said in French. "I am Captain
Neuville, of this privateer. And you are----?"

"Midshipman Hornblower, of His Britannic Majesty's ship _Indefatigable_"
growled Hornblower.

"You seem to be in evil humour" said Neuville. "Please do not be so
distressed at the fortunes of war. You will be accommodated in this
ship, until we return to port, with every comfort possible at sea. I beg
of you to consider yourself quite at home. For instance, those pistols
in your belt must discommode you more than a little. Permit me to
relieve you of their weight."

He took the pistols neatly from Hornblower's belt as he spoke, looked
Hornblower keenly over, and then went on.

"That dirk that you wear at your side, sir. Would you oblige me by the
loan of it? I assure you that I will return it to you when we part
company. But while you are on board here I fear that your impetuous
youth might lead you into some rash act while you are wearing a weapon
which a credulous mind might believe to be lethal. A thousand thanks.
And now might I show you the berth that is being prepared for you?"

With a courteous bow he led the way below. Two decks down, presumably at
the level of a foot or two below the waterline, was a wide bare
'tweendecks, dimly lighted and scantily ventilated by the hatchways.

"Our slave-deck" explained Neuville carelessly.

"Slave deck?" asked Hornblower.

"Yes. It is here that the slaves were confined during the middle
passage."

Much was clear to Hornblower at once. A slave ship could be readily
converted into a privateer. She would already be armed with plenty of
guns to defend herself against treacherous attacks while making her
purchases in the African rivers; she was faster than the average
merchant ship both because of the lack of need of hold space and because
with a highly perishable cargo such as slaves speed was a desirable
quality, and she was constructed to carry large numbers of men and the
great quantities of food and water necessary to keep them supplied while
at sea in search of prizes.

"Our market in San Domingo has been closed to us by recent events, of
which you must have heard, sir" went on Neuville "and so that the
_Pique_ could continue to return dividends to me I have converted her
into a privateer. Moreover, seeing that the activities of the Committee
of Public Safety at present make Paris a more unhealthy spot even than
the West Coast of Africa, I decided to take command of my vessel myself.
To say nothing of the fact that a certain resolution and hardihood are
necessary to make a privateer a profitable investment."

Neuville's face hardened for a moment into an expression of the grimmest
determination, and then softened at once into its previous meaningless
politeness.

"This door in this bulkhead" he continued "leads to the quarters I have
set aside for captured officers. Here, as you see, is your cot. Please
make yourself at home here. Should this ship go into action--as I trust
she will frequently do--the hatches above will be battened down. But
except on those occasions you will of course be at liberty to move about
the ship at your will. Yet I suppose I had better add that any
harebrained attempt on the part of prisoners to interfere with the
working or wellbeing of this ship would be deeply resented by the crew.
They serve on shares, you understand, and are risking their lives and
their liberty. I would not be surprised if any rash person who
endangered their dividends and freedom were dropped over the side into
the sea."

Hornblower forced himself to reply; he would not reveal that he was
almost struck dumb by the calculating callousness of this last speech.

"I understand" he said.

"Excellent! Now is there anything further you may need, sir?"

Hornblower looked round the bare quarters in which he was to suffer
lonely confinement, lit by a dim glimmer of light from a swaying slush
lamp.

"Could I have something to read?" he asked.

Neuville thought for a moment.

"I fear there are only professional books" he said. "But I can let you
have Grandjean's _Principles of Navigation_, and Lebrun's _Handbook on
Seamanship_ and some similar volumes, if you think you can understand
the French in which they are written."

"I'll try" said Hornblower.

Probably it was as well that Hornblower was provided with the materials
for such strenuous mental exercise. The effort of reading French and of
studying his profession at one and the same time kept his mind busy
during the dreary days while the _Pique_ cruised in search of prizes.
Most of the time the Frenchmen ignored him--he had to force himself upon
Neuville once to protest against the employment of his four British
seamen on the menial work of pumping out the ship, but he had to retire
worsted from the argument, if argument it could be called, when Neuville
icily refused to discuss the question. Hornblower went back to his
quarters with burning cheeks and red ears, and, as ever, when he was
mentally disturbed, the thought of his guilt returned to him with new
force.

If only he had plugged that shot-hole sooner! A clearer-headed officer,
he told himself, would have done so. He had lost his ship, the
_Indefatigable's_ precious prize, and there was no health in him.
Sometimes he made himself review the situation calmly. Professionally,
he might not--probably would not--suffer for his negligence. A
midshipman with only four for a prize-crew, put on board a
two-hundred-ton brig that had been subjected to considerable firing from
a frigate's guns, would not be seriously blamed when she sank under him.
But Hornblower knew at the same time that he was at least partly at
fault. If it was ignorance--there was no excuse for ignorance. If he had
allowed his multiple cares to distract him from the business of plugging
the shot-hole immediately, that was incompetence, and there was no
excuse for incompetence. When he thought along those lines he was
overwhelmed by waves of despair and of self-contempt, and there was no
one to comfort him. The day of his birthday, when he looked at himself
at the vast age of eighteen, was the worst of all. Eighteen and a
discredited prisoner in the hands of a French privateersman! His
self-respect was at its lowest ebb.

The _Pique_ was seeking her prey in the most frequented waters in the
world, the approaches to the Channel, and there could be no more vivid
demonstration of the vastness of the ocean than the fact that she
cruised day after day without glimpsing a sail. She maintained a
triangular course, reaching to the north-west, tacking to the south,
running under easy sail north-easterly again, with lookouts at every
masthead, with nothing to see but the tossing waste of water. Until the
morning when a high-pitched yell from the foretopgallant masthead
attracted the attention of everybody on deck, including Hornblower,
standing lonely in the waist. Neuville, by the wheel, bellowed a
question to the lookout, and Hornblower, thanks to his recent studies,
could translate the answer. There was a sail visible to windward, and
next moment the lookout reported that it had altered course and was
running down towards them.

That meant a great deal. In wartime any merchant ship would be
suspicious of strangers and would give them as wide a berth as possible;
and especially when she was to windward and therefore far safer. Only
someone prepared to fight or possessed of a perfectly morbid curiosity
would abandon a windward position. A wild and unreasonable hope filled
Hornblower's breast; a ship of war at sea--thanks to England's maritime
mastery--would be far more probably English than French. And this was
the cruising ground of the _Indefatigable_, his own ship, stationed
there specially to fulfil the double function of looking out for French
commerce-destroyers and intercepting French blockade-runners. A hundred
miles from here she had put him and his prize crew on board the _Marie
Galante_. It was a thousand to one, he exaggerated despairingly to
himself, against any ship sighted being the _Indefatigable_. But--hope
reasserted itself--the fact that she was coming down to investigate
reduced the odds to ten to one at most. Less than ten to one.

He looked over at Neuville, trying to think his thoughts. The _Pique_
was fast and handy, and there was a clear avenue of escape to leeward.
The fact that the stranger had altered course towards them was a
suspicious circumstance, but it was known that Indiamen, the richest
prizes of all, had sometimes traded on the similarity of their
appearance to that of ships of the line, and by showing a bold front had
scared dangerous enemies away. That would be a temptation to a man eager
to make a prize. At Neuville's orders all sail was set, ready for
instant flight or pursuit, and, close hauled, the _Pique_ stood towards
the stranger. It was not long before Hornblower, on the deck, caught a
glimpse of a gleam of white, like a tiny grain of rice, far away on the
horizon as the _Pique_ lifted on a swell. Here came Matthews, red-faced
and excited, running aft to Hornblower's side.

"That's the old _Indefatigable_, sir" he said. "I swear it!"

He sprang onto the rail, holding on by the shrouds, and stared under his
hand.

"Yes! There she is, sir! She's loosing her royals now, sir. We'll be
back on board of her in time for grog!"

A French petty officer reached up and dragged Matthews by the seat of
his trousers from his perch, and with a blow and a kick drove him
forward again, while a moment later Neuville was shouting the orders
that wore the ship round to head away directly from the _Indefatigable_.
Neuville beckoned Hornblower over to his side.

"Your late ship, I understand, Mr. Hornblower?"

"Yes."

"What is her best point of sailing?"

Hornblower's eyes met Neuville's.

"Do not look so noble" said Neuville, smiling with thin lips. "I could
undoubtedly induce you to give me the information. I know of ways. But
it is unnecessary, fortunately for you. There is no ship on
earth--especially none of His Britannic Majesty's clumsy frigates--that
can outsail the _Pique_ running before the wind. You will soon see
that."

He strolled to the taffrail and looked aft long and earnestly through
his glass, but no more earnestly than did Hornblower with his naked eye.

"You see?" said Neuville, proffering the glass.

Hornblower took it, but more to catch a closer glimpse of his ship than
to confirm his observations. He was homesick, desperately homesick, at
that moment, for the _Indefatigable_. But there could be no denying that
she was being left fast behind. Her topgallants were out of sight again
now, and only her royals were visible.

"Two hours and we shall have run her mastheads under" said Neuville,
taking back the telescope and shutting it with a snap.

He left Hornblower standing sorrowful at the taffrail while he turned to
berate the helmsman for not steering a steadier course; Hornblower heard
the explosive words without listening to them, the wind blowing into his
face and ruffing his hair over his ears, and the wake of the ship's
passage boiling below him. So might Adam have looked back at Eden;
Hornblower remembered the stuffy dark midshipman's berth, the smells and
the creakings, the bitter cold nights, turning out in response to the
call for all hands, the weevilly bread and the wooden beef, and he
yearned for them all, with the sick feeling of hopeless longing. Liberty
was vanishing over the horizon. Yet it was not these personal feelings
that drove him below in search of action. They may have quickened his
wits, but it was a sense of duty which inspired him.

The slave-deck was deserted, as usual, with all hands at quarters.
Beyond the bulkhead stood his cot with the books upon it and the slush
lamp swaying above it. There was nothing there to give him any
inspiration. There was another locked door in the after bulkhead. That
opened into some kind of boatswain's store; twice he had seen it
unlocked and paint and similar supplies brought out from it. Paint! That
gave him an idea; he looked from the door up to the slush lamp and back
again, and as he stepped forward he took his claspknife out of his
pocket. But before very long he recoiled again, sneering at himself. The
door was not panelled, but was made of two solid slabs of wood, with the
cross-beams on the inside. There was the keyhole of the lock, but it
presented no point of attack. It would take him hours and hours to cut
through that door with his knife, at a time when minutes were precious.

His heart was beating feverishly--but no more feverishly than his mind
was working--as he looked round again. He reached up to the lamp and
shook it; nearly full. There was a moment when he stood hesitating,
nerving himself, and then he threw himself into action. With a ruthless
hand he tore the pages out of Grandjean's _Principes de la Navigation_,
crumpling them up in small quantities into little loose balls, which he
laid at the foot of the door. He threw off his uniform coat and dragged
his blue woollen jersey over his head; his long powerful fingers tore it
across and plucked eagerly at it to unravel it. After starting some
loose threads he would not waste more time on it, and dropped the
garment onto the paper and looked round again. The mattress of the cot!
It was stuffed with straw, by God! A slash of his knife tore open the
ticking, and he scooped the stuff out by the armful; constant pressure
had almost solidified it, but he shook it and handled it so that it
bulked out far larger in a mass on the deck nearly up to his waist. That
would give him the intense blaze he wanted. He stood still, compelling
himself to think clearly and logically--it was impetuosity and lack of
thought which had occasioned the loss of the _Marie Galante_, and now he
had wasted time on his jersey. He worked out the successive steps to
take. He made a long spill out of a page of the _Manuel de Matelotage_,
and lighted it at the lamp. Then he poured out the grease--the lamp was
hot and the grease liquid--over his balls of paper, over the deck, over
the base of the door. A touch from his taper lighted one ball, the flame
travelled quickly. He was committed now. He piled the straw upon the
flames, and in a sudden access of insane strength he tore the cot from
its fastenings, smashing it as he did so, and piled the fragments on the
straw. Already the flames were racing through the straw. He dropped the
lamp upon the pile, grabbed his coat and walked out. He thought of
closing the door, but decided against it--the more air the better. He
wriggled into his coat and ran up the ladder.

On deck he forced himself to lounge nonchalantly against the rail,
putting his shaking hands into his pockets. His excitement made him
weak, nor was it lessened as he waited. Every minute before the fire
could be discovered was important. A French officer said something to
him with a triumphant laugh and pointed aft over the taffrail,
presumably speaking about leaving the _Indefatigable_ behind. Hornblower
smiled bleakly at him; that was the first gesture that occurred to him,
and then he thought that a smile was out of place, and he tried to
assume a sullen scowl. The wind was blowing briskly, so that the _Pique_
could only just carry all plain sail; Hornblower felt it on his cheeks,
which were burning. Everyone on deck seemed unnaturally busy and
preoccupied; Neuville was watching the helmsman with occasional glances
aloft to see that every sail was doing its work; the men were at the
guns, two hands and a petty officer heaving the log. God, how much
longer would he have?

Look there! The coaming of the after hatchway appeared distorted,
wavering in the shimmering air. Hot air must be coming up through it.
And was that, or was it hot, the ghost of a wreath of smoke? It was! In
that moment the alarm was given. A loud cry, a rush of feet, an instant
bustle, the loud beating of a drum, high-pitched shouts--"Au feu! Au
feu!"

The four elements of Aristotle, thought Hornblower insanely--earth, air,
water, and fire--were the constant enemies of the seaman, but the lee
shore, the gale, and the wave, were none of them as feared in wooden
ships as fire. Timbers many years old and coated thick with paint burnt
fiercely and readily. Sails and tarry rigging would burn like fireworks.
And within the ship were tons and tons of gunpowder waiting its chance
to blast the seaman into fragments. Hornblower watched the fire parties
flinging themselves into their work, the pumps being dragged over the
decks, the hoses rigged. Someone came racing aft with a message for
Neuville, presumably to report the site of the fire. Neuville heard him,
and darted a glance at Hornblower against the rail before he hurled
orders back at the messenger. The smoke coming up through the after
hatchway was dense now; at Neuville's orders the after guard flung
themselves down the opening through the smoke. And there was more smoke,
and more smoke; smoke caught up by the following wind and blown forward
in wisps--smoke must be pouring out of the sides of the ship at the
waterline.

Neuville took a stride towards Hornblower, his face working with rage,
but a cry from the helmsman checked him. The helmsman, unable to take
his hands from the wheel, pointed with his foot to the cabin skylight.
There was a flickering of flame below it. A side pane fell in as they
watched, and a rush of flame came through the opening. That store of
paint, Hornblower calculated--he was calmer now, with a calm that would
astonish him later, when he came to look back on it--must be immediately
under the cabin, and blazing fiercely. Neuville looked round him, at the
sea and the sky, and put his hands to his head in a furious gesture. For
the first time in his life Hornblower saw a man literally tearing his
hair. But his nerve held. A shout brought up another portable pump; four
men set to work on the handles, and the clank-clank clank-clank made an
accompaniment that blended with the roar of the fire. A thin jet of
water was squirted down the gaping skylight. More men formed a bucket
chain, drawing water from the sea and passing it from hand to hand to
pour in the skylight, but those buckets of water were less effective
even than the stream from the pumps. From below came the dull thud of an
explosion, and Hornblower caught his breath as he expected the ship to
be blown to pieces. But no further explosion followed; either a gun had
been set off by the flames or a cask had burst violently in the heat.
And then the bucket line suddenly disintegrated; beneath the feet of one
of the men a seam had gaped in a broad red smile from which came a rush
of flame. Some officer had seized Neuville by the arm and was arguing
with him vehemently, and Hornblower could see Neuville yield in despair.
Hands went scurrying aloft to get in the foretopsail and forecourse, and
other hands went to the main braces. Over went the wheel, and the
_Pique_ came up into the wind.

The change was dramatic, although at first more apparent than real; with
the wind blowing in the opposite direction the roar of the fire did not
come so clearly to the ears of those forward of it. But it was an
immense gain, all the same; the flames, which had started in the
steerage in the farthest after-part of the ship, no longer were blown
forward, but were turned back upon timber already half consumed. Yet the
after-part of the deck was fully alight; the helmsman was driven from
the wheel, and in a flash the flames took hold of the driver and
consumed it utterly--one moment the sail was there, and the next there
were only charred fragments hanging from the gaff. But, head to wind,
the other sails did not catch, and a mizzen-trysail hurriedly set kept
the ship bows on.

It was then that Hornblower, looking forward, saw the _Indefatigable_
again. She was tearing down towards them with all sail set; as the
_Pique_ lifted he could see the white bow wave foaming under her
bowsprit. There was no question about surrender, for under the menace of
that row of guns no ship of the _Pique's_ force, even if uninjured,
could resist. A cable's length to windward the _Indefatigable_
rounded-to, and she was hoisting out her boats before even she was fully
round. Pellew had seen the smoke, and had deduced the reason for the
_Pique's_ heaving to, and had made his preparations as he came up.
Longboat and launch had each a pump in their bows where sometimes they
carried a carronade; they dropped down to the stern of the _Pique_ to
cast their jets of water up into the flaming stern without more ado. Two
gigs full of men ran straight aft to join in the battle with the flames,
but Bolton, the third lieutenant, lingered for a moment as he caught
Hornblower's eye.

"Good God, it's you!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Yet he did not stay for an answer. He picked out Neuville as the captain
of the _Pique_, strode aft to receive his surrender, cast his eyes aloft
to see that all was well there, and then took up the task of combating
the fire. The flames were overcome in time, more because they had
consumed everything within reach of them than for any other reason; the
_Pique_ was burnt from the taffrail forward for some feet of her length
right to the water's edge, so that she presented a strange spectacle
when viewed from the deck of the _Indefatigable_. Nevertheless, she was
in no immediate danger; given even moderate good fortune and a little
hard work she could be sailed to England to be repaired and sent to sea
again.

But it was not her salvage that was important, but rather the fact that
she was no longer in French hands, would no longer be available to prey
on English commerce. That was the point that Sir Edward Pellew made in
conversation with Hornblower, when the latter came on board to report
himself. Hornblower had begun, at Pellew's order, by recounting what had
happened to him from the time he had been sent as prizemaster on board
the _Marie Galante_. As Hornblower had expected--perhaps as he had even
feared--Pellew had passed lightly over the loss of the brig. She had
been damaged by gunfire before surrendering, and no one now could
establish whether the damage was small or great. Pellew did not give the
matter a second thought. Hornblower had tried to save her and had been
unsuccessful with his tiny crew--and at that moment the _Indefatigable_
could not spare him a larger crew. He did not hold Hornblower culpable.
Once again, it was more important that France should be deprived of the
_Marie Galante's_ cargo than that England should benefit by it. The
situation was exactly parallel to that of the salvaging of the _Pique_.

"It was lucky she caught fire like that" commented Pellew, looking
across to where the _Pique_ lay, still hove-to with the boats clustering
about her but with only the thinnest trail of smoke drifting from her
stern. "She was running clean away from us, and would have been out of
sight in an hour. Have you any idea how it happened, Mr. Hornblower?"

Hornblower was naturally expecting that question and was ready for it.
Now was the time to answer truthfully and modestly, to receive the
praise he deserved, a mention in the _Gazette_, perhaps even appointment
as acting-lieutenant. But Pellew did not know the full details of the
loss of the brig, and might make a false estimate of them even if he
did.

"No, sir" said Hornblower. "I think it must have been spontaneous
combustion in the paint-locker. I can't account for it otherwise."

He alone knew of his remissness in plugging that shot-hole, he alone
could decide on his punishment, and this was what he had chosen. This
alone could re-establish him in his own eyes, and when the words were
spoken he felt enormous relief, and not one single twinge of regret.

"It was fortunate, all the same" mused Pellew.




                         THE MAN WHO FELT QUEER
                                    *


This time the wolf was prowling round outside the sheepfold. H. M.
frigate _Indefatigable_ had chased the French corvette _Papillon_ into
the mouth of the Gironde, and was seeking a way of attacking her where
she lay at anchor in the stream under the protection of the batteries at
the mouth. Captain Pellew took his ship into shoal water as far as he
dared, until in fact the batteries fired warning shots to make him keep
his distance, and he stared long and keenly through his glass at the
corvette. Then he shut his telescope and turned on his heel to give the
order that worked the _Indefatigable_ away from the dangerous lee
shore--out of sight of land, in fact. His departure might lull the
French into a sense of security which, he hoped, would prove
unjustified. For he had no intention of leaving them undisturbed. If the
corvette could be captured or sunk not only would she be unavailable for
raids on British commerce, but also the French would be forced to
increase their coastal defences at this point and lessen the effort that
could be put out elsewhere. War is a matter of savage blow and counter
blow, and even a forty-gun frigate could strike shrewd blows if shrewdly
handled.

Midshipman Hornblower was walking the lee side of the quarterdeck, as
became his lowly station as the junior officer of the watch, in the
afternoon, when Midshipman Kennedy approached him. Kennedy took off his
hat with a flourish and bowed low as his dancing master had once taught
him, left foot advanced, hat down by the right knee. Hornblower entered
into the spirit of the game, laid his hat against his stomach, and bent
himself in the middle three times in quick succession. Thanks to his
physical awkwardness he could parody ceremonial solemnity almost without
trying.

"Most grave and reverend signor" said Kennedy "I bear the compliments of
Captain Sir Ed'ard Pellew, who humbly solicits Your Gravity's attendance
at dinner at eight bells in the afternoon watch."

"My respects to Sir Edward" replied Hornblower, bowing to his knees at
the mention of the name "and I shall condescend to make a brief
appearance."

"I am sure the captain will be both relieved and delighted" said
Kennedy. "I will convey him my felicitations along with your most
flattering acceptance."

Both hats flourished with even greater elaboration than before, but at
that moment both young men noticed Mr. Bolton, the officer of the watch,
looking at them from the windward side, and they hurriedly put their
hats on and assumed attitudes more consonant with the dignity of
officers holding their warrants from King George.

"What's in the captain's mind?" asked Hornblower.

Kennedy laid one finger alongside his nose.

"If I knew that I should rate a couple of epaulettes" he said.
"Something's brewing, and I suppose one of these days we shall know what
it is. Until then all that we little victims can do is to play
unconscious of our doom. Meanwhile, be careful not to let the ship fall
overboard."

There was no sign of anything brewing while dinner was being eaten in
the great cabin of the _Indefatigable_. Pellew was a courtly host at the
head of the table. Conversation flowed freely and along indifferent
channels among the senior officers present--the two lieutenants, Eccles
and Chadd, and the sailing master, Soames. Hornblower and the other
junior officer--Mallory, a midshipman of over two years' seniority--kept
silent, as midshipmen should, thereby being able to devote their
undivided attention to the food, so vastly superior to what was served
in the midshipmen's berth.

"A glass of wine with you, Mr. Hornblower" said Pellew, raising his
glass.

Hornblower tried to bow gracefully in his seat while raising his glass.
He sipped cautiously, for he had early found that he had a weak head,
and he disliked feeling drunk.

The table was cleared and there was a brief moment of expectancy as the
company awaited Pellew's next move.

"Now, Mr. Soames" said Pellew "let us have that chart."

It was a map of the mouth of the Gironde with the soundings; somebody
had pencilled in the positions of the shore batteries.

"The _Papillon_" said Sir Edward (he did not condescend to pronounce it
French-fashion) "lies just here. Mr. Soames took the bearings."

He indicated a pencilled cross on the chart, far up the channel.

"You gentlemen" went on Pellew "are going in with the boats to fetch her
out."

So that was it. A cutting-out expedition.

"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,
gentleman--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 mainchains,
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 maintopman, 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 maintopsail 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 armed 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 organisation 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 sternsheets 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 realised 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 of 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 mainchains. 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
sternsheets. 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 realised
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.

The realisation carried him far up the shrouds. At his elbow he felt the
futtock shrouds and he transferred himself to them, hanging back
downward with his toes hooked into the ratlines and his hands clinging
like death. That only lasted for two or three desperate seconds, and
then he hauled himself onto the topmast shrouds and began the final
ascent, his lungs bursting with the effort. Here was the topsail yard,
and Hornblower flung himself across it and felt with his feet for the
footrope. Merciful God! There was no footrope--his feet searching in the
darkness met only unresisting air. A hundred feet above the deck he
hung, squirming and kicking like a baby held up at arm's length in its
father's hands. There was no footrope; it may have been with this very
situation in mind that the Frenchmen had removed it. There was no
footrope, so that he could not make his way out to the yardarm. Yet the
gaskets must be cast off and the sail loosed--everything depended on
that. Hornblower had seen daredevil seamen run out along the yards
standing upright, as though walking a tightrope. That was the only way
to reach the yardarm now.

For a moment he could not breathe as his weak flesh revolted against the
thought of walking along that yard above the black abyss. This was fear,
the fear that stripped a man of his manhood, turning his bowels to water
and his limbs to paper. Yet his furiously active mind continued to work.
He had been resolute enough in dealing with Hales. Where he personally
was not involved he had been brave enough; he had not hesitated to
strike down the wretched epileptic with all the strength of his arm.
That was the poor sort of courage he was capable of displaying. In the
simple vulgar matter of physical bravery he was utterly wanting. This
was cowardice, the sort of thing that men spoke about behind their hands
to other men. He could not bear the thought of that in himself--it was
worse (awful though the alternative might be) than the thought of
falling through the night to the deck. With a gasp he brought his knee
up onto the yard, heaving himself up until he stood upright. He felt the
rounded, canvas-covered timber under his feet, and his instincts told
him not to dally there for a moment.

"Come on, men!" he yelled, and he dashed out along the yard.

It was twenty feet to the yardarm, and he covered the distance in a few
frantic strides. Utterly reckless by now, he put his hands down on the
yard, clasped it, and laid his body across it again, his hands seeking
the gaskets. A thump on the yard told him that Oldroyd, who had been
detailed to come after him, had followed him out along the yard--he had
six feet less to go. There could be no doubt that the other members of
the jolly boat's crew were on the yard, and that Clough had led the way
to the starboard yardarm. It was obvious from the rapidity with which
the sail came loose. Here was the brace beside him. Without any thought
of danger now, for he was delirious with excitement and triumph, he
grasped it with both hands and jerked himself off the yard. His waving
legs found the rope and twined about it, and he let himself slide down
it.

Fool that he was! Would he never learn sense and prudence? Would he
never remember that vigilance and precaution must never be relaxed? He
had allowed himself to slide so fast that the rope seared his hands, and
when he tried to tighten his grip so as to slow down his progress it
caused him such agony that he had to relax it again and slide on down
with the rope stripping the skin from his hands as though peeling off a
glove. His feet reached the deck and he momentarily forgot the pain as
he looked round him.

There was the faintest grey light beginning to show now, and there were
no sounds of battle. It had been a well-worked surprise--a hundred men
flung suddenly on the deck of the corvette had swept away the anchor
watch and mastered the vessel in a single rush before the watch below
could come up to offer any resistance. Chadd's stentorian voice came
pealing from the forecastle.

"Cable's cut, sir!"

Then Eccles bellowed from aft.

"Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!" yelled Hornblower.

"Man the halliards!"

A rush of men came to help--not only his own boat's crew but every man
of initiative and spirit. Halliards, sheets and braces; the sail was
trimmed round and was drawing full in the light southerly air, and the
_Papillon_ swung round to go down with the first of the ebb. Dawn was
coming up fast, with a trifle of mist on the surface of the water.

Over the starboard quarter came a sullen bellowing roar, and then the
misty air was torn by a series of infernal screams, supernaturally loud.
The first cannon balls Hornblower ever heard were passing him by.

"Mr. Chadd! Set the headsails! Loose the foretops'l. Get aloft, some of
you, and set the mizzen-tops'l."

From the port bow came another salvo--Blaye was firing at them from one
side, St. Dye from the other, now they could guess what had happened on
board the _Papillon_. But the corvette was moving fast with wind and
tide, and it would be no easy matter to cripple her in the half light.
It had been a very near-run thing; a few seconds' delay could have been
fatal. Only one shot from the next salvo passed within hearing, and its
passage was marked by a loud snap overhead.

"Mr. Mallory, get that forestay spliced!"

"Aye aye, sir!"

It was light enough to look round the deck now; he could see Eccles at
the break of the poop, directing the handling of the corvette, and
Soames beside the wheel conning her down the channel. Two groups of
red-coated marines, with bayonets fixed, stood guard over the hatchways.
There were four or five men lying on the deck in curiously abandoned
attitudes. Dead men; Hornblower could look at them with the callousness
of youth. But there was a wounded man, too, crouched groaning over his
shattered thigh--Hornblower could not look at him as disinterestedly,
and he was glad, maybe only for his own sake, when at that moment a
seaman asked for and received permission from Mallory to leave his
duties and attend to him.

"Standby to go about!" shouted Eccles from the poop; the corvette had
reached the tip of the middle ground shoal and was about to make the
turn that would carry her into the open sea.

The men came running to the braces, and Hornblower tailed on along with
them. But the first contact with the harsh rope gave him such pain that
he almost cried out. His hands were like raw meat, and fresh-killed at
that, for blood was running from them. Now that his attention was called
to them they smarted unbearably.

The headsail sheets came over, and the corvette went handily about.

"There's the old _Indy_!" shouted somebody.

The _Indefatigable_ was plainly visible now, lying-to just out of shot
from the shore batteries, ready to rendezvous with her prize. Somebody
cheered, and the cheering was taken up by everyone, even while the last
shots from St. Dye, fired at extreme range, pitched sullenly into the
water alongside. Hornblower had gingerly extracted his handkerchief from
his pocket and was trying to wrap it round his hand.

"Can I help you with that, sir?" asked Jackson.

Jackson shook his head as he looked at the raw surface.

"You was careless, sir. You ought to 'a gone down 'and over 'and" he
said, when Hornblower explained to him how the injury had been caused.
"Very careless, you was, beggin' your pardon for saying so, sir. But you
young gennelmen often is. You don't 'ave no thought for your necks, nor
your 'ides, sir."

Hornblower looked up at the maintopsail yard high above his head, and
remembered how he had walked along that slender stick of timber out to
the yardarm in the dark. At the recollection of it, even here with the
solid deck under his feet, he shuddered a little.

"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to 'urt you" said Jackson, tying the knot.
"There, that's done, as good as I can do it, sir."

"Thank you, Jackson" said Hornblower.

"We got to report the jolly boat as lost, sir" went on Jackson.

"Lost?"

"She ain't towing alongside, sir. You see, we didn't leave no boatkeeper
in 'er. Wells, 'e was to be boatkeeper, you remember, sir. But I sent
'im up the rigging a'ead o' me, seeing that 'Ales couldn't go. We wasn't
too many for the job. So the jolly boat must 'a come adrift, sir, when
the ship went about."

"What about Hales, then?" asked Hornblower.

"'E was still in the boat, sir."

Hornblower looked back up the estuary of the Gironde. Somewhere up there
the jolly boat was drifting about, and lying in it was Hales, probably
dead, possibly alive. In either case the French would find him, surely
enough, but a cold wave of regret extinguished the warm feeling of
triumph in Hornblower's bosom when he thought about Hales back there. If
it had not been for Hales he would never have nerved himself (so at
least he thought) to run out to the maintopsail yardarm; he would at
this moment be ruined and branded as a coward instead of basking in the
satisfaction of having capably done his duty.

Jackson saw the bleak look in his face.

"Don't you take on so, sir" he said. "They won't 'old the loss of the
jolly boat agin you, not the captain and Mr. Eccles, they won't."

"I wasn't thinking about the jolly boat" said Hornblower. "I was
thinking about Hales."

"Oh, 'im?" said Jackson. "Don't you fret about 'im, sir. 'E wouldn't
never 'ave made no seaman, not no 'ow."




                          THE MAN WHO SAW GOD
                                    *


Winter had come to the Bay of Biscay. With the passing of the Equinox
the gales began to increase in violence, adding infinitely to the
labours and dangers of the British Navy watching over the coast of
France; easterly gales, bitter cold, which the storm-tossed ships had to
endure as best they could, when the spray froze on the rigging and the
labouring hulls leaked like baskets; westerly gales, when the ships had
to claw their way to safety from a lee shore and make a risky compromise
between gaining sufficient sea-room and maintaining a position from
which they could pounce on any French vessel venturing out of harbour.
The storm-tossed ships, we speak about. But those ships were full of
storm-tossed men, who week by week and month by month had to endure the
continual cold and the continual wet, the salt provisions, the endless
toil, the boredom and misery of life in the blockading fleet. Even in
the frigates, the eyes and claws of the blockaders, boredom had to be
endured, the boredom of long periods with the hatches battened down,
with the deck seams above dripping water on the men below, long nights
and short days, broken sleep and yet not enough to do.

Even in the _Indefatigable_ there was a feeling of restlessness in the
air, and even a mere midshipman like Hornblower could be aware of it as
he was looking over the men of his division before the captain's regular
weekly inspection.

"What's the matter with your face, Styles?" he asked.

"Boils, sir. Awful bad."

On Styles' cheeks and lips there were half a dozen dabs of sticking
plaster.

"Have you done anything about them?"

"Surgeon's mate, sir, 'e give me plaister for 'em, an' 'e says they'll
soon come right, sir."

"Very well."

Now was there, or was there not, something strained about the
expressions on the faces of the men on either side of Styles? Did they
look like men smiling secretly to themselves? Laughing up their sleeves?
Hornblower did not want to be an object of derision; it was bad for
discipline--and it was worse for discipline if the men shared some
secret unknown to their officers. He glanced sharply along the line
again. Styles was standing like a block of wood, with no expression at
all on his swarthy face; the black ringlets over his ears were properly
combed, and no fault could be found with him. But Hornblower sensed that
the recent conversation was a source of amusement to the rest of his
division, and he did not like it.

After divisions he tackled Mr. Low the surgeon, in the gunroom.

"Boils?" said Low. "Of course the men have boils. Salt pork and split
peas for nine weeks on end--what d'you expect but boils? Boils--gurry
sores--blains--all the plagues of Egypt."

"On their faces?"

"That's one locality for boils. You'll find out others from your own
personal experience."

"Does your mate attend to them?" persisted Hornblower.

"Of course."

"What's he like?"

"Muggridge?"

"Is that his name?"

"He's a good surgeon's mate. Get him to compound a black draught for you
and you'll see. In fact, I'd prescribe one for you--you seem in a mighty
bad temper, young man."

Mr. Low finished his glass of rum and pounded on the table for the
steward. Hornblower realised that he was lucky to have found Low sober
enough to give him even this much information, and turned away to go
aloft so as to brood over the question in the solitude of the
mizzen-top. This was his new station in action; when the men were not at
their quarters a man might find a little blessed solitude
there--something hard to find in the crowded _Indefatigable_. Bundled up
in his peajacket, Hornblower sat in the mizzen-top; over his head the
mizzen-topmast drew erratic circles against the grey sky; beside him the
topmast shrouds sang their high-pitched note in the blustering gale, and
below him the life of the ship went on as she rolled and pitched,
standing to the northward under close reefed topsails. At eight bells
she would wear to the southward again on her incessant patrol. Until
that time Hornblower was free to meditate on the boils on Styles' face
and the covert grins on the faces of the other men of the division.

Two hands appeared on the stout wooden barricade surrounding the top,
and as Hornblower looked up with annoyance at having his meditations
interrupted a head appeared above them. It was Finch, another man in
Hornblower's division, who also had his station in action here in the
mizzen-top. He was a frail little man with wispy hair and pale blue eyes
and a foolish smile, which lit up his face when, after betraying some
disappointment at finding the mizzen-top already occupied, he recognised
Hornblower.

"Beg pardon, sir" he said. "I didn't know as how you was up here."

Finch was hanging on uncomfortably, back downwards, in the act of
transferring himself from the futtock shrouds to the top, and each roll
threatened to shake him loose.

"Oh come here if you want to" said Hornblower, cursing himself for his
soft heartedness. A taut officer, he felt, would have told Finch to go
back whence he came and not bother him.

"Thank 'ee, sir. Thank 'ee" said Finch, bringing his leg over the
barricade and allowing the ship's roll to drop him into the top.

He crouched down to peer under the foot of the mizzen-topsail forward to
the mainmast head, and then turned back to smile disarmingly at
Hornblower like a child caught in moderate mischief. Hornblower knew
that Finch was a little weak in the head--the all embracing press swept
up idiots and landsmen to help man the fleet--although he was a trained
seaman who could hand, reef and steer. That smile betrayed him.

"It's better up here than down below, sir" said Finch, apologetically.

"You're right" said Hornblower, with a disinterested intonation which
would discourage conversation.

He turned away to ignore Finch, settled his back again comfortably, and
allowed the steady swing of the top to mesmerise him into dreamy thought
that might deal with his problem. Yet it was not easy, for Finch was as
restless almost as a squirrel in a cage, peering forward, changing his
position, and so continually breaking in on Hornblower's train of
thought, wasting the minutes of his precious half-hour of freedom.

"What the devil's the matter with you, Finch?" he rasped at last,
patience quite exhausted.

"The Devil, sir?" said Finch. "It isn't the Devil. He's not up here,
begging your pardon, sir."

That weak mysterious grin again, like a mischievous child. A great depth
of secrets lay in those strange blue eyes. Finch peered under the
topsail again; it was a gesture like a baby's playing peep-bo.

"There!" said Finch "I saw him that time, sir. God's come back to the
maintop, sir."

"God?"

"Aye indeed, sir. Sometimes He's in the maintop. More often than not,
sir. I saw Him that time, with His beard all a-blowing in the wind. 'Tis
only from here that you can see Him, sir."

What could be said to a man with that sort of delusion? Hornblower
racked his brains for an answer, and found none. Finch seemed to have
forgotten his presence, and was playing peep-bo again under the foot of
the mizzen-topsail.

"There He is!" said Finch to himself. "There He is again! God's in the
maintop, and the Devil's in the cable tier."

"Very appropriate" said Hornblower cynically, but to himself. He had no
thought of laughing at Finch's delusions.

"The Devil's in the cable tier during the dog watches" said Finch again
to no one at all. "God stays in the maintop for ever."

"A curious timetable" was Hornblower's sotto voce comment.

From down on the deck below came the first strokes of eight bells, and
at the same moment the pipes of the bosun's mates began to twitter, and
the bellow of Waldron the bos'un made itself heard.

"Turn out the watch below! All hands wear ship! All hands! All hands!
You, master-at-arms, take the name of the last man up the hatchway. All
hands!"

The interval of peace, short as it was, and broken by Finch's disturbing
presence, was at an end. Hornblower dived over the barricade and gripped
the futtock shrouds; not for him was the easy descent through the
lubber's hole, not when the first lieutenant might see him and reprimand
him for unseamanlike behaviour. Finch waited for him to quit the top,
but even with this length start Hornblower was easily outpaced in the
descent to the deck, for Finch, like the skilled seaman he was, ran down
the shrouds as lightly as a monkey. Then the thought of Finch's curious
illusions was temporarily submerged in the business of laying the ship
on her new course.

But later in the day Hornblower's mind reverted inevitably to the odd
things Finch had been saying. There could be no doubt that Finch firmly
believed he saw what he said he saw. Both his words and his expression
made that certain. He had spoken about God's beard--it was a pity that
he had not spared a few words to describe the Devil in the cable tier.
Horns, cloven hoof, and pitchfork? Hornblower wondered. And why was the
Devil only loose in the cable tier during the dog watches? Strange that
he should keep to a timetable. Hornblower caught his breath as the
sudden thought came to him that perhaps there might be some worldly
explanation. The Devil might well be loose in the cable tier in a
metaphorical fashion during the dog watches. Devil's work might be going
on there. Hornblower had to decide on what was his duty; and he had to
decide further on what was expedient. He could report his suspicions to
Eccles, the first lieutenant; but after a year of service Hornblower was
under no illusions about what might happen to a junior midshipman who
worried a first lieutenant with unfounded suspicions. It would be better
to see for himself first, as far as that went. But he did not know what
he would find--if he should find anything at all--and he did not know
how he should deal with it if he found anything. Much worse than that,
he did not know if he would be able to deal with it in officer-like
fashion. He could make a fool of himself. He might mishandle whatever
situation he found, and bring down obloquy and derision upon his head,
and he might imperil the discipline of the ship--weaken the slender
thread of allegiance that bound officers and men together, the
discipline which kept three hundred men at the bidding of their captain
suffering untold hardship without demur; which made them ready to face
death at the word of command. When eight bells told the end of the
afternoon watch and the beginning of the first dog watch it was with
trepidation that Hornblower went below to put a candle in a lantern and
make his way forward to the cable tier.

It was dark down here, stuffy, odorous; and as the ship heaved and
rolled he found himself stumbling over the various obstacles that
impeded his progress. Yet forward there was a faint light, a murmur of
voices. Hornblower choked down his fear that perhaps mutiny was being
planned. He put his hand over the horn window of the lantern, so as to
obscure its light, and crept forward. Two lanterns swung from the low
deck-beams, and crouching under them were a score or more of men--more
than that, even--and the buzz of their talk came loudly but
indistinguishably to Hornblower's ears. Then the buzz increased to a
roar, and someone in the centre of the circle rose suddenly to as near
his full height as the deck-beams allowed. He was shaking himself
violently from side to side for no apparent reason; his face was away
from Hornblower, who saw with a gasp that his hands were tied behind
him. The men roared again, like spectators at a prize-fight, and the man
with his hands tied swung round so that Hornblower could see his face.
It was Styles, the man who suffered from boils; Hornblower knew him at
once. But that was not what made the most impression on Hornblower.
Clinging to the man's face, weird in the shifting meagre light, was a
grey writhing shape, and it was to shake this off that Styles was
flinging himself about so violently. It was a rat; Hornblower's stomach
turned over with horror.

With a wild jerk of his head Styles broke the grip of the rat's teeth
and flung the creature down, and then instantly plunged down on his
knees, with his hands still bound behind him, to pursue it with his own
teeth.

"Time!" roared a voice at that moment--the voice of Partridge, bosun's
mate. Hornblower had been roused by it often enough to recognise it at
once.

"Five dead" said another voice. "Pay all bets of evens or better."

Hornblower plunged forward. Part of the cable had been coiled down to
make a rat pit ten feet across in which knelt Styles with dead and
living rats about his knees. Partridge squatted beside the ring with a
sandglass--used for tuning the casting of the log--in front of him.

"Six dead" protested someone. "That 'un's dead."

"No, he ain't."

"'Is back's broken. 'E's a dead 'un."

"'E ain't a dead 'un" said Partridge.

The man who had protested looked up at that moment and caught sight of
Hornblower, and his words died away unspoken; at his silence the others
followed his glance and stiffened into rigidity, and Hornblower stepped
forward. He was still wondering what he should do; he was still fighting
down the nausea excited by the horrible things he had seen. Desperately
he mastered his horror, and, thinking fast, took his stand on
discipline.

"Who's in charge here?" he demanded.

He ran his eye round the circle. Petty officers and second-class warrant
officers, mainly; bosun's mates, carpenter's mates. Muggridge, the
surgeon's mate--his presence explained much. But his own position was
not easy. A midshipman of scant service depended for his authority on
board largely on the force of his own personality. He was only a warrant
officer himself; when all was said and done a midshipman was not nearly
as important to the ship's economy--and was far more easily
replaced--than, say, Washburn, the cooper's mate over there, who knew
all about the making and storage of the ship's water barrels.

"Who's in charge here?" he demanded again, and once more received no
direct reply.

"We ain't on watch" said a voice in the background.

Hornblower by now had mastered his horror; his indignation still flared
within him, but he could appear outwardly calm.

"No, you're not on watch" he said coldly. "You're gambling."

Muggridge took up the defence at that.

"Gambling, Mr. Hornblower?" he said. "That's a very serious charge. Just
a gentlemanly competition. You'll find it hard to sub--substantiate any
charges of gambling."

Muggridge had been drinking, quite obviously, following perhaps the
example of the head of his department. There was always brandy to be got
in the medical stores. A surge of wrath made Hornblower tremble; the
effort necessary to keep himself standing stock still was almost too
much for him. But the rise in internal pressure brought him inspiration.

"Mr. Muggridge" he said icily "I advise you not to say too much. There
are other charges possible, Mr. Muggridge. A member of His Majesty's
forces can be charged with rendering himself unfit for service, Mr.
Muggridge. And similarly there might be charges of aiding and abetting
which might include _you_. I should consult the Articles of War if I
were you, Mr. Muggridge. The punishment for such an offence is flogging
round the fleet I believe."

Hornblower pointed to Styles, with the blood streaming from his bitten
face, and gave more force to his argument by the gesture. He had met the
men's arguments with a more effective one along the same lines; they had
taken up a legalistic defence and he had legalistically beaten it down.
He had the upper hand now and could give vent to his moral indignation.

"I could bring charges against every one of you" he roared. "You could
be court martialled--disrated--flogged--every man Jack of you. By God,
one more look like that from you, Partridge, and I'll do it. You'd all
be in irons five minutes after I spoke to Mr. Eccles. I'll have no more
of these filthy games. Let those rats loose, there you, Oldroyd, and
you, Lewis. Styles, get your face plastered up again. You, Partridge,
take these men and coil this cable down properly again before Mr.
Waldron sees it. I'll keep my eye on all of you in future. The next hint
I have of misbehaviour and you'll all be at the gratings. I've said it,
and by God I mean it!"

Hornblower was surprised both at his own volubility and at his
self-possession. He had not known himself capable of carrying off
matters with such a high hand. He sought about in his mind for a final
salvo with which to make his retirement dignified, and it came to him as
he turned away so that he turned back to deliver it.

"After this I want to see you in the dog watches skylarking on deck, not
skulking in the cable tiers like a lot of Frenchmen."

That was the sort of speech to be expected of a pompous old captain, not
a junior midshipman, but it served to give dignity to his retirement.
There was a feverish buzz of voices as he left the group. Hornblower
went up on deck, under the cheerless grey sky dark with premature night,
to walk the deck to keep himself warm while the _Indefatigable_ slashed
her way to windward in the teeth of a roaring westerly, the spray flying
in sheets over her bows, the straining seams leaking and her fabric
groaning; the end of a day like all the preceding ones and the
predecessor probably of innumerable more.

Yet the days passed, and with them came at last a break in the monotony.
In the sombre dawn a hoarse bellow from the lookout turned every eye to
windward, to where a dull blotch on the horizon marked the presence of a
ship. The watch came running to the braces as the _Indefatigable_ was
laid as close to the wind as she would lie. Captain Pellew came on deck
with a peajacket over his nightshirt, his wigless head comical in a pink
nightcap; he trained his glass on the strange sail--a dozen glasses were
pointing in that direction. Hornblower, looking through the glass
reserved for the junior officer of the watch saw the grey rectangle
split into three, saw the three grow narrow, and then broaden again to
coalesce into a single rectangle again.

"She's gone about" said Pellew. "Hands 'bout ship!"

Round came the _Indefatigable_ on the other tack; the watch raced aloft
to shake out a reef from the topsails while from the deck the officers
looked up at the straining canvas to calculate the chances of the gale
which howled round their ears splitting the sails or carrying away a
spar. The _Indefatigable_ lay over until it was hard to keep one's
footing on the streaming deck; everyone without immediate duties clung
to the weather rail and peered at the other ship.

"Fore- and main-topmasts exactly equal" said Lieutenant Bolton to
Hornblower, his telescope to his eye. "Topsails white as milady's
fingers. She's a Frenchie all right."

The sails of British ships were darkened with long service in all
weathers; when a French ship escaped from harbour to run the blockade
her spotless unweathered canvas disclosed her nationality without real
need to take into consideration less obvious technical characteristics.

"We're weathering on her" said Hornblower; his eye was aching with
staring through the glass, and his arms even were weary with holding the
telescope to his eye, but in the excitement of the chase he could not
relax.

"Not as much as I'd like" growled Bolton.

"Hands to the mainbrace!" roared Pellew at that moment.

It was a matter of the most vital concern to trim the sails so as to lie
as close as possible to the wind; a hundred yards gained to windward
would count as much as a mile gained in a stern chase. Pellew was
looking up at the sails, back at the fleeting wake, across at the French
ship, gauging the strength of the wind, estimating the strain on the
rigging, doing everything that a lifetime of experience could suggest to
close the gap between the two ships. Pellew's next order sent all hands
to run out the guns on the weather side; that would in part counteract
the heel and give the _Indefatigable_ more grip upon the water.

"Now we're walking up to her" said Bolton with grudging optimism.

"Beat to quarters!" shouted Pellew.

The ship had been expecting that order. The roar of the marine
bandsmen's drums echoed through the ship; the pipes twittered as the
bosun's mates repeated the order, and the men ran in disciplined fashion
to their duties. Hornblower, jumping for the weather mizzen-shrouds, saw
the eager grins on half a dozen faces--battle and the imminent
possibility of death were a welcome change from the eternal monotony of
the blockade. Up in the mizzen-top he looked over his men. They were
uncovering the locks of their muskets and looking to the priming;
satisfied with their readiness for action Hornblower turned his
attention to the swivel gun. He took the tarpaulin from the breech and
the tompion from the muzzle, cast off the lashings which secured it, and
saw that the swivel moved freely in the socket and the trunnions freely
in the crotch. A jerk of the lanyard showed him that the lock was
sparkling well and there was no need for a new flint. Finch came
climbing into the top with the canvas belt over his shoulder containing
the charges for the gun; the bags of musket balls lay handy in a garland
fixed to the barricade. Finch rammed home a cartridge down the short
muzzle; Hornblower had ready a bag of balls to ram down onto it. Then he
took a priming-quill and forced it down the touchhole, feeling
sensitively to make sure the sharp point pierced the thin serge bag of
the cartridge. Priming-quill and flintlock were necessary up here in the
top, where no slow match or port-fire could be used with the danger of
fire so great and where fire would be so difficult to control in the
sails and the rigging. Yet musketry and swivel gun fire from the tops
were an important tactical consideration. With the ships laid yardarm to
yardarm Hornblower's men could clear the hostile quarterdeck where
centred the brains and control of the enemy.

"Stop that, Finch!" said Hornblower irritably; turning, he had caught
sight of him peering up at the maintop and at this moment of tension
Finch's delusions annoyed him.

"Beg your pardon, sir" said Finch, resuming his duties.

But a moment later Hornblower heard Finch whispering to himself.

"Mr. Bracegirdle's there" whispered Finch, "an' Oldroyd's there, an' all
those others. But _He's_ there too, so He is."

"Hands wear ship!" came the shouted order from the deck below.

The old _Indefatigable_ was spinning round on her heel, the yards
groaning as the braces swung them round. The French ship had made a bold
attempt to rake her enemy as she clawed up to her, but Pellew's prompt
handling defeated the plan. Now the ships were broadside to broadside,
running free before the wind at long cannon shot.

"Just look at 'im!" roared Douglas, one of the musket men in the top.
"Twenty guns a side. Looks brave enough, doesn't he?"

Standing beside Douglas Hornblower could look down on the Frenchman's
deck, her guns run out with the guns' crews clustering round them,
officers in white breeches and blue coats walking up and down, the spray
flying from her bows as she drove headlong before the wind.

"She'll look braver still when we take her into Plymouth Sound" said the
seaman on the far side of Hornblower.

The _Indefatigable_ was slightly the faster ship; an occasional touch of
starboard helm was working her in closer to the enemy, into decisive
range, without allowing the Frenchman to headreach upon her. Hornblower
was impressed by the silence on both sides; he had always understood
that the French were likely to open fire at long range and to squander
ineffectively the first carefully loaded broadside.

"When's he goin' to fire?" asked Douglas, echoing Hornblower's thoughts.

"In his own good time" piped Finch.

The gap of tossing water between the two ships was growing narrower.
Hornblower swung the swivel gun round and looked along the sights. He
could aim well enough at the Frenchman's quarterdeck, but it was much
too long a range for a bag of musket balls--in any case he dared not
open fire until Pellew gave permission.

"Them's the men for us!" said Douglas, pointing to the Frenchman's
mizzen-top.

It looked as if there were soldiers up there, judging by the blue
uniforms and the crossbelts; the French often eked out their scanty
crews of trained seamen by shipping soldiers; in the British Navy the
marines were never employed aloft. The French soldiers saw the gesture
and shook their fists, and a young officer among them drew his sword and
brandished it over his head. With the ships parallel to each other like
this the French mizzen-top would be Hornblower's particular objective
should he decide on trying to silence the firing there instead of
sweeping the quarterdeck. He gazed curiously at the men it was his duty
to kill. So interested was he that the bang of a cannon took him by
surprise; before he could look down the rest of the Frenchman's
broadside had gone off in straggling fashion, and a moment later the
_Indefatigable_ lurched as all her guns went off together. The wind blew
the smoke forward, so that in the mizzen-top they were not troubled by
it at all. Hornblower's glance showed him dead men flung about on the
_Indefatigable's_ deck, dead men falling on the Frenchman's deck. Still
the range was too great--very long musket shot, his eye told him.

"They're shootin' at us, sir" said Herbert.

"Let 'em" said Hornblower.

No musket fired from a heaving masthead at that range could possibly
score a hit; that was obvious--so obvious that even Hornblower, madly
excited as he was, could not help but be aware of it, and his certainty
was apparent in his tone. It was interesting to see how the two calm
words steadied the men. Down below the guns were roaring away
continuously, and the ships were nearing each other fast.

"Open fire now, men!" said Hornblower. "Finch!"

He stared down the short length of the swivel gun. In the coarse V of
the notch on the muzzle he could see the Frenchman's wheel, the two
quartermasters standing behind it, the two officers beside it. He jerked
the lanyard. A tenth of a second's delay, and then the gun roared out.
He was conscious, before the smoke whirled round him, of the firing
quill, blown from the touchhole, flying past his temple. Finch was
already sponging out the gun. The musket balls must have spread badly;
only one of the helmsmen was down and someone else was already running
to take his place. At that moment the whole top lurched frightfully;
Hornblower felt it but he could not explain it. There was too much
happening at once. The solid timbers under his feet jarred him as he
stood--perhaps a shot had hit the mizzen-mast. Finch was ramming in the
cartridge; something struck the breech of the gun a heavy blow and left
a bright splash of metal there--a musket bullet from the Frenchman's
mizzen-top. Hornblower tried to keep his head; he took out another
sharpened quill and coaxed it down into the touchhole. It had to be done
purposefully and yet gently; a quill broken off in the touchhole was
likely to be a maddening nuisance. He felt the point of the quill pierce
the cartridge; Finch rammed home the wad on top of the musket balls. A
bullet struck the barricade beside him as Hornblower trained the gun
down, but he gave it no thought. Surely the top was swaying more even
than the heavy sea justified? No matter. He had a clear shot at the
enemy's quarterdeck. He tugged at the lanyard. He saw men fall. He
actually saw the spokes of the wheel spin round as it was left untended.
Then the two ships came together with a shattering crash and his world
dissolved into chaos compared with which what had gone before was
orderly.

The mast was falling. The top swung round in a dizzy arc so that only
his fortunate grip on the swivel saved him from being flung out like a
stone from a sling. It wheeled round. With the shrouds on one side shot
away and two cannon balls in its heart the mast tottered and rolled.
Then the tug of the mizzen-stays inclined it forward, the tug of the
other shrouds inclined it to starboard, and the wind in the
mizzen-topsail took charge when the back stays parted. The mast crashed
forward; the topmast caught against the mainyard and the whole structure
hung there before it could dissolve into its constituent parts. The
severed butt-end of the mast must be resting on the deck for the moment;
mast and topmast were still united at the cap and the trestle-trees into
one continuous length, although why the topmast had not snapped at the
cap was hard to say. With the lower end of the mast resting precariously
on the deck and the topmast resting against the mainyard, Hornblower and
Finch still had a chance of life, but the ship's motion, another shot
from the Frenchman, or the parting of the over-strained material could
all end that chance. The mast could slip outwards, the topmast could
break, the butt-end of the mast could slip along the deck--they had to
save themselves if they could before any one of these imminent events
occurred. The maintopmast and everything above it was involved in the
general ruin. It too had fallen and was dangling, sails spars and ropes
in one frightful tangle. The mizzen-topsail had torn itself free.
Hornblower's eyes met Finch's; Finch and he were clinging to the swivel
gun, and there was no one else in the steeply inclined top.

The starboard side mizzen-topmast shrouds still survived; they, as well
as the topmast, were resting across the mainyard, strained taut as
fiddle strings, the mainyard tightening them just as the bridge tightens
the strings of a fiddle. But along those shrouds lay the only way to
safety--a sloping path from the peril of the top to the comparative
safety of the mainyard.

The mast began to slip, to roll, out towards the end of the yard. Even
if the mainyard held, the mizzen-mast would soon fall into the sea
alongside. All about them were thunderous noises--spars smashing, ropes
parting; the guns were still bellowing and everyone below seemed to be
yelling and screaming.

The top lurched again, frightfully. Two of the shrouds parted with the
strain, with a noise clearly audible through the other din, and as they
parted the mast twisted with a jerk, swinging further round the
mizzen-top, the swivel gun, and the two wretched beings who clung to it.
Finch's staring blue eyes rolled with the movement of the top. Later
Hornblower knew that the whole period of the fall of the mast was no
longer than a few seconds, but at this time it seemed as if he had at
least long minutes in which to think. Like Finch's, his eyes stared
round him, saw the chance of safety.

"The mainyard!" he screamed.

Finch's face bore its foolish smile. Although instinct or training kept
him gripping the swivel gun he seemingly had no fear, no desire to gain
the safety of the mainyard.

"Finch, you fool!" yelled Hornblower.

He locked a desperate knee round the swivel so as to free a hand with
which to gesticulate, but still Finch made no move.

"Jump, damn you!" raved Hornblower. "The shrouds--the yard. Jump!"

Finch only smiled.

"Jump and get to the maintop! Oh, Christ----!" Inspiration came in that
frightful moment. "The maintop! God's there, Finch! Go along to God,
quick!"

Those words penetrated into Finch's addled brain. He nodded with sublime
unworldliness. Then he let go of the swivel and seemed to launch himself
into the air like a frog. His body fell across the mizzen-topmast
shrouds and he began to scramble along them. The mast rolled again, so
that when Hornblower launched himself at the shrouds it was a longer
jump. Only his shoulders reached the outermost shroud. He swung off,
clung, nearly lost his grip, but regained it as a counterlurch of the
leaning mast came to his assistance. Then he was scrambling along the
shrouds, mad with panic. Here was the precious mainyard, and he threw
himself across it, grappling its welcome solidity with his body, his
feet feeling for the footrope. He was safe and steady on the yard just
as the outward roll of the _Indefatigable_ gave the balancing spars
their final impetus, and the mizzen-topmast parted company from the
broken mizzen-mast and the whole wreck fell down into the sea alongside.
Hornblower shuffled along the yard, whither Finch had preceded him, to
be received with rapture in the maintop by Midshipman Bracegirdle.
Bracegirdle was not God, but as Hornblower leaned across the breastwork
of the maintop he thought to himself that if he had not spoken about God
being in the maintop Finch would never have made that leap.

"Thought we'd lost you" said Bracegirdle, helping him in and thumping
him on the back. "Midshipman Hornblower, our flying angel."

Finch was in the top, too, smiling his fool's smile and surrounded by
the crew of the top. Everything seemed mad and exhilarating. It was a
shock to remember that they were in the midst of a battle, and yet the
firing had ceased, and even the yelling had almost died away. He
staggered to the side of the top--strange how difficult it was to
walk--and looked over. Bracegirdle came with him. Foreshortened by the
height he could make out a crowd of figures on the Frenchman's deck.
Those check shirts must surely be worn by British sailors. Surely that
was Eccles, the _Indefatigable's_ first lieutenant on the quarterdeck
with a speaking trumpet.

"What has happened?" he asked Bracegirdle, bewildered.

"What has happened?" Bracegirdle stared for a moment before he
understood. "We carried her by boarding. Eccles and the boarders were
over the ship's side the moment we touched. Why, man, didn't you see?"

"No, I didn't see it" said Hornblower. He forced himself to joke. "Other
matters demanded my attention at that moment."

He remembered how the mizzen-top had lurched and swung, and he felt
suddenly sick. But he did not want Bracegirdle to see it.

"I must go on deck and report" he said.

The descent of the main shrouds was a slow, ticklish business, for
neither his hands nor his feet seemed to wish to go where he tried to
place them. Even when he reached the deck he still felt insecure. Bolton
was on the quarterdeck supervising the clearing away of the wreck of the
mizzen-mast. He gave a start of surprise as Hornblower approached.

"I thought you were overside with Davy Jones" he said. He glanced aloft,
"You reached the mainyard in time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. I think you're born to be hanged, Hornblower." Bolton turned
away to bellow at the men. "'Vast heaving, there! Clynes, get down into
the chains with that tackle! Steady, now, or you'll lose it."

He watched the labours of the men for some moments before he turned back
to Hornblower.

"No more trouble with the men for a couple of months" he said. "We'll
work 'em 'til they drop, refitting. Prize crew will leave us
shorthanded, to say nothing of our butcher's bill. It'll be a long time
before they want something new. It'll be a long time for you, too, I
fancy, Hornblower."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower.




                             THE FROGS AND
                              THE LOBSTERS
                                    *


"They're coming" said Midshipman Kennedy.

Midshipman Hornblower's unmusical ear caught the raucous sounds of a
military band, and soon, with a gleam of scarlet and white and gold, the
head of the column came round the corner. The hot sunshine was reflected
from the brass instruments; behind them the regimental colour flapped
from its staff, borne proudly by an ensign with the colour guard round
him. Two mounted officers rode behind the colour, and after them came
the long red serpent of the half-battalion, the fixed bayonets flashing
in the sun, while all the children of Plymouth, still not sated with
military pomp, ran along with them.

The sailors standing ready on the quay looked at the soldiers marching
up curiously, with something of pity and something of contempt mingled
with their curiosity. The rigid drill, the heavy clothing, the iron
discipline, the dull routine of the soldier were in sharp contrast with
the far more flexible conditions in which the sailor lived. The sailors
watched as the band ended with a flourish, and one of the mounted
officers wheeled his horse to face the column. A shouted order turned
every man to face the quayside, the movements being made so exactly
together that five hundred boot-heels made a single sound. A huge
sergeant-major, his sash gleaming on his chest, and the silver mounting
of his cane winking in the sun, dressed the already perfect line. A
third order brought down every musket-butt to earth.

"Unfix--bayonets!" roared the mounted officer, uttering the first words
Hornblower had understood.

Hornblower positively goggled at the ensuing formalities, as the
fuglemen strode their three paces forward, all exactly to time like
marionettes worked by the same strings, turned their heads to look down
the line, and gave the time for detaching the bayonets, for sheathing
them, and for returning the muskets to the men's sides. The fuglemen
fell back into their places, exactly to time again as far as Hornblower
could see, but not exactly enough apparently, as the sergeant-major
bellowed his discontent and brought the fuglemen out and sent them back
again.

"I'd like to see him laying aloft on a stormy night" muttered Kennedy.
"D'ye think he could take the maintops'l earring?"

"These lobsters!" said Midshipman Bracegirdle.

The scarlet lines stood rigid, all five companies, the sergeants with
their halberds indicating the intervals--from halberd to halberd the
line of faces dipped down and then up again, with the men exactly sized
off, the tallest men at the flanks and the shortest men in the centre of
each company. Not a finger moved, not an eyebrow twitched. Down every
back hung rigidly a powdered pigtail.

The mounted officer trotted down the line to where the naval party
waited, and Lieutenant Bolton, in command, stepped forward with his hand
to his hat brim.

"My men are ready to embark, sir" said the army officer. "The baggage
will be here immediately."

"Aye aye, major" said Bolton--the army title and the navy reply in
strange contrast.

"It would be better to address me as 'My lord'" said the major.

"Aye aye, sir--my lord" replied Bolton, caught quite off his balance.

His Lordship, the Earl of Edrington, major commanding this wing of the
43rd Foot, was a heavily built young man in his early twenties. He was a
fine soldierly figure in his well-fitting uniform, and mounted on a
magnificent charger, but he seemed a little young for his present
responsible command. But the practice of the purchase of commissions was
liable to put very young men in high command, and the Army seemed
satisfied with the system.

"The French auxiliaries have their orders to report here" went on Lord
Edrington. "I suppose arrangements have been made for their transport as
well?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Not one of the beggars can speak English, as far as I can make out.
Have you got an officer to interpret?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!"

"You will attend to the embarkation of the French troops."

"Aye aye, sir."

More military music--Hornblower's tone-deaf ear distinguished it as
making a thinner noise than the British infantry band--heralded the
arrival of the Frenchmen farther down the quay by a side road, and
Hornblower hastened there. This was the Royal, Christian, and Catholic
French Army, or a detachment of it at least--a battalion of the force
raised by the migr French nobles to fight against the Revolution.
There was the white flag with the golden lilies at the head of the
column, and a group of mounted officers to whom Hornblower touched his
hat. One of them acknowledged his salute.

"The Marquis of Pouzauges, Brigadier General in the service of His Most
Christian Majesty Louis XVII" said this individual in French by way of
introduction. He wore a glittering white uniform with a blue ribbon
across it.

Stumbling over the French words, Hornblower introduced himself as an
aspirant of his Britannic Majesty's Marine, deputed to arrange the
embarkation of the French troops.

"Very good" said Pouzauges. "We are ready."

Hornblower looked down the French column. The men were standing in all
attitudes, gazing about them. They were all well enough dressed, in blue
uniforms which Hornblower guessed had been supplied by the British
government, but the white crossbelts were already dirty, the metalwork
tarnished, the arms dull. Yet doubtless they could fight.

"Those are the transports allotted to your men, sir" said Hornblower,
pointing. "The _Sophia_ will take three hundred, and the
_Dumbarton_--that one over there--will take two hundred and fifty. Here
at the quay are the lighters to ferry the men out."

"Give the orders, M. de Moncoutant" said Pouzauges to one of the
officers beside him.

The hired baggage carts had now come creaking up along the column, piled
high with the men's kits, and the column broke into chattering swarms as
the men hunted up their possessions. It was some time before the men
were reassembled, each with his own kit-bag; and then there arose the
question of detailing a fatigue party to deal with the regimental
baggage, and the men who were given the task yielded up their bags with
obvious reluctance to their comrades, clearly in despair of ever seeing
any of the contents again. Hornblower was still giving out information.

"All horses must go to the _Sophia_" he said. "She has accommodation for
six chargers. The regimental baggage----"

He broke off short, for his eye had been caught by a singular jumble of
apparatus lying in one of the carts.

"What is that, if you please?" he asked, curiosity overpowering him.

"That, sir" said Pouzauges "is a guillotine."

"A guillotine?"

Hornblower had read much lately about this instrument. The Red
Revolutionaries had set one up in Paris and kept it hard at work. The
King of France, Louis XVI himself, had died under it. He did not expect
to find one in the train of a counter-revolutionary army.

"Yes" said Pouzauges "we take it with us to France. It is in my mind to
give those anarchists a taste of their own medicine."

Hornblower did not have to make reply, fortunately, as a bellow from
Bolton interrupted the conversation.

"What the hell's all this delay for, Mr. Hornblower? D'you want us to
miss the tide?"

It was of course typical of life in any service that Hornblower should
be reprimanded for the time wasted by the inefficiency of the French
arrangements--that was the sort of thing he had already come to expect,
and he had already learned that it was better to submit silently to
reprimand than to offer excuses. He addressed himself again to the task
of getting the French aboard their transports. It was a weary midshipman
who at last reported himself to Bolton with his tally sheets and the
news that the last Frenchman and horse and pieces of baggage were safely
aboard, and he was greeted with the order to get his things together
quickly and transfer them and himself to the _Sophia_, where his
services as interpreter were still needed.

The convoy dropped quickly down Plymouth Sound, rounded the Eddystone,
and headed down channel, with H.M.S. _Indefatigable_ flying her
distinguishing pennant, the two gun-brigs which had been ordered to
assist in convoying the expedition, and the four transports--a small
enough force, it seemed to Hornblower, with which to attempt the
overthrow of the French republic. There were only eleven hundred
infantry; the half-battalion of the 43rd and the weak battalion of
Frenchmen (if they could be called that, seeing that many of them were
soldiers of fortune of all nations) and although Hornblower had enough
sense not to try to judge the Frenchmen as they lay in rows in the dark
and stinking 'tweendecks in the agonies of seasickness he was puzzled
that anyone could expect results from such a small force. His historical
reading had told him of many small raids, in many wars, launched against
the shores of France, and although he knew that they had once been
described by an opposition statesman as 'breaking windows with guineas'
he had been inclined to approve of them in principle, as bringing about
a dissipation of the French strength--until now, when he found himself
part of such an expedition.

So it was with relief that he heard from Pouzauges that the troops he
had seen did not constitute the whole of the force to be employed--were
indeed only a minor fraction of it. A little pale with seasickness, but
manfully combating it, Pouzauges laid out a map on the cabin table and
explained the plan.

"The Christian Army" explained Pouzauges "will land here, at Quiberon.
They sailed from Portsmouth--these English names are hard to
pronounce--the day before we left Plymouth. There are five thousand men
under the Baron de Charette. They will march on Vannes and Rennes."

"And what is your regiment to do?" asked Hornblower.

Pouzauges pointed to the map again.

"Here is the town of Muzillac" he said. "Twenty leagues from Quiberon.
Here the main road from the south crosses the river Marais, where the
tide ceases to flow. It is only a little river, as you see, but its
banks are marshy, and the road passes it not only by a bridge but by a
long causeway. The rebel armies are to the south, and on their northward
march must come by Muzillac. We shall be there. We shall destroy the
bridge and defend the crossing, delaying the rebels long enough to
enable M. de Charette to raise all Brittany. He will soon have twenty
thousand men in arms, the rebels will come back to their allegiance, and
we shall march on Paris to restore His Most Christian Majesty to the
throne."

So that was the plan. Hornblower was infected with the Frenchmen's
enthusiasm. Certainly the road passed within ten miles of the coast, and
there, in the broad estuary of the Vilaine, it should be possible to
land a small force and seize Muzillac. There should be no difficulty
about defending a causeway such as Pouzauges described for a day or two
against even a large force. That would afford Charette every chance.

"My friend M. de Moncoutant here" went on Pouzauges, "is Lord of
Muzillac. The people there will welcome him."

"Most of them will" said Moncoutant, his grey eyes narrowing. "Some will
be sorry to see me. But I shall be glad of the encounter."

Western France, the Vendee and Brittany, had long been in a turmoil, and
the population there, under the leadership of the nobility, had risen in
arms more than once against the Paris government. But every rebellion
had ended in defeat; the Royalist force now being convoyed to France was
composed of the fragments of the defeated armies--a final cast of the
dice, and a desperate one. Regarded in that light, the plan did not seem
so sound.

It was a grey morning--a morning of grey sky and grey rocks--when the
convoy rounded Belle Ile and stood in towards the estuary of the Vilaine
river. Far to the northward were to be seen white topsails in Quiberon
Bay--Hornblower, from the deck of the _Sophia_, saw signals pass back
and forth from the _Indefatigable_ as she reported her arrival to the
senior officer of the main expedition there. It was a proof of the
mobility and ubiquity of naval power that it could take advantage of the
configuration of the land so that two blows could be struck almost in
sight of each other from the sea yet separated by forty miles of roads
on land. Hornblower raked the forbidding shore with his glass, reread
the orders for the captain of the _Sophia_, and stared again at the
shore. He could distinguish the narrow mouth of the Marais river and the
strip of mud where the troops were to land. The lead was going in the
chains as the _Sophia_ crept towards her allotted anchorage, and the
ship was rolling uneasily; these waters, sheltered though they were,
were a Bedlam of conflicting currents that could make a choppy sea even
in a calm. Then the anchor cable rumbled out through the hawsehole and
the _Sophia_ swung to the current, while the crew set to work hoisting
out the boats.

"France, dear beautiful France" said Pouzauges at Hornblower's side.

A hail came over the water from the _Indefatigable_.

"Mr. Hornblower!"

"Sir!" yelled Hornblower back through the captain's megaphone.

"You will go on shore with the French troops and stay with them until
you receive further orders."

"Aye aye, sir."

So that was the way in which he was to set foot on foreign soil for the
first time in his life.

Pouzauges' men were now pouring up from below; it was a slow and
exasperating business getting them down the ship's side into the waiting
boats. Hornblower wondered idly regarding what was happening on shore at
this moment--without doubt mounted messengers were galloping north and
south with the news of the arrival of the expedition, and soon the
French Revolutionary generals would be parading their men and marching
them hurriedly towards this place; it was well that the important
strategic point that had to be seized was less than ten miles inland. He
turned back to his duties; as soon as the men were ashore he would have
to see that the baggage and reserve ammunition were landed, as well as
the horses, now standing miserably in improvised stalls forward of the
mainmast.

The first boats had left the ship's side; Hornblower watched the men
stagger up the shore through mud and water, the French on the left and
the red-coated British infantry on the right. There were some
fishermen's cottages in sight up the beach, and Hornblower saw advance
parties go forward to seize them; at least the landing had been effected
without a single shot being fired. He came on shore with the ammunition,
to find Bolton in charge of the beach.

"Get those ammunition boxes well above high-water mark" said Bolton. "We
can't send 'em forward until the Lobsters have found us some carts for
'em. And we'll need horses for those guns too."

At that moment Bolton's working party was engaged in manhandling two
six-pounder guns in field carriages up the beach; they were to be manned
by seamen and drawn by horses commandeered by the landing party, for it
was in the old tradition that a British expeditionary force should
always be thrown on shore dependent for military necessities on the
countryside. Pouzauges and his staff were waiting impatiently for their
chargers, and mounted them the moment they had been coaxed out of the
boats onto the beach.

"Forward for France!" shouted Pouzauges, drawing his sword and raising
the hilt to his lips.

Moncoutant and the others clattered forward to head the advancing
infantry, while Pouzauges lingered to exchange a few words with Lord
Edrington. The British infantry was drawn up in a rigid scarlet line;
farther inland occasional red dots marked where the light company had
been thrown forward as pickets. Hornblower could not hear the
conversation, but he noticed that Bolton was drawn into it, and finally
Bolton called him over.

"You must go forward with the Frogs, Hornblower" he said.

"I'll give you a horse" added Edrington. "Take that one--the roan. I've
got to have someone I can trust along with them. Keep your eye on them
and let me know the moment they get up to any monkey tricks--God knows
what they'll do next."

"Here's the rest of your stores coming ashore" said Bolton. "I'll send
'em up as soon as you send some carts back to me. What the hell's
_that_?"

"That's a portable guillotine, sir" said Hornblower. "Part of the French
baggage."

All three turned and looked at Pouzauges, sitting his horse impatiently
during this conversation, which he did not understand. He knew what they
were referring to, all the same.

"That's the first thing to be sent to Muzillac" he said to Hornblower.
"Will you have the goodness to tell these gentlemen so?"

Hornblower translated.

"I'll send the guns and a load of ammunition first" said Bolton. "But
I'll see he gets it soon. Now off you go."

Hornblower dubiously approached the roan horse. All he knew about riding
he had learned in farmyards, but he got his foot up into the stirrup and
climbed in the saddle, grabbing nervously at the reins as the animal
started to move off. It seemed as far down to the ground from there as
it did from the maintopgallant yard. Pouzauges wheeled his horse about
and started up the beach, and the roan followed its example, with
Hornblower hanging on desperately, spattered by the mud thrown up by the
French horse's heels.

From the fishing hamlet a muddy lane, bordered by green turf banks, led
inland, and Pouzauges trotted smartly along it, Hornblower jolting
behind him. They covered three or four miles before they overtook the
rear of the French infantry, marching rapidly through the mud, and
Pouzauges pulled his horse to a walk. When the column climbed a slight
undulation they could see the white banner far ahead. Over the banks
Hornblower could see rocky fields; out on the left there was a small
farmhouse of grey stone. A blue-uniformed soldier was leading away a
white horse pulling a cart, while two or three more soldiers were
holding back the farmer's frantic wife. So the expeditionary force had
secured some of its necessary transport. In another field a soldier was
prodding a cow along with his bayonet--Hornblower could not imagine with
what motive. Twice he heard distant musket shots to which no one seemed
to pay any attention. Then, coming down the road, they encountered two
soldiers leading bony horses towards the beach; the jests hurled at them
by the marching column had set the men's faces in broad grins. But a
little way farther on Hornblower saw a plough standing lonely in a
little field, and a grey bundle lying near it. The bundle was a dead
man.

Over on their right was the marshy river valley, and it was not long
before Hornblower could see, far ahead, the bridge and the causeway
which they had been sent to seize. The lane they were following came
down a slight incline into the town, passing between a few grey cottages
before emerging into the highroad along which there lay the town. There
was a grey stone church, there was a building that could easily be
identified as an inn and postinghouse with soldiers swarming round it, a
slight broadening of the highroad, with an avenue of trees, which
Hornblower assumed must be the central square of the town. A few faces
peered from upper windows, but otherwise the houses were shut and there
were no civilians to be seen except two women hastily shuttering their
shops. Pouzauges reined up his horse in the square and began issuing
orders. Already the horses were being led out of the posthouse, and
groups of men were bustling to and fro on seemingly urgent errands. In
obedience to Pouzauges one officer called his men together--he had to
expostulate and gesticulate before he succeeded--and started towards the
bridge. Another party started along the highway in the opposite
direction to guard against the possible surprise attack from there. A
crowd of men squatted in the square devouring the bread that was brought
out from one of the shops after its door had been beaten in, and two or
three times civilians were dragged up to Pouzauges and at his orders
were hurried away again to the town jail. The seizure of the town of
Muzillac was complete.

Pouzauges seemed to think so, too, after an interval, for with a glance
at Hornblower he turned his horse and trotted towards the causeway. The
town ended before the road entered the marshes, and in a bit of waste
ground beside the road the party sent out in this direction had already
lighted a fire, and the men were gathered round it, toasting on their
bayonets chunks of meat cut from a cow whose half-flayed corpse lay
beside the fire. Farther on, where the causeway became the bridge over
the river, a sentry sat sunning himself, with his musket leaning against
the parapet of the bridge at his back. Everything was peaceful enough.
Pouzauges trotted as far as the crown of the bridge, with Hornblower
beside him, and looked over the country on the farther side. There was
no sign of any enemy, and when they returned there was a mounted
red-coated soldier waiting for them--Lord Edrington.

"I've come to see for myself" he said. "The position looks strong enough
in all conscience here. Once you have the guns posted you should be able
to hold this bridge until you can blow up the arch. But there's a ford,
passable at low water, half a mile lower down. That is where I shall
station myself--if we lose the ford they can turn the whole position and
cut us off from the shore. Tell this gentleman--what's his name?--what I
said."

Hornblower translated as well as he could, and stood by as interpreter
while the two commanders pointed here and there and settled their
respective duties.

"That's settled, then" said Edrington at length. "Don't forget, Mr.
Hornblower, that I must be kept informed of every development."

He nodded to them and wheeled his horse and trotted off. As he left a
cart approached from the direction of Muzillac, while behind it a loud
clanking heralded the arrival of the two six-pounders, each drawn
painfully by a couple of horses led by seamen. Sitting upon the front of
the cart was Midshipman Bracegirdle, who saluted Hornblower with a broad
grin.

"From quarterdeck to dung cart is no more than a step," he announced,
swinging himself down. "From midshipman to captain of artillery."

He looked along the causeway and then around him.

"Put the guns over there and they'll sweep the whole length" suggested
Hornblower.

"Exactly" said Bracegirdle.

Under his orders the guns were wheeled off the road and pointed along
the causeway, and the dung cart was unloaded of its contents, a
tarpaulin spread on the ground, the gunpowder cartridges laid on it and
covered with another tarpaulin. The shot and the bags of grape were
piled beside the guns, the seamen working with a will under the stimulus
of their novel surroundings.

"Poverty brings strange bedfellows" said Bracegirdle. "And wars strange
duties. Have you ever blown up a bridge?"

"Never" said Hornblower.

"Neither have I. Come, and let us do it. May I offer you a place in my
carriage?"

Hornblower climbed up into the cart with Bracegirdle, and two seamen led
the plodding horse along the causeway to the bridge. There they halted
and looked down at the muddy water--running swiftly with the
ebb--craning their heads over the parapet to look at the solid stone
construction.

"It is the keystone of the arch which we should blow out" said
Bracegirdle.

That was the proverbial recipe for the destruction of a bridge, but as
Hornblower looked from the bridge to Bracegirdle and back again the idea
did not seem easy to execute. Gunpowder exploded upwards and had to be
held in on all sides--how was that to be done under the arch of the
bridge?

"What about the pier?" he asked tentatively.

"We can but look and see" said Bracegirdle, and turned to the seaman by
the cart. "Hannay, bring a rope."

They fastened the rope to the parapet and slid down it to a precarious
foothold on the slippery ledge round the base of the pier, the river
gurgling at their feet.

"That seems to be the solution" said Bracegirdle, crouching almost
double under the arch.

Time slipped by fast as they made their preparations; a working party
had to be brought from the guard of the bridge, picks and crowbars had
to be found or extemporised, and some of the huge blocks with which the
pier was built had to be picked out at the shoulder of the arch. Two
kegs of gunpowder, lowered gingerly from above, had to be thrust into
the holes so formed, a length of slow match put in at each bunghole and
led to the exterior, while the kegs were tamped into their caves with
all the stones and earth that could be crammed into them. It was almost
twilight under the arch when the work was finished, the working party
made laboriously to climb the rope up to the bridge and Bracegirdle and
Hornblower left to look at each other again.

"I'll fire the fuses" said Bracegirdle. "You go next, sir."

It was not a matter for much argument. Bracegirdle was under orders to
destroy the bridge, and Hornblower addressed himself to climbing up the
rope while Bracegirdle took his tinderbox from his pocket. Once on the
roadway of the bridge Hornblower sent away the cart and waited. It was
only two or three minutes before Bracegirdle appeared, frantically
climbing the rope and hurling himself over the parapet.

"Run!" was all that was said.

Together they scurried down the bridge and halted breathless to crouch
by the abutment of the causeway. Then came a dull explosion, a tremor of
the earth under their feet, and a cloud of smoke.

"Let's come and see" said Bracegirdle.

They retraced their steps towards where the bridge was still shrouded in
smoke and dust.

"Only partly----" began Bracegirdle as they neared the scene and the
dust cleared away.

And at that moment there was a second explosion which made them stagger
as they stood. A lump of the roadbed hit the parapet beside them and
burst like a shell, spattering them with fragments. There was a rumble
and a clatter as the arch subsided into the river.

"That must have been the second keg going off" said Bracegirdle, wiping
his face. "We should have remembered the fuses were likely to be of
different lengths. Two promising careers might have ended suddenly if we
had been any nearer."

"At any rate, the bridge is gone" said Hornblower.

"All's well that ends well" said Bracegirdle.

Seventy pounds of gunpowder had done their work. The bridge was cut
clear across, leaving a ragged gap several feet wide, beyond which the
roadway reached out towards the gap from the farther pier as a witness
to the toughness of the mortar. Beneath their feet as they peered over
they could see the river bed almost choked with lumps of stone.

"We'll need no more than an anchor watch tonight" said Bracegirdle.

Hornblower looked round to where the roan horse was tethered; he was
tempted to return to Muzillac on foot, leading the animal, but shame
forbade. He climbed with an effort into the saddle and headed the animal
back up the road; ahead of him the sky was beginning to turn red with
the approach of sunset.

He entered the main street of the town and rounded the slight bend to
the central square, to see something that made him, without his own
volition, tug at his reins and halt his horse. The square was full of
people, townsfolk and soldiers, and in the centre of the square a tall
narrow rectangle reached upwards towards the sky with a glittering blade
at its upper end. The blade fell with a reverberating thump, and the
little group of men round the base of the rectangle dragged something to
one side and added it to the heap already there. The portable guillotine
was at work.

Hornblower sat sick and horrified--this was worse than any flogging at
the gratings. He was about to urge his horse forward when a strange
sound caught his ear. A man was singing, loud and clear, and out from a
building at the side of the square emerged a little procession. In front
walked a big man with dark curly hair, wearing a white shirt and dark
breeches. At either side and behind him walked soldiers. It was this man
who was singing; the tune meant nothing to Hornblower, but he could hear
the words distinctly--it was one of the verses of the French
revolutionary song, echoes of which had penetrated even across the
Channel.

"Oh, sacred love of the Fatherland..." sang the man in the white
shirt; and when the civilians in the square heard what he was singing,
there was a rustle among them and they dropped to the knees, their heads
bowed and their hands crossed upon their breasts.

The executioners were winding the blade up again, and the man in the
white shirt followed its rise with his eyes while he still sang without
a tremor in his voice. The blade reached the top, and the singing ceased
at last as the executioners fell on the man with the white shirt and led
him to the guillotine. Then the blade fell with another echoing crash.

It seemed that this was to be the last execution, for the soldiers began
to push the civilians back towards their homes, and Hornblower urged his
horse forward through the dissolving crowd. He was nearly thrown from
his saddle when the animal plunged sideways, snorting furiously--it had
scented the horrid heap that lay beside the guillotine. At the side of
the square was a house with a balcony, and Hornblower looked up at it in
time to see Pouzauges still standing there, wearing his white uniform
and blue ribbon, his staff about him and his hands on the rail. There
were sentries at the door, and to one of them Hornblower handed over his
horse as he entered; Pouzauges was just descending the stairs.

"Good evening, sir" said Pouzauges with perfect courtesy. "I am glad you
have found your way to headquarters. I trust it was without trouble? We
are about to dine and will enjoy your company. You have your horse, I
suppose? M. de Villers here will give orders for it to be looked after,
I am sure."

It was all hard to believe. It was hard to believe that this polished
gentleman had ordered the butchery that had just ended; it was hard to
believe that the elegant young men with whom he sat at dinner were
staking their lives on the overthrow of a barbarous but lusty young
republic. But it was equally hard to believe, when he climbed into a
four-poster bed that night, that he, Midshipman Horatio Hornblower, was
in imminent deadly peril himself.

Outside in the street women wailed as the headless corpses, the harvest
of the executions, were carried away, and he thought he would never
sleep, but youth and fatigue had their way, and he slept for most of the
night, although he awoke with the feeling that he had just been fighting
off a nightmare. Everything was strange to him in the darkness, and it
was several moments before he could account for the strangeness. He was
in a bed and not--as he had spent the preceding three hundred nights--in
a hammock; and the bed was steady as a rock instead of swaying about
with the lively motion of a frigate. The stuffiness about him was the
stuffiness of bed curtains, and not the stuffiness of the midshipmen's
berth with its compound smell of stale humanity and stale bilgewater. He
was on shore, in a house, in a bed, and everything about him was dead
quiet, unnaturally so to a man accustomed to the noises of a wooden ship
at sea.

Of course; he was in a house in the town of Muzillac in Brittany. He was
sleeping in the headquarters of Brigadier General the Marquis de
Pouzauges, commanding the French troops who constituted part of this
expedition, which was itself part of a larger force invading
Revolutionary France in the royalist cause. Hornblower felt a quickening
of the pulse, a faint sick feeling of insecurity, as he realized afresh
that he was now in France, ten miles from the sea and the
_Indefatigable_ with only a rabble of Frenchmen--half of them
mercenaries only nominally Frenchmen at that--around him to preserve him
from death or captivity. He regretted his knowledge of French--if he had
had none he would not be here, and good fortune might even have put him
among the British half-battalion of the 43rd guarding the ford a mile
away.

It was partly the thought of the British troops which roused him out of
bed. It was his duty to see that liaison was kept up with them, and the
situation might have changed while he slept. He drew aside the bed
curtains and stepped down to the floor; as his legs took the weight of
his body they protested furiously--all the riding he had done yesterday
had left every muscle and joint aching so that he could hardly walk. But
he hobbled in the darkness over to the window, found the latch of the
shutters, and pushed them open. A three-quarter moon was shining down
into the empty street of the town, and looking down he could see the
three-cornered hat of the sentry posted outside, and the bayonet
reflecting the moonlight. Returning from the window, he found his coat
and his shoes and put them on, belted his cutlass about him, and then he
crept downstairs as quietly as he could. In the room off the entrance
hall a tallow dip guttered on the table, and beside it a French sergeant
slept with his head on his arms, lightly, for he raised his head as
Hornblower paused in the doorway. On the floor of the room the rest of
the guard off duty were snoring stertorously, huddled together like pigs
in a sty, their muskets stacked against the wall.

Hornblower nodded to the sergeant, opened the front door and stepped out
into the street. His lungs expanded gratefully as he breathed in the
clean night air--morning air, rather, for there to the east the sky was
assuming a lighter tinge--and the sentry, catching sight of the British
naval officer, came clumsily to attention. In the square there still
stood the gaunt harsh framework of the guillotine reaching up to the
moonlit sky, and round it the black patch of the blood of its victims.
Hornblower wondered who they were, who it could have been that the
Royalists should seize and kill at such short notice, and he decided
that they must have been petty officials of the Revolutionary
government--the mayor and the customs officer and so on--if they were
not merely men against whom the migrs had cherished grudges since the
days of the Revolution itself. It was a savage, merciless world, and at
the moment he was very much alone in it, lonely, depressed, and unhappy.

He was distracted from these thoughts by the sergeant of the guard
emerging from the door with a file of men; the sentry in the street was
relieved, and the party went on round the house to relieve the others.
Then across the street he saw four drummers appear from another house,
with a sergeant commanding them. They formed into a line, their
drumsticks poised high before their faces, and then at a word from the
sergeant, the eight drumsticks fell together with a crash, and the
drummers proceeded to march slowly along the street beating out a jerky
exhilarating rhythm. At the first corner they stopped, and the drums
rolled long and menacingly, and then they marched on again, beating out
the previous rhythm. They were beating to arms, calling the men to their
duties from their billets, and Hornblower, tone-deaf but highly
sensitive to rhythm, thought it was fine music, real music. He turned
back to headquarters with his depression fallen away from him. The
sergeant of the guard came marching back with the relieved sentries; the
first of the awakened soldiers were beginning to appear sleepily in the
streets, and then, with a clatter of hoofs, a mounted messenger came
riding up to headquarters, and the day was begun.

A pale young French officer read the note which the messenger brought,
and politely handed it to Hornblower to read; he had to puzzle over it
for a space--he was not accustomed to hand-written French--but its
meaning became clear to him at length. It implied no new development;
the main expeditionary force, landed yesterday at Quiberon, would move
forward this morning on Vannes and Rennes while the subsidiary force to
which Hornblower was attached must maintain its position at Muzillac,
guarding its flank. The Marquis de Pouzauges, immaculate in his white
uniform and blue ribbon, appeared at that moment, read the note without
comment, and turned to Hornblower with a polite invitation to breakfast.

They went back to the big kitchen with its copper cooking pans
glittering on the walls, and a silent woman brought them coffee and
bread. She might be a patriotic Frenchwoman and an enthusiastic
counter-revolutionary, but she showed no signs of it. Her feelings, of
course, might easily have been influenced by the fact that this horde of
men had taken over her house and were eating her food and sleeping in
her rooms without payment. Maybe some of the horses and wagons seized
for the use of the army were hers too--and maybe some of the people who
had died under the guillotine last night were her friends. But she
brought coffee, and the staff, standing about in the big kitchen with
their spurs clinking, began to breakfast. Hornblower took his cup and a
piece of bread--for four months before this his only bread had been
ship's biscuit--and sipped at the stuff. He was not sure if he liked it;
he had only tasted coffee three or four times before. But the second
time he raised his cup to his lips he did not sip; before he could do
so, the distant boom of a cannon made him lower his cup and stand stock
still. The cannon shot was repeated, and again, and then it was echoed
by a sharper, nearer note--Midshipman Bracegirdle's six-pounders on the
causeway.

In the kitchen there was instant stir and bustle. Somebody knocked a cup
over and sent a river of black liquid swirling across the table.
Somebody else managed to catch his spurs together so that he stumbled
into somebody else's arms. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once.
Hornblower was as excited as the rest of them; he wanted to rush out and
see what was happening, but he thought at that moment of the disciplined
calm which he had seen in H.M.S. _Indefatigable_ as she went into
action. He was not of this breed of Frenchmen, and to prove it he made
himself put his cup to his lips again and drink calmly. Already most of
the staff had dashed out of the kitchen shouting for their horses. It
would take time to saddle up; he met Pouzauges' eye as the latter strode
up and down the kitchen, and drained his cup--a trifle too hot for
comfort, but he felt it was a good gesture. There was bread to eat, and
he made himself bite and chew and swallow, although he had no appetite;
if he was to be in the field all day, he could not tell when he would
get his next meal, and so he crammed a half loaf into his pocket.

The horses were being brought into the yard and saddled; the excitement
had infected them, and they plunged and sidled about amid the curses of
the officers. Pouzauges leapt up into his saddle and clattered away with
the rest of the staff behind him, leaving behind only a single soldier
holding Hornblower's roan. That was as it had better be--Hornblower knew
that he would not keep his seat for half a minute if the horse took it
into his head to plunge or rear. He walked slowly out to the animal,
which was calmer now when the groom petted him, and climbed with
infinite slowness and precaution into the saddle. With a pull at the bit
he checked the brute's exuberance and walked it sedately into the street
and towards the bridge in the wake of the galloping staff. It was better
to make sure of arriving by keeping his horse down to a walk than to
gallop and be thrown. The guns were still booming and he could see the
puffs of smoke from Bracegirdle's six-pounders. On his left, the sun was
rising in a clear sky.

At the bridge the situation seemed obvious enough. Where the arch had
been blown up a few skirmishers on either side were firing at each other
across the gap, and at the far end of the causeway, across the Marais, a
cloud of smoke revealed the presence of a hostile battery firing slowly
and at extreme range. Beside the causeway on this side were
Bracegirdle's two six-pounders, almost perfectly covered by a dip in the
ground. Bracegirdle, with his cutlass belted round him, was standing
between the guns which his party of seamen were working, and he waved
his hand lightheartedly at Hornblower when he caught sight of him. A
dark column of infantry appeared on the distant causeway. Bang--bang
went Bracegirdle's guns. Hornblower's horse plunged at the noise,
distracting him, but when he had time to look again, the column had
disappeared. Then suddenly the causeway parapet near him flew into
splinters; something hit the roadbed beside his horse's feet a
tremendous blow and passed on with a roar--that was the closest so far
in his life that a cannon shot had missed him. He lost a stirrup during
the resultant struggle with his horse, and deemed it wiser, as soon as
he regained moderate control, to dismount and lead the animal off the
causeway towards the guns. Bracegirdle met him with a grin.

"No chance of their crossing here" he said. "At least, not if the Frogs
stick to their work, and it looks as if they're willing to. The gap's
within grapeshot range, they'll never bridge it. Can't think what
they're burning powder for."

"Testing our strength, I suppose" said Hornblower, with an air of
infinite military wisdom.

He would have been shaking with excitement if he had allowed his body to
take charge. He did not know if he were being stiltedly unnatural, but
even if he were that was better than to display excitement. There was
something strangely pleasant, in a nightmare fashion, in standing here
posing as a hardened veteran with cannon balls howling overhead;
Bracegirdle seemed happy and smiling and quite master of himself, and
Hornblower looked sharply at him, wondering if this were as much a pose
as his own. He could not tell.

"Here they come again" said Bracegirdle. "Oh, only skirmishers."

A few scattered men were running out along the causeway to the bridge.
At long musket range they fell to the ground and began spasmodic firing;
already there were some dead men lying over there and the skirmishers
took cover behind the corpses. On this side of the gap the skirmishers,
better sheltered, fired back at them.

"They haven't a chance, here at any rate" said Bracegirdle. "And look
there."

The main body of the Royalist force, summoned from the town, was
marching up along the road. While they watched it, a cannon shot from
the other side struck the head of the column and ploughed into
it--Hornblower saw dead men flung this way and that, and the column
wavered. Pouzauges came riding up and yelled orders, and the column,
leaving its dead and wounded on the road, changed direction and took
shelter in the marshy fields beside the causeway.

With nearly all the Royalist force assembled, it seemed indeed as if it
would be utterly impossible for the Revolutionaries to force a crossing
here.

"I'd better report on this to the Lobsters" said Hornblower.

"There was firing down that way at dawn" agreed Bracegirdle.

Skirting the wide marsh here ran a narrow path through the lush grass,
leading to the ford which the 43rd were guarding. Hornblower led his
horse onto the path before he mounted; he felt he would be more sure in
that way of persuading the horse to take that direction. It was not long
before he saw a dab of scarlet on the river bank--pickets thrown out
from the main body to watch against any unlikely attempt to cross the
marshes and stream round the British flank. Then he saw the cottage that
indicated the site of the ford; in the field beside it was a wide patch
of scarlet indicating where the main body was waiting for developments.
At this point the marsh narrowed where a ridge of slightly higher ground
approached the water; a company of redcoats was drawn up here with Lord
Edrington on horseback beside them. Hornblower rode up and made his
report, somewhat jerkily as his horse moved restlessly under him.

"No serious attack, you say?" asked Edrington.

"No sign of one when I left, sir."

"Indeed?" Edrington stared across the river. "And here it's the same
story. No attempt to cross the ford in force. Why should they show their
hand and then not attack?"

"I thought they were burning powder unnecessarily, sir" said Hornblower.

"They're not fools" snapped Edrington, with another penetrating look
across the river. "At any rate, there's no harm in assuming they are
not."

He turned his horse and cantered back to the main body and gave an order
to a captain, who scrambled to his feet to receive it. The captain
bellowed an order, and his company stood up and fell into line, rigid
and motionless. Two further orders turned them to the right and marched
them off in file, every man in step, every musket sloped at the same
angle. Edrington watched them go.

"No harm in having a flank guard" he said.

The sound of a cannon across the water recalled them to the river; on
the other side of the marsh a column of troops could be seen marching
rapidly along the bank.

"That's the same column coming back, sir" said the company commander.
"That or another just like it."

"Marching about and firing random shots" said Edrington. "Mr.
Hornblower, have the migr troops any flank guard out towards
Quiberon?"

"Towards Quiberon, sir?" said Hornblower, taken aback.

"Damn it, can't you hear a plain question? Is there, or is there not?"

"I don't know, sir" confessed Hornblower miserably.

There were five thousand migr troops at Quiberon, and it seemed quite
unnecessary to keep a guard out in that direction.

"Then present my compliments to the French migr general, and suggest
he posts a strong detachment up the road, if he has not done so."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower turned his horse's head back up the path towards the bridge.
The sun was shining strongly now over the deserted fields. He could
still hear the occasional thud of a cannon shot, but overhead a lark was
singing in the blue sky. Then as he headed up the last low ridge towards
Muzillac and the bridge he heard a sudden irregular outburst of firing;
he fancied he heard screams and shouts, and what he saw as he topped the
rise, made him snatch at his reins and drag his horse to a halt. The
fields before him were covered with fugitives in blue uniforms with
white crossbelts, all running madly towards him. In among the fugitives
were galloping horsemen, whirling sabres that flashed in the sunshine.
Farther out to the left a whole column of horsemen were trotting fast
across the fields, and farther back the sun glittered on lines of
bayonets moving rapidly from the high road towards the sea.

There could be no doubt of what had happened; during those sick seconds
when he sat and stared, Hornblower realised the truth; the
Revolutionaries had pushed in a force between Quiberon and Muzillac,
and, keeping the migrs occupied by demonstrations from across the
river, had rushed down and brought off a complete surprise by this
attack from an unexpected quarter. Heaven only knew what had happened at
Quiberon--but this was no time to think about that. Hornblower dragged
his horse's head round and kicked his heels into the brute's sides,
urging him frantically back up the path towards the British. He bounced
and rolled in his saddle, clinging on madly, consumed with fear lest he
lose his seat and be captured by the pursuing French.

At the clatter of hoofs every eye turned towards him when he reached the
British post. Edrington was there, standing with his horse's bridle over
his arm.

"The French!" yelled Hornblower hoarsely, pointing back. "They're
coming!"

"I expected nothing else" said Edrington.

He shouted an order before he put his foot in the stirrup to mount. The
main body of the 43rd was standing in line by the time he was in the
saddle. His adjutant went galloping off to recall the company from the
water's edge.

"The French are in force, horse, foot, and guns, I suppose?" asked
Edrington.

"Horse and foot at least, sir" gasped Hornblower, trying to keep his
head clear. "I saw no guns."

"And the migrs are running like rabbits?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here come the first of them."

Over the nearest ridge a few blue uniforms made their appearance, their
wearers still running while stumbling with fatigue.

"I suppose we must cover their retreat, although they're not worth
saving" said Edrington. "Look there!"

The company he had sent out as a flank guard was in sight on the crest
of a slight slope: it was formed into a tiny square, red against the
green, and as they watched they saw a mob of horsemen flood up the hill
towards it and break into an eddy around it.

"Just as well I had them posted there" remarked Edrington calmly. "Ah,
here comes Mayne's company."

The force from the ford came marching up. Harsh orders were shouted. Two
companies wheeled round while the sergeant-major with his sabre and his
silver-headed cane regulated the pace and the alignment as if the men
were on the barrack square.

"I would suggest you stay by me, Mr. Hornblower" said Edrington.

He moved his horse up into the interval between the two columns, and
Hornblower followed him dumbly. Another order, and the force began to
march steadily across the valley, the sergeants calling the step and the
sergeant-major watching the intervals. All round them now were fleeing
migr soldiers, most of them in the last stages of
exhaustion--Hornblower noticed more than one of them fall down on the
ground gasping and incapable of further movement. And then over the low
slope to the right appeared a line of plumes, a line of sabres--a
regiment of cavalry trotting rapidly forward. Hornblower saw the sabres
lifted, saw the horses break into a gallop, heard the yells of the
charging men. The redcoats around him halted; another shouted order,
another slow, deliberate movement, and the half-battalion was in a
square with the mounted officers in the centre and the colours waving
over their heads. The charging horsemen were less than a hundred yards
away. Some officer with a deep voice began giving orders, intoning them
as if at some solemn ceremony. The first order brought the muskets from
the men's shoulders, and the second was answered by a simultaneous click
of opened priming pans. The third order brought the muskets to the
present along one face of the square.

"Too high!" said the sergeant-major "Lower, there, number seven."

The charging horsemen were only thirty yards away; Hornblower saw the
leading men, their cloaks flying from their shoulders, leaning along
their horses' necks with their sabres pointed forward at the full
stretch of their arms.

"Fire!" said the deep voice.

In reply came a single sharp explosion as every musket went off at once.
The smoke swirled round the square and disappeared. Where Hornblower had
been looking, there were now a score of horses and men on the ground,
some struggling in agony, some lying still. The cavalry regiment split
like a torrent encountering a rock and hurtled harmlessly past the other
faces of the square.

"Well enough" said Edrington.

The deep voice was intoning again; like marionettes all on the same
string the company that had fired now reloaded, every man biting out his
bullet at the same instant, every man ramming home his charge, every man
spitting his bullet into his musket barrel with the same instantaneous
inclination of the head. Edrington looked keenly at the cavalry
collecting together in a disorderly mob down the valley.

"The 43rd will advance!" he ordered.

With solemn ritual the square opened up again into two columns and
continued its interrupted march. The detached company came marching up
to join them from out of a ring of dead men and horses. Someone raised a
cheer.

"Silence in the ranks!" bellowed the sergeant-major. "Sergeant, take
that man's name."

But Hornblower noticed how the sergeant-major was eyeing keenly the
distance between the columns; it had to be maintained exactly so that a
company wheeling back filled it to make the square.

"Here they come again" said Edrington.

The cavalry were forming for a new charge, but the square was ready for
them. Now the horses were blown and the men were less enthusiastic. It
was not a solid wall of horses that came down on them, but isolated
groups, rushing first at one face and then at another, and pulling up or
swerving aside as they reached the line of bayonets. The attacks were
too feeble to meet with company volleys; at the word of command sections
here and there gave fire to the more determined groups. Hornblower saw
one man--an officer, judging by his gold lace--rein up before the
bayonets and pull out a pistol. Before he could discharge it, half a
dozen muskets went off together; the officer's face became a horrible
bloody mask, and he and his horse fell together to the ground. Then all
at once the cavalry wheeled off, like starlings over a field, and the
march could be resumed.

"No discipline about these Frogs, not on either side" said Edrington.

The march was headed for the sea, for the blessed shelter of the
_Indefatigable_, but it seemed to Hornblower as if the pace was
intolerably slow. The men were marching at the parade step, with
agonising deliberation, while all round them and far ahead of them the
fugitive migrs poured in a broad stream towards safety. Looking back,
Hornblower saw the fields full of marching columns--hurrying swarms,
rather--of Revolutionary infantry in hot pursuit of them.

"Once let men run, and you can't do anything else with them" commented
Edrington, following Hornblower's gaze.

Shouts and shots over to the flank caught their attention. Trotting over
the fields, leaping wildly at the bumps, came a cart drawn by a lean
horse. Someone in a seaman's frock and trousers was holding the reins;
other seamen were visible over the sides firing muskets at the horsemen
hovering about them. It was Bracegirdle with his dung cart; he might
have lost his guns but he had saved his men. The pursuers dropped away
as the cart neared the columns; Bracegirdle, standing up in the cart,
caught sight of Hornblower on his horse and waved to him excitedly.

"Boadicea and her chariot!" he yelled.

"I'll thank you, sir" shouted Edrington with lungs of brass "to go on
and prepare for our embarkation."

"Aye aye, sir!"

The lean horse trotted on with the cart lurching after it and the
grinning seamen clinging on to the sides. At the flank appeared a swarm
of infantry, a mad, gesticulating crowd, half running to cut off the
43rd's retreat. Edrington swept his glance round the fields.

"The 43rd will form line!" he shouted.

Like some ponderous machine, well oiled, the half-battalion fronted
towards the swarm; the columns became lines, each man moving into his
position like bricks laid on a wall.

"The 43rd will advance!"

The scarlet line swept forward, slowly, inexorably. The swarm hastened
to meet it, officers to the front waving their swords and calling on
their men to follow.

"Make ready!"

Every musket came down together; the priming pans clicked.

"Present!"

Up came the muskets, and the swarm hesitated before that fearful menace.
Individuals tried to get back into the crowd to cover themselves from
the volley with the bodies of their comrades.

"Fire!"

A crashing volley; Hornblower, looking over the heads of the British
infantry from his point of vantage on horseback, saw the whole face of
the swarm go down in swathes. Still the red line moved forward, at each
deliberate step a shouted order brought a machine-like response as the
men reloaded; five hundred mouths spat in five hundred bullets, five
hundred right arms raised five hundred ramrods at once. When the muskets
came to the present the red line was at the swathe of dead and wounded,
for the swarm had withdrawn before the advance, and shrank back still
further at the threat of the volley. The volley was fired; the advance
went on. Another volley; another advance. Now the swarm was shredding
away. Now men were running from it. Now every man had turned tail and
fled from that frightful musketry. The hillside was as black with
fugitives as it had been when the migrs were fleeing.

"Halt!"

The advance ceased; the line became a double column, and the retreat
began again.

"Very creditable" remarked Edrington.

Hornblower's horse was trying jerkily to pick its way over a carpet of
dead and wounded, and he was so busy keeping his seat, and his brain was
in such a whirl, that he did not immediately realise that they had
topped the last rise, so that before them lay the glittering waters of
the estuary. The strip of muddy beach was packed solid with migrs.
There were the ships riding at anchor, and there, blessed sight, were
the boats swarming towards the shore. It was high time, for already the
boldest of the Revolutionary infantry were hovering round the columns,
taking long shots into them. Here and there a man fell.

"Close up!" snapped the sergeants, and the files marched on stolidly,
leaving the wounded and dead behind them.

The adjutant's horse suddenly snorted and plunged, and then fell first
to its knees, and, kicking, to its side, while the freckle-faced
adjutant freed his feet from the stirrups and flung himself out of the
saddle just in time to escape being pinned underneath.

"Are you hit, Stanley?" asked Edrington.

"No, my lord. All safe and sound" said the adjutant, brushing at his
scarlet coat.

"You won't have to foot it far" said Edrington. "No need to throw out
skirmishers to drive those fellows off. This is where we must make our
stand."

He looked about him, at the fishermen's cottages above the beach, the
panic-stricken migrs at the water's edge, and the masses of
Revolutionary infantry coming up in pursuit, leaving small enough time
for preparation. Some of the redcoats poured into the cottages,
appearing a moment later at the windows; it was fortunate that the
fishing hamlet guarded one flank of the gap down to the beach while the
other was guarded by a steep and inaccessible headland on whose summit a
small block of redcoats established themselves. In the gap between the
two points the remaining four companies formed a long line just
sheltered by the crest of the beach.

The boats of the squadron were already loading with migrs among the
small breakers below. Hornblower heard the crack of a single
pistol-shot; he could guess that some officer down there was enforcing
his orders in the only possible way to prevent the fear-driven men from
pouring into the boats and swamping them. As if in answer came the roar
of cannon on the other side. A battery of artillery had unlimbered just
out of musket range and was firing at the British position, while all
about it gathered the massed battalions of the Revolutionary infantry.
The cannon balls howled close overhead.

"Let them fire away" said Edrington. "The longer the better."

The artillery could do little harm to the British in the fold of ground
that protected them, and the Revolutionary commander must have realised
that as well as the necessity for wasting no time. Over there the drums
began to roll--a noise of indescribable menace--and then the columns
surged forward. So close were they already that Hornblower could see the
features of the officers in the lead, waving their hats and swords.

"43rd, make ready!" said Edrington, and the priming pans clicked as one.
"Seven paces forward--march!"

One--two--three--seven paces, painstakingly taken, took the line to the
little crest.

"Present! Fire!"

A volley nothing could withstand. The columns halted, swayed, received
another smashing volley, and another, and fell back in ruin.

"Excellent!" said Edrington.

The battery boomed again; a file of two redcoat soldiers was tossed back
like dolls, to lie in a horrible bloody mass close beside Hornblower's
horse's feet.

"Close up!" said a sergeant, and the men on either side had filled the
gap.

"43rd, seven paces back--march!"

The line was below the crest again, as the red-coated marionettes
withdrew in steady time. Hornblower could not remember later whether it
was twice or three times more that the Revolutionary masses came on
again, each time to be dashed back by that disciplined musketry. But the
sun was nearly setting in the ocean behind him when he looked back to
see the beach almost cleared and Bracegirdle plodding up to them to
report.

"I can spare one company now" said Edrington in reply but not taking his
eyes off the French masses. "After they are on board, have every boat
ready and waiting."

One company filed off; another attack was beaten back--after the
preceding failures it was not pressed home with anything like the dash
and fire of the earlier ones. Now the battery was turning its attention
to the headland on the flank, and sending its balls among the redcoats
there, while a battalion of French moved over to the attack at that
point.

"That gives us time" said Edrington. "Captain Griffin, you can march the
men off. Colour party, remain here."

Down the beach went the centre companies to the waiting boats, while the
colours still waved to mark their old position, visible over the crest
to the French. The company in the cottages came out, formed up, and
marched down as well. Edrington trotted across to the foot of the little
headland; he watched the French forming for the attack and the infantry
wading out to the boats.

"Now, grenadiers!" he yelled suddenly. "Run for it! Colour party!"

Down the steep seaward face of the headland came the last company,
running, sliding, and stumbling. A musket, clumsily handled, went off
unexpectedly. The last man came down the slope as the colour party
reached the water's edge and began to climb into a boat with its
precious burden. A wild yell went up from the French, and their whole
mass came rushing towards the evacuated position.

"Now, sir" said Edrington, turning his horse seawards.

Hornblower fell from his saddle as his horse splashed into the shallows.
He let go of the reins and plunged out, waist deep, shoulder deep, to
where the longboat lay on its oars with its four-pounder gun in its bows
and Bracegirdle beside it to haul him in. He looked up in time to see a
curious incident; Edrington had reached the _Indefatigable's_ gig, still
holding his horse's reins. With the French pouring down the beach
towards them, he turned and took a musket from the nearest soldier,
pressed the muzzle to the horse's head, and fired. The horse fell in its
death agony in the shallows; only Hornblower's roan remained as prize to
the Revolutionaries.

"Back water!" said Bracegirdle, and the longboat backed away from the
beach; Hornblower lay in the eyes of the boat feeling as if he had not
the strength to move a limb, and the beach was covered with shouting,
gesticulating Frenchmen, lit redly by the sunset.

"One moment" said Bracegirdle, reaching for the lanyard of the
four-pounder, and tugging at it smartly.

The gun roared out in Hornblower's ear, and the charge cut a swathe of
destruction on the beach.

"That was canister" said Bracegirdle. "Eighty-four balls. Easy, port!
Give way, starboard!"

The longboat turned, away from the beach and towards the welcoming
ships. Hornblower looked back at the darkening coast of France. This was
the end of an incident; his country's attempt to overturn the Revolution
had met with a bloody repulse. Newspapers in Paris would exult; the
_Gazette_ in London would give the incident five cold lines.
Clairvoyant, Hornblower could foresee that in a year's time the world
would hardly remember the incident. In twenty years it would be entirely
forgotten. Yet those headless corpses up there in Muzillac; those
shattered redcoats; those Frenchmen caught in the four-pounder's blast
of canister--they were all as dead as if it had been a day in which
history had been changed. And he was just as weary. And in his pocket
there was still the bread he had put there that morning and forgotten
all about.




                          THE SPANISH GALLEYS
                                    *


The old _Indefatigable_ was lying at anchor in the Bay of Cadiz at the
time when Spain made peace with France. Hornblower happened to be
midshipman of the watch, and it was he who called the attention of
Lieutenant Chadd to the approach of the eight-oared pinnace, with the
red and yellow of Spain drooping at the stern. Chadd's glass made out
the gleam of gold on epaulette and cocked hat, and bellowed the order
for sideboys and marine guard to give the traditional honours to a
captain in an allied service. Pellew, hurriedly warned, was at the
gangway to meet his visitor, and it was at the gangway that the entire
interview took place. The Spaniard, making a low bow with his hat across
his stomach, offered a sealed envelope to the Englishman.

"Here, Mr. Hornblower" said Pellew, holding the letter unopened "speak
French to this fellow. Ask him to come below for a glass of wine."

But the Spaniard, with a further bow, declined the refreshment, and,
with another bow, requested that Pellew open the letter immediately.
Pellew broke the seal and read the contents, struggling with the French
which he could read to a small extent although he could not speak it at
all. He handed it to Hornblower.

"This means the Dagoes have made peace, doesn't it?"

Hornblower struggled through twelve lines of compliments addressed by
His Excellency the Duke of Belchite (Grandee of the First Class, with
eighteen other titles ending with Captain-General of Andalusia) to the
Most Gallant Ship-Captain Sir Edward Pellew, Knight of the Bath. The
second paragraph was short and contained only a brief intimation of
peace. The third paragraph was as long as the first, and repeated its
phraseology almost word for word in a ponderous farewell.

"That's all, sir" said Hornblower.

But the Spanish captain had a verbal message with which to supplement
the written one.

"Please tell your captain" he said, in his lisping Spanish-French, "that
now as a neutral power, Spain must enforce her rights. You have already
been at anchor here for twenty-four hours. Six hours from now"--the
Spaniard took a gold watch from his pocket and glanced at it--"if you
are within range of the batteries at Puntales there they will be given
orders to fire on you."

Hornblower could only translate the brutal message without any attempt
at softening it, and Pellew listened, white with anger despite his tan.

"Tell him----" he began, and then mastered his rage. "Damme if I'll let
him see he has made me angry."

He put his hat across his stomach and bowed in as faithful an imitation
of the Spaniard's courtliness as he could manage, before he turned to
Hornblower.

"Tell him I have received his message with pleasure. Tell him I much
regret that circumstances are separating him from me, and that I hope I
shall always enjoy his personal friendship whatever the relations
between our countries. Tell him--oh, you can tell him the sort of thing
I want said, can't you, Hornblower? Let's see him over the side with
dignity. Sideboys! Bosun's mates! Drummers!"

Hornblower poured out compliments to the best of his ability, and at
every phrase the two captains exchanged bows, the Spaniard withdrawing a
pace at each bow and Pellew following him up, not to be outdone in
courtesy. The drums beat a ruffle, the marines presented arms, the pipes
shrilled and twittered until the Spaniard's head had descended to the
level of the maindeck, when Pellew stiffened up, clapped his hat on his
head, and swung round on his first lieutenant.

"Mr. Eccles, I want to be under way within the hour, if you please."

Then he stamped down below to regain his equanimity in private.

Hands were aloft loosing sail ready to sheet home, while the clank of
the capstan told how other men were heaving the cable short, and
Hornblower was standing on the portside gangway with Mr. Wales the
carpenter, looking over at the white houses of one of the most beautiful
cities in Europe.

"I've been ashore there twice," said Wales. "The wine's good--vino, they
calls it--if you happens to like that kind o' muck. But don't you ever
try that brandy, Mr. Hornblower. Poison, it is, rank poison. Hello!
We're going to have an escort, I see."

Two long sharp prows had emerged from the inner bay, and were pointing
towards the _Indefatigable_. Hornblower could not restrain himself from
giving a cry of surprise as he followed Wales' gaze. The vessels
approaching were galleys; along each side of them the oars were lifting
and falling rhythmically, catching the sunlight as they feathered. The
effect, as a hundred oars swung like one, was perfectly beautiful.
Hornblower remembered a line in a Latin poet which he had translated as
a schoolboy, and recalled his surprise when he discovered that to a
Roman the 'white wings' of a ship of war were her oars. Now the simile
was plain; even a gull in flight, which Hornblower had always looked
upon until now as displaying the perfection of motion, was not more
beautiful than those galleys. They lay low in the water, immensely long
for their beam. Neither the sails nor the lateen yards were set on the
low raking masts. The bows blazed with gilding, while the waters of the
bay foamed round them as they headed into the teeth of the gentle breeze
with the Spanish red and gold streaming aft from the masthead.
Up--forward--down--went the oars with unchanging rhythm, the blades not
varying an inch in their distance apart during the whole of the stroke.
From the bows of each two long guns looked straight forward in the
direction the galleys pointed.

"Twenty-four pounders" said Wales. "If they catch you in a calm, they'll
knock you to pieces. Lie off on your quarter where you can't bring a gun
to bear and rake you till you strike. An' then God help you--better a
Turkish prison than a Spanish one."

In a line-ahead that might have been drawn with a ruler and measured
with a chain the galleys passed close along the port side of the
_Indefatigable_ and went ahead of her. As they passed the roll of the
drum and the call of the pipes summoned the crew of the _Indefatigable_
to attention out of compliment to the flag and the commission pendant
going by, while the galleys' officers returned the salute.

"It don't seem right, somehow" muttered Wales under his breath "to
salute 'em like they was a frigate."

Level with the _Indefatigable's_ bowsprit the leader backed her
starboard side oars, and spun like a top, despite her length and narrow
beam, across the frigate's bows. The gentle wind blew straight to the
frigate from the galley, and then from her consort as the latter
followed; and a foul stench came back on the air and assailed
Hornblower's nostrils, and not Hornblower's alone, clearly, for it
brought forth cries of disgust from all the men on deck.

"They all stink like that" explained Wales. "Four men to the oar an'
fifty oars. Two hundred galley slaves, that is. All chained to their
benches. When you goes aboard one of them as a slave you're chained to
your bench, an' you're never unchained until they drop you overside.
Sometimes when the hands aren't busy they'll hose out the bilge, but
that doesn't happen often, bein' Dagoes an' not many of 'em."

Hornblower as always sought exact information.

"How many, Mr. Wales?"

"Thirty, mebbe. Enough to hand the sails if they're making a passage. Or
to man the guns--they strike the yards and sails, like now, before they
goes into action, Mr. Hornblower," said Wales, pontifical as usual, and
with that slight emphasis on the 'Mister' inevitable when a warrant
officer of sixty with no hope of further promotion addressed a warrant
officer of eighteen (his nominal equal in rank) who might some day be an
admiral. "So you see how it is. With no more than thirty of a crew an'
two hundred slaves they daren't let 'em loose, not ever."

The galleys had turned again, and were now passing down the
_Indefatigable's_ starboard side. The beat of the oars had slowed very
noticeably, and Hornblower had ample time to observe the vessels
closely, the low forecastle and high poop with the gangway connecting
them along the whole length of the galley; upon that gangway walked a
man with a whip. The rowers were invisible below the bulwarks, the oars
being worked through holes in the sides closed, as far as Hornblower
could see, with sheets of leather round the oar-looms to keep out the
sea. On the poop stood two men at the tiller and a small group of
officers, their gold lace flashing in the sunshine. Save for the gold
lace and the twenty-four-pounder bow chasers Hornblower was looking at
exactly the same sort of vessel as the ancients used to fight their
battles. Polybius and Thucydides wrote about galleys almost identical
with these--for that matter it was not much more than two hundred years
since the galleys had fought their last great battle at Lepanto against
the Turks. But those battles had been fought with hundreds of galleys a
side.

"How many do they have in commission now?" asked Hornblower.

"A dozen, mebbe--not that I knows for sure, o' course. Carthagena's
their usual station, beyond the Gut."

Wales, as Hornblower understood, meant by this through the Strait of
Gibraltar in the Mediterranean.

"Too frail for the Atlantic" Hornblower commented.

It was easy to deduce the reasons for the survival of this small
number--the innate conservatism of the Spaniards would account for it to
a large extent. Then there was the point that condemnation to the
galleys was one way of disposing of criminals. And when all was said and
done a galley might still be useful in a calm--merchant ships becalmed
while trying to pass the Strait of Gibraltar might be snapped up by
galleys pushing out from Cadiz or Carthagena. And at the very lowest
estimate there might be some employment for galleys to tow vessels in
and out of harbour with the wind unfavourable.

"Mr. Hornblower!" said Eccles. "My respects to the captain, and we're
ready to get under way."

Hornblower dived below with his message.

"My compliments to Mr. Eccles" said Pellew, looking up from his desk
"and I'll be on deck immediately."

There was just enough of a southerly breeze to enable the
_Indefatigable_ to weather the point in safety. With her anchor catted
she braced round her yards and began to steal seaward; in the
disciplined stillness which prevailed the sound of the ripple of water
under her cutwater was clearly to be heard--a musical note which told
nothing, in its innocence, of the savagery and danger of the world of
the sea into which she was entering. Creeping along under her topsails
the _Indefatigable_ made no more than three knots, and the galleys came
surging past her again, oars beating their fastest rhythm, as if the
galleys were boasting of their independence of the elements. Their gilt
flashed in the sun as they overtook to windward, and once again their
foul stench offended the nostrils of the men of the _Indefatigable_.

"I'd be obliged if they'd keep to leeward of us" muttered Pellew,
watching them through his glass. "But I suppose that's not Spanish
courtesy. Mr. Cutler!"

"Sir!" said the gunner.

"You may commence the salute."

"Aye aye, sir."

The forward carronade on the lee side roared out the first of its
compliments, and the fort of Puntales began its reply. The sound of the
salute rolled round the beautiful bay; nation was speaking to nation in
all courtesy.

"The next time we hear those guns they'll be shotted, I fancy" said
Pellew, gazing across at Puntales and the flag of Spain flying above it.

Indeed, the tide of war was turning against England. Nation after nation
had retired from the contest against France, some worsted by arms, and
some by the diplomacy of the vigorous young republic. To any thinking
mind it was obvious that once the step from war to neutrality had been
taken, the next step would be easy, from neutrality to war on the other
side. Hornblower could foresee, close at hand, a time when all Europe
would be arrayed in hostility to England, when she would be battling for
her life against the rejuvenescent power of France and the malignity of
the whole world.

"Set sail, please, Mr. Eccles" said Pellew.

Two hundred trained pairs of legs raced aloft; two hundred trained pairs
of arms let loose the canvas, and the _Indefatigable_ doubled her speed,
heeling slightly to the gentle breeze. Now she was meeting the long
Atlantic swell. So were the galleys; as the _Indefatigable_ overtook
them, Hornblower could see the leader put her nose into a long roller so
that a cloud of spray broke over her forecastle. That was asking too
much of such frail craft. Back went one bank of oars; forward went the
other. The galleys rolled hideously for a moment in the trough of the
sea before they completed their turn and headed back for the safe waters
of Cadiz Bay. Someone forward in the _Indefatigable_ began to boo, and
the cry was instantly taken up through the ship. A storm of boos and
whistles and catcalls pursued the galleys, the men momentarily quite out
of hand while Pellew spluttered with rage on the quarterdeck and the
petty officers strove in vain to take the names of the offenders. It was
an ominous farewell to Spain.

Ominous indeed. It was not long before Captain Pellew gave the news to
the ship that Spain had completed her change-over; with the treasure
convoy safely in she had declared war against England; the revolutionary
republic had won the alliance of the most decayed monarchy in Europe.
British resources were now stretched to the utmost; there was another
thousand miles of coast to watch, another fleet to blockade, another
horde of privateers to guard against, and far fewer harbours in which to
take refuge and from which to draw the fresh water and the meagre stores
which enabled the hard-worked crews to remain at sea. It was then that
friendship had to be cultivated with the half savage Barbary States, and
the insolence of the Deys and the Sultans had to be tolerated so that
North Africa could provide the skinny bullocks and the barley grain to
feed the British garrisons in the Mediterranean--all of them beleagured
on land--and the ships which kept open the way to them. Oran, Tetuan,
Algiers wallowed in unwontedly honest prosperity with the influx of
British gold.

It was a day of glassy calm in the Straits of Gibraltar. The sea was
like a silver shield, the sky like a bowl of sapphire, with the
mountains of Africa on the one hand, the mountains of Spain on the other
as dark serrations on the horizon. It was not a comfortable situation
for the _Indefatigable_, but that was not because of the blazing sun
which softened the pitch in the deck seams. There is almost always a
slight current setting inwards into the Mediterranean from the Atlantic,
and the prevailing winds blow in the same direction. In a calm like this
it was not unusual for a ship to be carried far through the Straits,
past the Rock of Gibraltar, and then to have to beat for days and even
weeks to make Gibraltar Bay. So that Pellew was not unnaturally anxious
about his convoy of grain ships from Oran. Gibraltar had to be
revictualled--Spain had already marched an army up for the siege--and he
dared not risk being carried past his destination. His orders to his
reluctant convoy had been enforced by flag and gun signals, for no
shorthanded merchant ship relished the prospect of the labour Pellew
wished to be executed. The _Indefatigable_ no less than her convoy had
lowered boats, and the helpless ships were now all in tow. That was
backbreaking, exhausting labour, the men at the oars tugging and
straining, dragging the oar blades through the water, while the towlines
tightened and bucked with superhuman perversity and the ships sheered
freakishly from side to side. It was less than a mile an hour, that the
ships made in this fashion, at the cost of the complete exhaustion of
the boats' crews, but at least it postponed the time when the Gibraltar
current would carry them to leeward, and similarly gave more chance for
the longed-for southerly wind--two hours of a southerly wind was all
they wished for--to waft them up to the Mole.

Down in the _Indefatigable's_ longboat and cutter the men tugging at
their oars were so stupefied with their toil that they did not hear the
commotion in the ship. They were just tugging and straining, under the
pitiless sky, living through their two hours' spell of misery, but they
were roused by the voice of the captain himself, hailing them from the
forecastle.

"Mr. Bolton! Mr. Chadd! Cast off there, if you please. You'd better come
and arm your men at once. Here come our friends from Cadiz."

Back on the quarterdeck, Pellew looked through his glass at the hazy
horizon; he could make out from here by now what had first been reported
from the masthead.

"They're heading straight for us" he said.

The two galleys were on their way from Cadiz; presumably a fast horseman
from the lookout point at Tarifa had brought them the news of this
golden opportunity, of the flat calm and the scattered and helpless
convoy. This was the moment for galleys to justify their continued
existence. They could capture and at least burn, although they could not
hope to carry off, the unfortunate merchant ships while the
_Indefatigable_ lay helpless hardly out of cannon's range. Pellew looked
round at the two merchant ships and the three brigs; one of them was
within half a mile of him and might be covered by his gunfire, but the
others--a mile and a half, two miles away--had no such protection.

"Pistols and cutlasses, my lads!" he said to the men pouring up from
overside. "Clap onto that stay tackle now. Smartly with that carronade,
Mr. Cutler!"

The _Indefatigable_ had been in too many expeditions where minutes
counted to waste any time over these preparations. The boats' crews
seized their arms, the six-pounder carronades were lowered into the bows
of the cutter and longboat, and soon the boats, crowded with armed men,
and provisioned against sudden emergency, were pulling away to meet the
galleys.

"What the devil d'you think you're doing, Mr. Hornblower?"

Pellew had just caught sight of Hornblower in the act of swinging out of
the jolly boat which was his special charge. He wondered what his
midshipman thought he could achieve against a war-galley with a
twelve-foot boat and a crew of six.

"We can pull to one of the convoy and reinforce the crew, sir" said
Hornblower.

"Oh, very well then, carry on. I'll trust to your good sense, even
though that's a broken reed."

"Good on you, sir!" said Jackson ecstatically, as the jolly boat shoved
off from the frigate. "Good on you! No one else wouldn't never have
thought of that."

Jackson, the coxswain of the jolly boat, obviously thought that
Hornblower had no intention of carrying out his suggestion to reinforce
the crew of one of the merchant ships.

"Those stinking Dagoes" said stroke oar, between his teeth.

Hornblower was conscious of the presence in his crew of the same feeling
of violent hostility toward the Spanish galleys as he felt within
himself. In a fleeting moment of analysis, he attributed it to the
circumstances in which they had first made the galleys' acquaintance, as
well as to the stench which the galleys trailed after them. He had never
known this feeling of personal hatred before; when previously he had
fought it had been as a servant of the King, not out of personal
animosity. Yet here he was gripping the tiller under the scorching sky
and leaning forward in his eagerness to be at actual grips with this
enemy.

The longboat and cutter had a long start of them, and even though they
were manned by crews who had already served a spell at the oars they
were skimming over the water at such a speed that the jolly boat with
all the advantage of the glassy-smooth water only slowly caught up to
them. Overside the sea was of the bluest, deepest blue until the oar
blades churned it white. Ahead of them the vessels of the convoy lay
scattered where the sudden calm had caught them, and just beyond them
Hornblower caught sight of the flash of oar blades as the galleys came
sweeping down on their prey. Longboat and cutter were diverging in an
endeavour to cover as many vessels as possible, and the gig was still
far astern. There would hardly be time to board a ship even if
Hornblower should wish to. He put the tiller over to incline his course
after the cutter; one of the galleys at that moment abruptly made its
appearance in the gap between two of the merchant ships. Hornblower saw
the cutter swing round to point her six-pounder carronade at the
advancing bows.

"Pull, you men! Pull!" he shrieked mad with excitement.

He could not imagine what was going to happen, but he wanted to be in
the fray. That six-pounder popgun was grossly inaccurate at any range
longer than musket shot. It would serve to hurl a mass of grape into a
crowd of men, but its ball would have small effect on the strengthened
bows of a war galley.

"Pull!" shrieked Hornblower again. He was nearly up to them, wide on the
cutter's quarter.

The carronade boomed out. Hornblower thought he saw the splinters fly
from the galley's bow, but the shot had no more effect on deterring her
than a peashooter could stop a charging bull. The galley turned a
little, getting exactly into line, and then her oars' beat quickened.
She was coming down to ram, like the Greeks at Salamis.

"Pull!" shrieked Hornblower.

Instinctively, he gave the tiller a touch to take the jolly boat out
into a flanking position.

"Easy!"

The jolly boat's oars stilled, as their way carried them past the
cutter. Hornblower could see Soames standing up in the sternsheets
looking at the death which was cleaving the blue water towards him. Bow
to bow the cutter might have stood a chance, but too late the cutter
tried to evade the blow altogether. Hornblower saw her turn, presenting
her vulnerable side to the galley's stern. That was all he could see,
for the next moment the galley herself hid from him the final act of the
tragedy. The jolly boat's starboard side oars only just cleared the
galley's starboard oars as she swept by. Hornblower heard a shriek and a
crash, saw the galley's forward motion almost cease at the collision. He
was mad with the lust of fighting, quite insane, and his mind was
working with the rapidity of insanity.

"Give way, port!" he yelled, and the jolly boat swung round under the
galley's stern. "Give way all!"

The jolly boat leaped after the galley like a terrier after a bull.

"Grapple them, damn you, Jackson!"

Jackson shouted an oath in reply, as he leaped forward, seemingly
hurdling the men at the oars without breaking their stroke. In the bows
Jackson seized the boat's grapnel on its long line and flung it hard and
true. It caught somewhere in the elaborate gilt rail on the galley's
quarter. Jackson hauled on the line, the oars tugged madly in the effort
to carry the jolly boat up to the galley's stern. At that moment
Hornblower saw it, the sight which would long haunt his dreams--up from
under the galley's stern came the shattered forepart of the cutter,
still with men clinging to it who had survived the long passage under
the whole length of the galley which had overrun them. There were
straining faces, empurpled faces, faces already relaxing in death. But
in a moment it was past and gone, and Hornblower felt the jerk
transmitted through the line to the jolly boat as the galley leaped
forward.

"I can't hold her!" shouted Jackson.

"Take a turn round the cleat, you fool!"

The galley was towing the jolly boat now, dragging her along at the end
of a twenty-foot line close on her quarter, just clear of the arc of her
rudder. The white water bubbled all around her, her bows were cocked up
with the strain. It was a mad moment, as though they had harpooned a
whale. Some one came running aft on the Spaniard's poop, knife in hand
to cut the line.

"Shoot him, Jackson!" shrieked Hornblower again.

Jackson's pistol cracked, and the Spaniard fell to the deck out of
sight--a good shot. Despite his fighting madness, despite the turmoil of
rushing water and glaring sun, Hornblower tried to think out his next
move. Inclination and common sense alike told him that the best plan was
to close with the enemy despite the odds.

"Pull up to them, there!" he shouted--everyone in the boat was shouting
and yelling. The men in the bows of the jolly boat faced forward and
took the grapnel line and began to haul in on it, but the speed of the
boat through the water made any progress difficult, and after a yard or
so had been gained the difficulty became insurmountable, for the grapnel
was caught in the poop rail ten or eleven feet above water, and the
angle of pull became progressively steeper as the jolly boat neared the
stern of the galley. The boat's bow cocked higher out of the water than
ever.

"Belay!" said Hornblower, and then, his voice rising again, "Out
pistols, lads!"

A row of four or five swarthy faces had appeared at the stem of the
galley. Muskets were pointing into the jolly boat, and there was a brief
but furious exchange of shots. One man fell groaning into the bottom of
the jolly boat, but the row of faces disappeared. Standing up
precariously in the swaying sternsheets, Hornblower could still see
nothing of the galley's poop deck save for the tops of two heads,
belonging, it was clear, to the men at the tiller.

"Reload" he said to his men, remembering by a miracle to give the order.
The ramrods went down the pistol barrels.

"Do that carefully if you ever want to see Pompey again" said
Hornblower.

He was shaking with excitement and mad with the fury of fighting, and it
was the automatic, drilled part of him which was giving these
level-headed orders. His higher faculties were quite negatived by his
lust for blood. He was seeing things through a pink mist--that was how
he remembered it when he looked back upon it later. There was a sudden
crash of glass. Someone had thrust a musket barrel through the big stem
window of the galley's after-cabin. Luckily having thrust it through he
had to recover himself to take aim. An irregular volley of pistols
almost coincided with the report of the musket. Where the Spaniard's
bullet went no one knew; but the Spaniard fell back from the window.

"By God! That's our way!" screamed Hornblower, and then, steadying
himself. "Reload."

As the bullets were being spat into the barrels he stood up. His unused
pistols were still in his belt; his cutlass was at his side.

"Come aft, here" he said to stroke oar; the jolly boat would stand no
more weight in the bows than she had already. "And you, too."

Hornblower poised himself on the thwarts, eyeing the grapnel line and
the cabin window.

"Bring 'em after me one at a time, Jackson" he said.

Then he braced himself and flung himself at the grapnel line. His feet
grazed the water as the line sagged, but using all his clumsy strength
his arms carried him upwards. Here was the shattered window at his side;
he swung up his feet, kicked out a big remaining piece of the pane, and
then shot his feet through and then the rest of himself. He came down on
the deck of the cabin with a thud; it was dark in here compared with the
blinding sun outside. As he got to his feet, he trod on something which
gave out a cry of pain--the wounded Spaniard, evidently--and the hand
with which he drew his cutlass was sticky with blood. Spanish blood.
Rising, he hit his head a thunderous crash on the deck-beams above, for
the little cabin was very low, hardly more than five feet, and so severe
was the blow that his senses almost left him. But before him was the
cabin door and he reeled out through it, cutlass in hand. Over his head
he heard a stamping of feet, and shots were fired behind him and above
him--a further exchange, he presumed, between the jolly boat and the
galley's stern rail. The cabin door opened into a low half-deck, and
Hornblower reeled along it out into the sunshine again. He was on the
tiny strip of maindeck at the break of the poop. Before him stretched
the narrow gangway between the two sets of rowers; he could look down at
these latter--two seas of bearded faces, mops of hair and lean sunburned
bodies, swinging rhythmically back and forward to the beat of the oars.

That was all the impression he could form of them at the moment. At the
far end of the gangway at the break of the forecastle stood the overseer
with his whip; he was shouting words in rhythmic succession to the
slaves--Spanish numbers, perhaps, to give them the time. There were
three or four men on the forecastle; below them the half-doors through
the forecastle bulkhead were hooked open, through which Hornblower could
see the two big guns illuminated by the light through the port holes out
of which they were run almost at the water level. The guns' crews were
standing by the guns, but numerically they were far fewer than two
twenty-four pounders would demand. Hornblower remembered Wales' estimate
of no more than thirty for a galley's crew. The men of one gun at least
had been called aft to defend the poop against the jolly boat's attack.

A step behind him made him leap with anxiety and he swung round with his
cutlass ready to meet Jackson stumbling out of the half-deck, cutlass in
hand.

"Nigh on cracked my nut" said Jackson.

He was speaking thickly like a drunken man, and his words were chorused
by further shots fired from the poop at the level of the top of their
heads.

"Oldroyd's comin' next" said Jackson. "Franklin's dead."

On either side of them a companion ladder mounted to the poop deck. It
seemed logical, mathematical, that they should each go up one but
Hornblower thought better of it.

"Come along" he said, and headed for the starboard ladder, and, with
Oldroyd putting in an appearance at that moment, he yelled to him to
follow.

The handropes of the ladder were of twisted red and yellow cord--he even
could notice that as he rushed up the ladder, pistol in hand and cutlass
in the other. After the first step, his eye was above deck level. There
were more than a dozen men crowded on the tiny poop, but two were lying
dead, and one was groaning with his back to the rail, and two stood by
the tiller. The others were looking over the rail at the jolly boat.
Hornblower was still insane with fighting madness. He must have leaped
up the final two or three steps with a bound like a stag's, and he was
screaming like a maniac as he flung himself at the Spaniards. His pistol
went off apparently without his willing it, but the face of the man a
yard away dissolved into bloody ruin, and Hornblower dropped the weapon
and snatched the second, his thumb going to the hammer as he whirled his
cutlass down with a crash on the sword which the next Spaniard raised as
a feeble guard. He struck and struck and struck with a lunatic's
strength. Here was Jackson beside him shouting hoarsely and striking out
right and left.

"Kill 'em! Kill 'em!" shouted Jackson.

Hornblower saw Jackson's cutlass flash down on the head of the
defenceless man at the tiller. Then out of the tail of his eye he saw
another sword threaten him as he battered with his cutlass at the man
before him, but his pistol saved him as he fired automatically again.
Another pistol went off beside him--Oldroyd's, he supposed--and then the
fight on the poop was over. By what miracle of ineptitude the Spaniards
had allowed the attack to take them by surprise Hornblower never could
discover. Perhaps they were ignorant of the wounding of the man in the
cabin, and had relied on him to defend that route; perhaps it had never
occurred to them that three men could be so utterly desperate as to
attack a dozen; perhaps they never realised that three men had made the
perilous passage of the grapnel line; perhaps--most probably--in the mad
excitement of it all, they simply lost their heads, for five minutes
could hardly have elapsed altogether from the time the jolly boat hooked
on until the poop was cleared. Two or three Spaniards ran down the
companion to the maindeck, and forward along the gangway between the
rows of slaves. One was caught against the rail and made a gesture of
surrender, but Jackson's hand was already at his throat. Jackson was a
man of immense physical strength; he bent the Spaniard back over the
rail, farther and farther, and then caught him by the thigh with his
other hand and heaved him over. He fell with a shriek before Hornblower
could interpose. The poop deck was covered with writhing men, like the
bottom of a boat filled with flapping fish. One man was getting to his
knees when Jackson and Oldroyd seized him. They swung him up to toss him
over the rail.

"Stop that!" said Hornblower, and quite callously they dropped him again
with a crash on the bloody planks.

Jackson and Oldroyd were like drunken men, unsteady on their feet,
glazed of eye and stertorous of breath; Hornblower was just coming out
of his insane fit. He stepped forward to the break of the poop, wiping
the sweat out of his eyes while trying to wipe away the red mist that
tinged his vision. Forward by the forecastle were gathered the rest of
the Spaniards, a large group of them; as Hornblower came forward, one of
them fired a musket at him but the ball went wide. Down below him the
rowers were still swinging rhythmically, forward and back, forward and
back, the hairy heads and the naked bodies moving in time to the oars;
in time to the voice of the overseer, too, for the latter was still
standing on the gangway (the rest of the Spaniards were clustered behind
him) calling the time--"Seis, siete, ocho."

"Stop!" bellowed Hornblower.

He walked to the starboard side to be in full view of the starboard side
rowers. He held up his hand and bellowed again. A hairy face or two was
raised, but the oars still swung.

"Uno, doce, tres" said the overseer.

Jackson appeared at Hornblower's elbow, and levelled a pistol to shoot
the nearest rower.

"Oh, belay that!" said Hornblower testily. He knew he was sick of
killings now. "Find my pistols and reload them."

He stood at the top of the companion like a man in a dream--in a
nightmare. The galley slaves went on swinging and pulling; his dozen
enemies were still clustered at the break of the forecastle thirty yards
away; behind him the wounded Spaniards groaned away their lives. Another
appeal to the rowers was as much ignored as the preceding ones. Oldroyd
must have had the clearest head or have recovered himself quickest.

"I'll haul down his colours, sir, shall I?" he said.

Hornblower woke from his dream. On a staff above the taffrail fluttered
the yellow and red.

"Yes, haul 'em down at once" he said.

Now his mind was clear, and now his horizon was no longer bounded by the
narrow limits of the galley. He looked about him, over the blue, blue
sea. There were the merchant ships; over there lay the _Indefatigable_.
Behind him boiled the white wake of the galley--a curved wake. Not until
that moment did he realise that he was in control of the tiller, and
that for the last three minutes, the galley had been cutting over the
blue seas unsteered.

"Take the tiller, Oldroyd" he ordered.

Was that a galley disappearing into the hazy distance? It must be, and
far in its wake was the longboat. And there, on the port bow, was the
gig, resting on her oars--Hornblower could see little figures standing
waving in bow and stern, and it dawned upon him that this was in
acknowledgment of the hauling down of the Spanish colours. Another
musket banged off forward, and the rail close at his hip was struck a
tremendous blow which sent gilded splinters flying in the sunlight. But
he had all his wits about him again, and he ran back over the dying men;
at the after end of the poop he was out of sight of the gangway and safe
from shot. He could still see the gig on the port bow.

"Starboard your helm, Oldroyd."

The galley turned slowly--her narrow length made her unhandy if the
rudder were not assisted by the oars--but soon the bow was about to
obscure the gig.

"Midships!"

Amazing that there, leaping in the white water that boiled under the
galley's stern, was the jolly boat with one live man and two dead men
still aboard.

"Where are the others, Bromley?" yelled Jackson.

Bromley pointed overside. They had been shot from the taffrail at the
moment that Hornblower and the others were preparing to attack the poop.

"Why in hell don't you come aboard?"

Bromley took hold of his left arm with his right; the limb was clearly
useless. There was no reinforcement to be obtained here, and yet full
possession must be taken of the galley. Otherwise it was even
conceivable that they would be carried off to Algeciras; even if they
were masters of the rudder the man who controlled the oars dictated the
course of the ship if he willed. There was only one course left to try.

Now that his fighting madness had ebbed away, Hornblower was in a sombre
mood. He did not care what happened to him; hope and fear had alike
deserted him, along with his previous exalted condition. It might be
resignation that possessed him now. His mind, still calculating, told
him that with only one thing left to do to achieve victory he must
attempt it, and the flat, dead condition of his spirits enabled him to
carry the attempt through like an automaton, unwavering and emotionless.
He walked forward to the poop rail again; the Spaniards were still
clustered at the far end of the gangway, with the overseer still giving
the time to the oars. They looked up at him as he stood there. With the
utmost care and attention he sheathed his cutlass, which he had held in
his hand up to that moment. He noticed the blood on his coat and on his
hands as he did so. Slowly he settled the sheathed weapon at his side.

"My pistols, Jackson" he said.

Jackson handed him the pistols and with the same callous care he thrust
them into his belt. He turned back to Oldroyd, the Spaniards watching
every movement fascinated.

"Stay by the tiller, Oldroyd. Jackson, follow me. Do nothing without my
orders."

With the sun pouring down on his face, he strode down the companion
ladder, walked to the gangway, and approached the Spaniards along it. On
either side of him the hairy heads and naked bodies of the galley slaves
still swung with the oars. He neared the Spaniards; swords and muskets
and pistols were handled nervously, but every eye was on his face.
Behind him Jackson coughed. Two yards only from the group, Hornblower
halted and swept them with his glance. Then, with a gesture, he
indicated the whole of the group except the overseer; and then pointed
to the forecastle.

"Get forrard, all of you" he said.

They stood staring at him, although they must have understood the
gesture.

"Get forrard" said Hornblower with a wave of his hand and a tap of his
foot on the gangway.

There was only one man who seemed likely to demur actively, and
Hornblower had it in mind to snatch a pistol from his belt and shoot him
on the spot. But the pistol might misfire, the shot might arouse the
Spaniards out of their fascinated dream. He stared the man down.

"Get forrard, I say."

They began to move, they began to shamble off. Hornblower watched them
go. Now his emotions were returning to him, and his heart was thumping
madly in his chest so that it was hard to control himself. Yet he must
not be precipitate. He had to wait until the others were well clear
before he could address himself to the overseer.

"Stop those men" he said.

He glared into the overseer's eyes while pointing to the oarsmen; the
overseer's lips moved, but he made no sound.

"Stop them" said Hornblower, and this time he put his hand to the butt
of his pistol.

That sufficed. The overseer raised his voice in a high-pitched order,
and the oars instantly ceased. Strange what sudden stillness possessed
the ship with the cessation of the grinding of the oars in the tholes.
Now it was easy to hear the bubbling of the water round the galley as
her way carried her forward. Hornblower turned back to hail Oldroyd.

"Oldroyd! Where away's the gig?"

"Close on the starboard bow, sir!"

"How close?"

"Two cable's lengths, sir. She's pulling for us now."

"Steer for her while you've steerage way."

"Aye aye, sir."

How long would it take the gig under oars to cover a quarter of a mile?
Hornblower feared anticlimax, feared a sudden revulsion of feeling among
the Spaniards at this late moment. Mere waiting might occasion it, and
he must not stand merely idle. He could still hear the motion of the
galley through the water, and he turned to Jackson.

"This ship carries her way well, Jackson, doesn't she?" he said, and he
made himself laugh as he spoke, as if everything in the world was a
matter of sublime certainty.

"Aye, sir, I suppose she does, sir" said the startled Jackson; he was
fidgeting nervously with his pistols.

"And look at the man there" went on Hornblower, pointing to a galley
slave. "Did you ever see such a beard in your life?"

"N-no, sir."

"Speak to me, you fool. Talk naturally."

"I--I dunno what to say, sir."

"You've no sense, damn you, Jackson. See the welt on that fellow's
shoulder? He must have caught it from the overseer's whip not so long
ago."

"Mebbe you're right, sir."

Hornblower was repressing his impatience and was about to make another
speech when he heard a rasping thump alongside and a moment later the
gig's crew was pouring over the bulwarks. The relief was inexpressible.
Hornblower was about to relax completely when he remembered appearances.
He stiffened himself up.

"Glad to see you aboard, sir" he said, as Lieutenant Chadd swung his
legs over and dropped to the maindeck at the break of the forecastle.

"Glad to see _you_" said Chadd, looking about him curiously.

"These men forrard are prisoners, sir" said Hornblower. "It might be
well to secure them. I think that is all that remains to be done."

Now he could not relax; it seemed to him as if he must remain strained
and tense for ever. Strained and yet stupid, even when he heard the
cheers of the hands in the _Indefatigable_ as the galley came alongside
her. Stupid and dull, making a stumbling report to Captain Pellew,
forcing himself to remember to commend the bravery of Jackson and
Oldroyd in the highest terms.

"The Admiral will be pleased" said Pellew, looking at Hornblower keenly.

"I'm glad, sir" Hornblower heard himself say.

"Now that we've lost poor Soames" went on Pellew, "we shall need another
watch-keeping officer. I have it in mind to give you an order as
acting-lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir" said Hornblower, still stupid.

Soames had been a grey-haired officer of vast experience. He had sailed
the seven seas, he had fought in a score of actions. But, faced with a
new situation, he had not had the quickness of thought to keep his boat
from under the ram of the galley. Soames was dead, and acting-lieutenant
Hornblower would take his place. Fighting madness, sheer insanity, had
won him this promise of promotion. Hornblower had never realised the
black depths of lunacy into which he could sink. Like Soames, like all
the rest of the crew of the _Indefatigable_, he had allowed himself to
be carried away by his blind hatred for the galleys, and only good
fortune had allowed him to live through it. That was something worth
remembering.




                          THE EXAMINATION FOR
                               LIEUTENANT
                                    *


H.M.S. _Indefatigable_ was gliding into Gibraltar Bay, with
Acting-Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower stiff and self-conscious on the
quarterdeck beside Captain Pellew. He kept his telescope trained over
toward Algeciras; it was a strange situation, this, that major naval
bases of two hostile powers should be no more than six miles apart, and
while approaching the harbour it was as well to keep close watch on
Algeciras, for there was always the possibility that a squadron of
Spaniards might push out suddenly to pounce on an unwary frigate coming
in.

"Eight ships--nine ships with their yards crossed, sir" reported
Hornblower.

"Thank you" answered Pellew. "Hands 'bout ship."

The _Indefatigable_ tacked and headed in toward the Mole. Gibraltar
harbour was, as usual, crowded with shipping, for the whole naval effort
of England in the Mediterranean was perforce based here. Pellew clewed
up his topsails and put his helm over. Then the cable roared out and the
_Indefatigable_ swung at anchor.

"Call away my gig" ordered Pellew.

Pellew favoured dark blue and white as the colour scheme for his boat
and its crew--dark blue shirts and white trousers for the men, with
white hats with blue ribbons. The boat was of dark blue picked out with
white, the oars had white looms and blue blades. The general effect was
very smart indeed as the drive of the oars sent the gig skimming over
the water to carry Pellew to pay his respects to the port admiral. It
was not long after his return that a messenger came scurrying up to
Hornblower.

"Captain's compliments, sir, and he'd like to see you in his cabin."

"Examine your conscience well" grinned Midshipman Bracegirdle. "What
crimes have you committed?"

"I wish I knew" said Hornblower, quite genuinely.

It is always a nervous moment going in to see the captain in reply to
his summons. Hornblower swallowed as he approached the cabin door, and
he had to brace himself a little to knock and enter. But there was
nothing to be alarmed about; Pellew looked up with a smile from his
desk.

"Ah, Mr. Hornblower, I hope you will consider this good news. There will
be an examination for lieutenant tomorrow, in the _Santa Barbara_ there.
You are ready to take it, I hope?"

Hornblower was about to say 'I suppose so, sir' but checked himself.

"Yes, sir" he said--Pellew hated slipshod answers.

"Very well, then. You report there at three P.M. with your certificates
and journals."

"Aye aye, sir."

That was a very brief conversation for such an important subject.
Hornblower had Pellew's order as acting-lieutenant for two months now.
Tomorrow he would take his examination. If he should pass the admiral
would confirm the order next day, and Hornblower would be a lieutenant
with two months' seniority already. But if he should fail! That would
mean he had been found unfit for lieutenant's rank. He would revert to
midshipman, the two months' seniority would be lost, and it would be six
months at least before he could try again. Eight months' seniority was a
matter of enormous importance. It would affect all his subsequent
career.

"Tell Mr. Bolton you have my permission to leave the ship tomorrow, and
you may use one of the ship's boats."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good luck, Hornblower."

During the next twenty-four hours Hornblower had not merely to try to
read all through Norie's _Epitome of Navigation_ again, and Clarke's
_Complete Handbook of Seamanship_, but he had to see that his number one
uniform was spick and span. It cost his spirit ration to prevail on the
warrant cook to allow the gunroom attendant to heat a flatiron in the
galley and iron out his neck handkerchief. Bracegirdle lent him a clean
shirt, but there was a feverish moment when it was discovered that the
gunroom's supply of shoe blacking had dried to a chip. Two midshipmen
had to work it soft with lard, and the resultant compound, when applied
to Hornblower's buckled shoes, was stubbornly resistant to taking a
polish; only much labour with the gunroom's moulting shoebrush and then
with a soft cloth brought those shoes up to a condition of brightness
worthy of an examination for lieutenant. And as for the cocked hat--the
life of a cocked hat in the midshipman's berth is hard, and some of the
dents could not be entirely eliminated.

"Take it off as soon as you can and keep it under your arm" advised
Bracegirdle. "Maybe they won't see you come up the ship's side."

Everybody turned out to see Hornblower leave the ship, with his sword
and his white breeches and his buckled shoes, his bundle of journals
under his arm and his certificates of sobriety and good conduct in his
pocket. The winter afternoon was already far advanced as he was rowed
over to the _Santa Barbara_ and went up the ship's side to report
himself to the officer of the watch.

The _Santa Barbara_ was a prison hulk, one of the prizes captured in
Rodney's action off Cadiz in 1780 and kept rotting at her moorings,
mastless, ever since, a storeship in time of peace and a prison in time
of war. Redcoated soldiers, muskets loaded and bayonets fixed, guarded
the gangways; on forecastle and quarterdeck were carronades, trained
inboard and depressed to sweep the waist, wherein a few prisoners took
the air, ragged and unhappy. As Hornblower came up the side he caught a
whiff of the stench within, where two thousand prisoners were confined.
Hornblower reported himself to the officer of the watch as come on
board, and for what purpose.

"Whoever would have guessed it?" said the officer of the watch--an
elderly lieutenant with white hair hanging down to his
shoulders--running his eye over Hornblower's immaculate uniform and the
portfolio under his arm. "Fifteen of your kind have already come on
board, and--Holy Gemini, see there!"

Quite a flotilla of small craft was closing in on the _Santa Barbara_.
Each boat held at least one cocked-hatted and white-breeched midshipman,
and some held four or five.

"Every courtesy young gentleman in the Mediterranean Fleet is ambitious
for an epaulet" said the lieutenant. "Just wait until the examining
board sees how many there are of you! I wouldn't be in your shoes, young
shaver, for something. Go aft, there, and wait in the portside cabin."

It was already uncomfortably full; when Hornblower entered, fifteen
pairs of eyes measured him up. There were officers of all ages from
eighteen to forty, all in their number one's, all nervous--one or two of
them had Norie's _Epitome_ open on their laps and were anxiously reading
passages about which they were doubtful. One little group was passing a
bottle from hand to hand, presumably in an effort to keep up their
courage. But no sooner had Hornblower entered than a stream of newcomers
followed him. The cabin began to fill, and soon it was tightly packed.
Half the forty men present found seats on the deck, and the others were
forced to stand.

"Forty years back" said a loud voice somewhere "my grandad marched with
Clive to revenge the Black Hole of Calcutta. If he could but have
witnessed the fate of his posterity!"

"Have a drink" said another voice "and to hell with care."

"Forty of us" commented a tall, thin, clerkly officer, counting heads.
"How many of us will they pass, do you think? Five?"

"To hell with care" repeated the bibulous voice in the corner, and
lifted itself in song. "Begone, dull care; I prithee be gone from
me----"

"Cheese it, you fool!" rasped another voice. "Hark to that!"

The air was filled with the long-drawn twittering of the pipes of the
bosun's mates, and someone on deck was shouting an order.

"A captain coming on board" remarked someone.

An officer had his eye at the crack of the door. "It's Dreadnought
Foster" he reported.

"He's a tail twister if ever there was one" said a fat young officer,
seated comfortably with his back to the bulkhead.

Again the pipes twittered.

"Harvey, of the dockyard" reported the lookout.

The third captain followed immediately. "It's Black Charlie Hammond"
said the lookout. "Looking as if he'd lost a guinea and found sixpence."

"Black Charlie?" exclaimed someone, scrambling to his feet in haste and
pushing to the door. "Let's see! So it is! Then here is one young
gentleman who will not stay for an answer. I know too well what that
answer would be. 'Six months more at sea, sir, and damn your eyes for
your impertinence in presenting yourself for examination in your present
state of ignorance.' Black Charlie won't ever forget that I lost his pet
poodle overside from the cutter in Port-o'-Spain when he was first of
the _Pegasus_. Goodbye, gentlemen. Give my regards to the examining
board."

With that he was gone, and they saw him explaining himself to the
officer of the watch and hailing a shore boat to take him back to his
ship. "One fewer of us, at least" said the clerkly officer. "What is it,
my man?"

"The board's compliments, sir" said the marine messenger "an' will the
first young gentleman please to come along?"

There was a momentary hesitation; no one was anxious to be the first
victim.

"The one nearest the door" said an elderly master's mate. "Will you
volunteer, sir?"

"I'll be the Daniel" said the erstwhile lookout desperately. "Remember
me in your prayers."

He pulled his coat smooth, twitched at his neckcloth and was gone, the
remainder waiting in gloomy silence, relieved only by the glug-glug of
the bottle as the bibulous midshipman took another swig. A full ten
minutes passed before the candidate for promotion returned, making a
brave effort to smile.

"Six months more at sea?" asked someone.

"No" was the unexpected answer. "Three!... I was told to send the
next man. It had better be you."

"But what did they ask you?"

"They began by asking me to define a rhumb line.... But don't keep
them waiting, I advise you." Some thirty officers had their textbooks
open on the instant to reread about rhumb lines.

"You were there ten minutes" said the clerkly officer, looking at his
watch. "Forty of us, ten minutes each--why, it'll be midnight before
they reach the last of us. They'll never do it."

"They'll be hungry" said someone.

"Hungry for our blood" said another.

"Perhaps they'll try us in batches" suggested a third "like the French
tribunals."

Listening to them, Hornblower was reminded of French aristocrats jesting
at the foot of the scaffold. Candidates departed and candidates
returned, some gloomy, some smiling. The cabin was already far less
crowded; Hornblower was able to secure sufficient deck space to seat
himself, and he stretched out his legs with a nonchalant sigh of relief,
and he no sooner emitted the sigh than he realised that it was a stage
effect which he had put on for his own benefit. He was as nervous as he
could be. The winter night was falling, and some good Samaritan on board
sent in a couple of purser's dips to give a feeble illumination to the
darkening cabin.

"They are passing one in three" said the clerkly officer, making ready
for his turn. "May I be the third."

Hornblower got to his feet again when he left; it would be his turn
next. He stepped out under the half-deck into the dark night and
breathed the chill fresh air. A gentle breeze was blowing from the
southward, cooled, presumably, by the snow-clad Atlas Mountains of
Africa across the strait. There was neither moon nor stars. Here came
the clerkly officer back again.

"Hurry" he said. "They're impatient."

Hornblower made his way past the sentry to the after cabin; it was
brightly lit, so that he blinked as he entered, and stumbled over some
obstruction. And it was only then that he remembered that he had not
straightened his neckcloth and seen to it that his sword hung correctly
at his side. He went on blinking in his nervousness at the three grim
faces across the table.

"Well, sir?" said a stem voice. "Report yourself. We have no time to
waste."

"H-Hornblower, sir. H-Horatio H-Hornblower. M-Midshipman--I mean
Acting-Lieutenant, H.M.S. _Indefatigable_."

"Your certificates, please" said the right-hand face.

Hornblower handed them over, and as he waited for them to be examined,
the left-hand face suddenly spoke. "You are close hauled on the port
tack, Mr. Hornblower, beating up channel with a nor-easterly wind
blowing hard, with Dover bearing north two miles. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now the wind veers four points and takes you flat aback. What do you
do, sir? What do you do?"

Hornblower's mind, if it was thinking about anything at all at that
moment, was thinking about rhumb lines; this question took him as much
aback as the situation it envisaged. His mouth opened and shut, but
there was no word he could say.

"By now you're dismasted" said the middle face--a swarthy face;
Hornblower was making the deduction that it must belong to Black Charlie
Hammond. He could think about that even if he could not force his mind
to think at all about his examination.

"Dismasted" said the left-hand face, with a smile like Nero enjoying a
Christian's death agony. "With Dover cliffs under your lee. You are in
serious trouble, Mr.--ah--Hornblower."

Serious indeed. Hornblower's mouth opened and shut again. His dulled
mind heard, without paying special attention to it, the thud of a cannon
shot somewhere not too far off. The board passed no remark on it either,
but a moment later there came a series of further cannon shots which
brought the three captains to their feet. Unceremoniously they rushed
out of the cabin, sweeping out of the way the sentry at the door.
Hornblower followed them; they arrived in the waist just in time to see
a rocket soar up into the night sky and burst in a shower of red stars.
It was the general alarm; over the water of the anchorage they could
hear the drums rolling as all the ships present beat to quarters. On the
portside gangway the remainder of the candidates were clustered,
speaking excitedly.

"See there!" said a voice.

Across half a mile of dark water a yellow light grew until the ship
there was wrapped in flame. She had every sail set and was heading
straight into the crowded anchorage.

"Fire ships!"

"Officer of the watch! Call my gig!" bellowed Foster.

A line of fire ships was running before the wind, straight at the crowd
of anchored ships. The _Santa Barbara_ was full of the wildest bustle as
the seamen and marines came pouring on deck, and as captains and
candidates shouted for boats to take them back to their ships. A line of
orange flame lit up the water, followed at once by the roar of a
broadside; some ship was firing her guns in the endeavour to sink a fire
ship. Let one of those blazing hulls make contact with one of the
anchored ships, even for a few seconds, and the fire would be
transmitted to the dry, painted timber, to the tarred cordage, to the
inflammable sails, so that nothing would put it out. To men in highly
combustible ships filled with explosives fire was the deadliest and most
dreaded peril of the sea.

"You shore boat, there!" bellowed Hammond suddenly. "You shore boat!
Come alongside! Come alongside, blast you!"

His eye had been quick to sight the pair-oar rowing by.

"Come alongside or I'll fire into you!" supplemented Foster. "Sentry,
there, make ready to give them a shot!"

At the threat the wherry turned and glided towards the mizzen-chains.

"Here you are, gentlemen" said Hammond.

The three captains rushed to the mizzen-chains and flung themselves down
into the boat. Hornblower was at their heels. He knew there was small
enough chance of a junior officer getting a boat to take him back to his
ship, to which it was his bounden duty to go as soon as possible. After
the captains had reached their destinations he could use this boat to
reach the _Indefatigable_. He threw himself off into the sternsheets as
she pushed off, knocking the breath out of Captain Harvey, his sword
scabbard clattering on the gunwale. But the three captains accepted his
uninvited presence there without comment.

"Pull for the _Dreadnought_" said Foster.

"Dammit, I'm the senior!" said Hammond. "Pull for _Calypso_."

"_Calypso_ it is" said Harvey. He had his hand on the tiller, heading
the boat across the dark water.

"Pull! Oh, pull!" said Foster, in agony. There can be no mental torture
like that of a captain whose ship is in peril and he not on board.

"There's one of them" said Harvey.

Just ahead, a small brig was bearing down on them under topsails; they
could see the glow of the fire, and as they watched the fire suddenly
burst into roaring fury, wrapping the whole vessel in flames in a
moment, like a set piece in a fireworks display. Flames spouted out of
the holes in her sides and roared up through her hatchways. The very
water around her glowed vivid red. They saw her halt in her career and
begin to swing slowly around.

"She's across _Santa Barbara's_ cable" said Foster.

"She's nearly clear" added Hammond. "God help 'em on board there. She'll
be alongside her in a minute."

Hornblower thought of two thousand Spanish and French prisoners battened
down below decks in the hulk.

"With a man at her wheel she could be steered clear" said Foster. "We
ought to do it!"

Then things happened rapidly. Harvey put the tiller over. "Pull away!"
he roared at the boatmen.

The latter displayed an easily understood reluctance to row up to that
fiery hull.

"Pull!" said Harvey.

He whipped out his sword from its scabbard, and the blade reflected the
red fire as he thrust it menacingly at the stroke oar's throat. With a
kind of sob, stroke tugged at his oar and the boat leaped forward.

"Lay us under her counter" said Foster. "I'll jump for it."

At last Hornblower found his tongue. "Let me go, sir. I'll handle her."

"Come with me, if you like" replied Foster. "It may need two of us."

His nickname of Dreadnought Foster may have had its origin in the name
of his ship, but it was appropriate enough in all circumstances. Harvey
swung the boat under the fire ship's stern; she was before the wind
again now, and just gathering way, just heading down upon the _Santa
Barbara_.

For a moment Hornblower was the nearest man in the boat to the brig and
there was no time to be lost. He stood up on the thwart and jumped; his
hands gripped something, and with a kick and a struggle he dragged his
ungainly body up onto the deck. With the brig before the wind, the
flames were blown forward; right aft here it was merely frightfully hot,
but Hornblower's ears were filled with the roar of the flames and the
crackling and banging of the burning wood. He stepped forward to the
wheel and seized the spokes, the wheel was lashed with a loop of line,
and as he cast this off and took hold of the wheel again he could feel
the rudder below him bite into the water. He flung his weight on the
spoke and spun the wheel over. The brig was about to collide with the
_Santa Barbara_, starboard bow to starboard bow, and the flames lit an
anxious gesticulating crowd on the _Santa Barbara's_ forecastle.

"Hard over!" roared Foster's voice in Hornblower's ear.

"Hard over it is!" said Hornblower, and the brig answered her wheel at
that moment, and her bow turned away, avoiding the collision.

An immense fountain of flame poured out from the hatchway abaft the
mainmast, setting mast and rigging ablaze, and at the same time a flaw
of wind blew a wave of flame aft. Some instinct made Hornblower while
holding the wheel with one hand snatch out his neckcloth with the other
and bury his face in it. The flame whirled round him and was gone again.
But the distraction had been dangerous; the brig had continued to turn
under full helm, and now her stern was swinging in to bump against the
_Santa Barbara's_ bow. Hornblower desperately spun the wheel over the
other way. The flames had driven Foster aft to the taffrail, but now he
returned.

"Hard-a-lee!"

The brig was already responding. Her starboard quarter bumped the _Santa
Barbara_ in the waist, and then bumped clear.

"Midships!" shouted Foster.

At a distance of only two or three yards the fire ship passed on down
the _Santa Barbara's_ side; an anxious group ran along her gangways
keeping up with her as she did so. On the quarterdeck another group
stood by with a spar to boom the fire ship off; Hornblower saw them out
of the tail of his eye as they went by. Now they were clear.

"There's the _Dauntless_ on the port bow" said Foster. "Keep her clear."

"Aye aye, sir."

The din of the fire was tremendous; it could hardly be believed that on
this little area of deck it was still possible to breathe and live.
Hornblower felt the appalling heat on his hands and face. Both masts
were immense pyramids of flame.

"Starboard a point" said Foster. "We'll lay her aground on the shoal by
the Neutral Ground."

"Starboard a point" responded Hornblower.

He was being borne along on a wave of the highest exaltation; the roar
of the fire was intoxicating, and he knew not a moment's fear. Then the
whole deck only a yard or two forward of the wheel opened up in flame.
Fire spouted out of the gaping seams and the heat was utterly
unbearable, and the fire moved rapidly aft as the seams gaped
progressively backward.

Hornblower felt for the loopline to lash the wheel, but before he could
do so the wheel spun idly under his hand, presumably as the tiller ropes
below him were burned away, and at the same time the deck under his feet
heaved and warped in the fire. He staggered back to the taffrail. Foster
was there.

"Tiller ropes burned away, sir" reported Hornblower.

Flames roared up beside them. His coat sleeve was smouldering.

"Jump!" said Foster.

Hornblower felt Foster shoving him--everything was insane. He heaved
himself over, gasped with fright as he hung in the air, and then felt
the breath knocked out of his body as he hit the water. The water closed
over him, and he knew panic as he struggled back to the surface. It was
cold--the Mediterranean in December is cold. For the moment the air in
his clothes supported him, despite the weight of the sword at his side,
but he could see nothing in the darkness, with his eyes still dazzled by
the roaring flames. Somebody splashed beside him.

"They were following us in the boat to take us off" said Foster's voice.
"Can you swim?"

"Yes, sir. Not very well."

"That might describe me" said Foster; and then he lifted his voice to
hail, "Ahoy! Ahoy! Hammond! Harvey! Ahoy!"

He tried to raise himself as well as his voice, fell back with a splash,
and splashed and splashed again, the water flowing into his mouth
cutting short something he tried to say. Hornblower, beating the water
with increasing feebleness, could still spare a thought--such were the
vagaries of his wayward mind--for the interesting fact that even
captains of much seniority were only mortal men after all. He tried to
unbuckle his sword belt, failed, and sank deep with the effort, only
just succeeding in struggling back to the surface. He gasped for breath,
but in another attempt he managed to draw his sword half out of its
scabbard, and as he struggled it slid out the rest of the way by its own
weight; yet he was not conscious of any noticeable relief.

It was then that he heard the splashing and grinding of oars and loud
voices, and he saw the dark shape of the approaching boat, and he
uttered a spluttering cry. In a second or two the boat was up to them,
and he was clutching the gunwale in panic.

They were lifting Foster in over the stern, and Hornblower knew he must
keep still and make no effort to climb in, but it called for all his
resolution to make himself hang quietly onto the side of the boat and
wait his turn. He was interested in this overmastering fear, while he
despised himself for it. It called for a conscious and serious effort of
willpower to make his hands alternately release their deathlike grip on
the gunwale, so that the men in the boat could pass him round to the
stern. Then they dragged him in and he fell face downward in the bottom
of the boat, on the verge of fainting. Then somebody spoke in the boat,
and Hornblower felt a cold shiver pass over his skin, and his feeble
muscles tensed themselves, for the words spoken were Spanish--at any
rate an unknown tongue, and Spanish presumably.

Somebody else answered in the same language. Hornblower tried to
struggle up, and a restraining hand was laid on his shoulder. He rolled
over, and with his eyes now accustomed to the darkness, he could see the
three swarthy faces with the long black moustaches. These men were not
Gibraltarians. On the instant he could guess who they were--the crew of
one of the fire ships who had steered their craft in past the Mole, set
fire to it, and made their escape in the boat. Foster was sitting
doubled up, in the bottom of the boat, and now he lifted his face from
his knees and stared round him.

"Who are these fellows?" he asked feebly--his struggle in the water had
left him as weak as Hornblower.

"Spanish fire ship's crew, I fancy, sir" said Hornblower. "We're
prisoners."

"Are we indeed!"

The knowledge galvanised him into activity just as it had Hornblower. He
tried to get to his feet, and the Spaniard at the tiller thrust him down
with a hand on his shoulder. Foster tried to put his hand away, and
raised his voice in a feeble cry, but the man at the tiller was standing
no nonsense. He brought out, in a lightning gesture, a knife from his
belt. The light from the fire ship, burning itself harmlessly out on the
shoal in the distance, ran redly along the blade, and Foster ceased to
struggle. Men might call him Dreadnought Foster, but he could recognise
the need for discretion.

"How are we heading?" he asked Hornblower, sufficiently quietly not to
irritate their captors.

"North, sir. Maybe they're going to land on the Neutral Ground and make
for the Line."

"That's their best chance" agreed Foster.

He turned his neck uncomfortably to look back up the harbour.

"Two other ships burning themselves out up there" he said. "There were
three fire ships came in, I fancy."

"I saw three, sir."

"Then there's no damage done. But a bold endeavour. Whoever would have
credited the Dons with making such an attempt?"

"They have learned about fire ships from us, perhaps, sir" suggested
Hornblower.

"We may have 'nursed the pinion that impelled the steel' you think?"

"It is possible, sir."

Foster was a cool enough customer, quoting poetry and discussing the
naval situation while being carried off into captivity by a Spaniard who
guarded him with a drawn knife. Cool might be a too accurate adjective;
Hornblower was shivering in his wet clothes as the chill night air blew
over him, and he felt weak and feeble after all the excitement and
exertions of the day.

"Boat ahoy!" came a hail across the water; there was a dark nucleus in
the night over there. The Spaniard in the sternsheets instantly dragged
the tiller over, heading the boat directly away from it, while the two
at the oars redoubled their exertions.

"Guard boat----" said Foster, but cut his explanation short at a further
threat from the knife.

Of course there would be a boat rowing guard at this northern end of the
anchorage; they might have thought of it.

"Boat ahoy!" came the hail again. "Lay on your oars or I'll fire into
you!"

The Spaniard made no reply, and a second later came the flash and report
of a musket shot. They heard nothing of the bullet, but the shot would
put the fleet--towards which they were heading again--on the alert. But
the Spaniards were going to play the game out to the end. They rowed
doggedly on.

"Boat ahoy!"

This was another hail, from a boat right ahead of them. The Spaniards at
the oars ceased their efforts in dismay, but a roar from the steersman
set them instantly to work again. Hornblower could see the new boat
almost directly ahead of them, and heard another hail from it as it
rested on its oars. The Spaniard at the tiller shouted an order, and the
stroke oar backed water and the boat turned sharply; another order, and
both rowers tugged ahead again and the boat surged forward to ram.
Should they succeed in overturning the intercepting boat they might make
their escape even now, while the pursuing boat stopped to pick up their
friends.

Everything happened at once, with everyone shouting at the full pitch of
his lungs, seemingly. There was the crash of the collision, both boats
heeling wildly as the bow of the Spanish boat rode up over the British
boat but failed to overturn it. Someone fired a pistol, and the next
moment the pursuing guard boat came dashing alongside, its crew leaping
madly aboard them. Somebody flung himself on top of Hornblower, crushing
the breath out of him and threatening to keep it out permanently with a
hand on his throat. Hornblower heard Foster bellowing in protest, and a
moment later his assailant released him, so that he could hear the
midshipman of the guard boat apologising for this rough treatment of a
post captain of the Royal Navy. Someone unmasked the guard boat's
lantern, and by its light Foster revealed himself, bedraggled and
battered. The light shone on their sullen prisoners.

"Boats ahoy!" came another hail, and yet another boat emerged from the
darkness and pulled towards them.

"Cap'n Hammond, I believe!" hailed Foster, with an ominous rasp in his
voice.

"Thank God!" they heard Hammond say, and the boat pulled into the faint
circle of light.

"But no thanks to you" said Foster bitterly.

"After your fire ship cleared the _Santa Barbara_ a puff of wind took
you on faster than we could keep up with you" explained Harvey.

"We followed as fast as we could get these rock scorpions to row" added
Hammond.

"And yet it called for Spaniards to save us from drowning" sneered
Foster. The memory of his struggle in the water rankled, apparently. "I
thought I could rely on two brother captains."

"What are you implying, sir?" snapped Hammond.

"I make no implications, but others may read implications into a simple
statement of fact."

"I consider that an offensive remark, sir" said Harvey, "addressed to me
equally with Captain Hammond."

"I congratulate you on your perspicacity, sir" replied Foster.

"I understand" said Harvey. "This is not a discussion we can pursue with
these men present. I shall send a friend to wait on you."

"He will be welcome."

"Then I wish you a very good night, sir."

"And I, too, sir" said Hammond. "Give way there."

The boat pulled out of the circle of light, leaving an audience
open-mouthed at this strange freak of human behaviour, that a man saved
first from death and then from captivity should wantonly thrust himself
into peril again. Foster looked after the boat for some seconds before
speaking; perhaps he was already regretting his rather hysterical
outburst.

"I shall have much to do before morning" he said, more to himself than
to anyone near him, and then addressed himself to the midshipman of the
guard boat, "You, sir, will take charge of these prisoners and convey me
to my ship."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Is there anyone here who can speak their lingo? I would have it
explained to them that I shall send them back to Cartagena under cartel,
free without exchange. They saved our lives, and that is the least we
can do in return." The final explanatory sentence was addressed to
Hornblower.

"I think that is just, sir."

"And you, my fire-breathing friend. May I offer you my thanks? You did
well. Should I live beyond tomorrow, I shall see that authority is
informed of your actions."

"Thank you, sir." A question trembled on Hornblower's lips. It called
for a little resolution to thrust it out, "And my examination, sir? My
certificate?"

Foster shook his head. "That particular examining board will never
reassemble, I fancy. You must wait your opportunity to go before another
one."

"Aye aye, sir" said Hornblower, with despondency apparent in his tone.

"Now lookee here, Mr. Hornblower" said Foster, turning upon him. "To the
best of my recollection, you were flat aback, about to lose your spars
and with Dover cliffs under your lee. In one more minute you would have
been failed--it was the warning gun that saved you. Is not that so?"

"I suppose it is, sir."

"Then be thankful for small mercies. And even more thankful for big
ones."




                               NOAH'S ARK
                                    *


Acting-Lieutenant Hornblower sat in the sternsheets of the longboat
beside Mr. Tapling of the diplomatic service, with his feet among bags
of gold. About him rose the steep shores of the Gulf of Oran, and ahead
of him lay the city, white in the sunshine, like a mass of blocks of
marble dumped by a careless hand upon the hillsides where they rose from
the water. The oar blades, as the boat's crew pulled away rhythmically
over the gentle swell, were biting into the clearest emerald green, and
it was only a moment since they had left behind the bluest the
Mediterranean could show.

"A pretty sight from here" said Tapling, gazing at the town they were
approaching "but closer inspection will show that the eye is deceived.
And as for the nose! The stinks of the true believers have to be smelt
to be believed. Lay her alongside the jetty there, Mr. Hornblower,
beyond those xebecs."

"Aye aye, sir" said the coxswain, when Hornblower gave the order.

"There's a sentry on the waterfront battery here" commented Tapling,
looking about him keenly "not more than half asleep, either. And notice
the two guns in the two castles. Thirty-two pounders, without a doubt.
Stone shot piled in readiness. A stone shot flying into fragments on
impact effects damage out of proportion to its size. And the walls seem
sound enough. To seize Oran by a coup de main would not be easy, I am
afraid. If His Nibs the Bey should choose to cut our throats and keep
our gold it would be long before we were avenged, Mr. Hornblower."

"I don't think I should find any satisfaction in being avenged in any
case, sir" said Hornblower.

"There's some truth in that. But doubtless His Nibs will spare us this
time. The goose lays golden eggs--a boatload of gold every month must
make a dazzling prospect for a pirate Bey in these days of convoys."

"Way 'nough" called the coxswain. "Oars!"

The longboat came gliding alongside the jetty and hooked on neatly. A
few seated figures in the shade turned eyes at least, and in some cases
even their heads as well, to look at the British boat's crew. A number
of swarthy Moors appeared on the decks of the xebecs and gazed down at
them, and one or two shouted remarks to them.

"No doubt they are describing the ancestry of the infidels" said
Tapling. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt
me, especially when I do not understand them. Where's our man?"

He shaded his eyes to look along the waterfront.

"No one in sight, sir, that looks like a Christian" said Hornblower.

"Our man's no Christian" said Tapling. "White, but no Christian. White
by courtesy at that--French-Arab-Levantine mixture. His Britannic
Majesty's Consul at Oran pro tem., and a Mussulman from expediency.
Though there are very serious disadvantages about being a true believer.
Who would want four wives at any time, especially when one pays for the
doubtful privilege by abstaining from wine?"

Tapling stepped up onto the jetty and Hornblower followed him. The
gentle swell that rolled up the Gulf broke soothingly below them, and
the blinding heat of the noonday sun was reflected up into their faces
from the stone blocks on which they stood. Far down the Gulf lay the two
anchored ships--the storeship and H.M.S. _Indefatigable_--lovely on the
blue and silver surface.

"And yet I would rather see Drury Lane on a Saturday night" said
Tapling.

He turned back to look at the city wall, which guarded the place from
seaborne attack. A narrow gate, flanked by bastions, opened onto the
waterfront. Sentries in red caftans were visible on the summit. In the
deep shadow of the gate something was moving, but it was hard with eyes
dazzled by the sun to see what it was. Then it emerged from the shadow
as a little group coming towards them--a half-naked Negro leading a
donkey, and on the back of the donkey, seated sideways far back towards
the root of the tail, a vast figure in a blue robe.

"Shall we meet His Britannic Majesty's Consul halfway?" asked Tapling.
"No. Let him come to us."

The Negro halted the donkey, and the man on the donkey's back slid to
the ground and came towards them--a mountainous man, waddling
straddle-legged in his robe, his huge clay-coloured face topped by a
white turban. A scanty black moustache and beard sprouted from his lip
and chin.

"Your servant, Mr. Duras" said Tapling. "And may I present
Acting-Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, of the frigate _Indefatigable_?"

Mr. Duras nodded his perspiring head.

"Have you brought the money?" he asked, in guttural French; it took
Hornblower a moment or two to adjust his mind to the language and his
ear to Duras' intonation.

"Seven thousand golden guineas" replied Tapling, in reasonably good
French.

"Good" said Duras, with a trace of relief. "Is it in the boat?"

"It is in the boat, and it stays in the boat at present" answered
Tapling. "Do you remember the conditions agreed upon? Four hundred fat
cattle, fifteen hundred fanegas of barley grain. When I see those in the
lighters, and the lighters alongside the ships down the bay, then I hand
over the money. Have you the stores ready?"

"Soon."

"As I expected. How long?"

"Soon--very soon."

Tapling made a grimace of resignation.

"Then we shall return to the ships. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after,
we shall come back with the gold."

Alarm appeared on Duras' sweating face.

"No, do not do that" he said, hastily. "You do not know His Highness the
Bey. He is changeable. If he knows the gold is here he will give orders
for the cattle to be brought. Take the gold away, and he will not stir.
And--and--he will be angry with me."

"Ira principis mors est" said Tapling, and in response to Duras' blank
look obliged by a translation. "The wrath of the prince means death. Is
not that so?"

"Yes" said Duras, and he in turn said something in an unknown language,
and stabbed at the air with his fingers in a peculiar gesture; and then
translated, "May it not happen."

"Certainly we hope it may not happen" agreed Tapling with disarming
cordiality. "The bowstring, the hook, even the bastinado are all
unpleasant. It might be better if you went to the Bey and prevailed upon
him to give the necessary orders for the grain and the cattle. Or we
shall leave at nightfall."

Tapling glanced up at the sun to lay stress on the time limit.

"I shall go" said Duras, spreading his hands in a deprecatory gesture.
"I shall go. But I beg of you, do not depart. Perhaps His Highness is
busy in his harem. Then no one may disturb him. But I shall try. The
grain is here ready--it lies in the Kasbah there. It is only the cattle
that have to be brought in. Please be patient. I implore you. His
Highness is not accustomed to commerce, as you know, sir. Still less is
he accustomed to commerce after the fashion of the Franks."

Duras wiped his streaming face with a corner of his robe.

"Pardon me" he said "I do not feel well. But I shall go to His Highness.
I shall go. Please wait for me."

"Until sunset" said Tapling implacably.

Duras called to his Negro attendant, who had been crouching huddled up
under the donkey's belly to take advantage of the shade it cast. With an
effort Duras hoisted his ponderous weight onto the donkey's hind
quarters. He wiped his face again and looked at them with a trace of
bewilderment.

"Wait for me" were the last words he said as the donkey was led away
back into the city gate.

"He is afraid of the Bey" said Tapling watching him go. "I would rather
face twenty Beys than Admiral Sir John Jervis in a tantrum. What will he
do when he hears about this further delay, with the Fleet on short
rations already? He'll have my guts for a necktie."

"One cannot expect punctuality of these people" said Hornblower with the
easy philosophy of the man who does not bear the responsibility. But he
thought of the British Navy, without friends, without allies,
maintaining desperately the blockade of a hostile Europe, in face of
superior numbers, storms, disease, and now famine.

"Look at that!" said Tapling pointing suddenly.

It was a big grey rat which had made its appearance in the dry storm
gutter that crossed the waterfront here. Regardless of the bright
sunshine it sat up and looked round at the world; even when Tapling
stamped his foot it showed no great signs of alarm. When he stamped a
second time it slowly turned to hide itself again in the drain, missed
its footing so that it lay writhing for a moment at the mouth of the
drain, and then regained its feet and disappeared into the darkness.

"An old rat, I suppose" said Tapling meditatively. "Senile, possibly.
Even blind, it may be."

Hornblower cared nothing about rats, senile or otherwise. He took a step
or two back in the direction of the longboat and the civilian officer
conformed to his movements.

"Rig that mains'l so that it gives us some shade, Maxwell" said
Hornblower. "We're here for the rest of the day."

"A great comfort" said Tapling, seating himself on a stone bollard
beside the boat "to be here in a heathen port. No need to worry in case
any men run off. No need to worry about liquor. Only about bullocks and
barley. And how to get a spark on this tinder."

He blew through the pipe that he took from his pocket, preparatory to
filling it. The boat was shaded by the mainsail now, and the hands sat
in the bows yarning in low tones, while the others made themselves as
comfortable as possible in the sternsheets; the boat rolled peacefully
in the tiny swell, the rhythmic sound as the fendoffs creaked between
her gunwale and the jetty having a soothing effect while city and port
dozed in the blazing afternoon heat. Yet it was not easy for a young man
of Hornblower's active temperament to endure prolonged inaction. He
climbed up on the jetty to stretch his legs, and paced up and down; a
Moor in a white gown and turban came staggering in the sunshine along
the waterfront. His gait was unsteady, and he walked with his legs well
apart to provide a firmer base for his swaying body.

"What was it you said, sir, about liquor being abhorred by the Moslems?"
said Hornblower to Tapling down in the sternsheets.

"Not necessarily abhorred" replied Tapling, guardedly. "But
anathematised, illegal, unlawful, and hard to obtain."

"Someone here has contrived to obtain some, sir" said Hornblower.

"Let me see" said Tapling, scrambling up; the hands, bored with waiting
and interested as ever in liquor, landed from the bows to stare as well.

"That looks like a man who has taken drink" agreed Tapling.

"Three sheets in the wind, sir" said Maxwell, as the Moor staggered.

"And taken all aback" supplemented Tapling, as the Moor swerved wildly
to one side in a semicircle.

At the end of the semicircle he fell with a crash on his face; his brown
legs emerged from the robe a couple of times and were drawn in again,
and he lay passive, his head on his arms, his turban fallen on the
ground to reveal his shaven skull with a tassel of hair on the crown.

"Totally dismasted" said Hornblower.

"And hard aground" said Tapling.

But the Moor now lay oblivious of everything.

"And here's Duras" said Hornblower.

Out through the gate came the massive figure on the little donkey;
another donkey bearing another portly figure followed, each donkey being
led by a Negro slave, and after them came a dozen swarthy individuals
whose muskets, and whose pretence at uniform, indicated that they were
soldiers.

"The Treasurer of His Highness" said Duras, by way of introduction when
he and the other had dismounted. "Come to fetch the gold."

The portly Moor looked loftily upon them; Duras was still streaming with
sweat in the hot sun.

"The gold is there" said Tapling, pointing. "In the sternsheets of the
longboat. You will have a closer view of it when we have a closer view
of the stores we are to buy."

Duras translated this speech into Arabic. There was a rapid interchange
of sentences, before the Treasurer apparently yielded. He turned and
waved his arms back to the gate in what was evidently a prearranged
signal. A dreary procession immediately emerged--a long line of men, all
of them almost naked, white, black, and mulatto, each man staggering
along under the burden of a sack of grain. Overseers with sticks walked
with them.

"The money" said Duras, as a result of something said by the Treasurer.

A word from Tapling set the hands to work lifting the heavy bags of gold
onto the quay.

"With the corn on the jetty I will put the gold there too" said Tapling
to Hornblower. "Keep your eye on it while I look at some of those
sacks."

Tapling walked over to the slave gang. Here and there he opened a sack,
looked into it, and inspected handfuls of the golden barley grain; other
sacks he felt from the outside.

"No hope of looking over every sack in a hundred ton of barley" he
remarked, strolling back again to Hornblower. "Much of it is sand, I
expect. But that is the way of the heathen. The price is adjusted
accordingly. Very well, Effendi."

At a sign from Duras, and under the urgings of the overseers, the slaves
burst into activity, trotting up to the quayside and dropping their
sacks into the lighter which lay there. The first dozen men were
organised into a working party to distribute the cargo evenly into the
bottom of the lighter, while the others trotted off, their bodies
gleaming with sweat, to fetch fresh loads. At the same time a couple of
swarthy herdsmen came out through the gate driving a small herd of
cattle.

"Scrubby little creatures" said Tapling, looking them over critically
"but that was allowed for in the price, too."

"The gold" said Duras.

In reply Tapling opened one of the bags at his feet, filled his hand
with golden guineas, and let them cascade through his fingers into the
bag again.

"Five hundred guineas there" he said. "Fourteen bags, as you see. They
will be yours when the lighters are loaded and unmoored."

Duras wiped his face with a weary gesture. His knees seemed to be weak,
and he leaned upon the patient donkey that stood behind him.

The cattle were being driven down a gangway into another lighter, and a
second herd had now appeared and was waiting.

"Things move faster than you feared" said Hornblower.

"See how they drive the poor wretches" replied Tapling sententiously.
"See! Things move fast when you have no concern for human flesh and
blood."

A coloured slave had fallen to the ground under his burden. He lay there
disregarding the blows rained on him by the sticks of the overseers.
There was a small movement of his legs. Someone dragged him out of the
way at last and the sacks continued to be carried to the lighter. The
other lighter was filling fast with cattle, packed into a tight,
bellowing mass in which no movement was possible.

"His Nibs is actually keeping his word" marvelled Tapling. "I'd 'a
settled for the half, if I had been asked beforehand."

One of the herdsmen on the quay had sat down with his face in his hands;
now he fell over limply on his side.

"Sir----" began Hornblower to Tapling, and the two men looked at each
other with the same awful thought occurring to them at the same moment.

Duras began to say something; with one hand on the withers of the donkey
and the other gesticulating in the air it seemed that he was making
something of a speech, but there was no sense in the words he was
roaring out in a hoarse voice. His face was swollen beyond its customary
fatness and his expression was wildly distorted, while his cheeks were
so suffused with blood as to look dark under his tan. Duras quitted his
hold of the donkey and began to reel about in half circles, under the
eyes of Moors and Englishmen. His voice died away to a whisper, his legs
gave way under him, and he fell to his hands and knees and then to his
face.

"That's the plague!" said Tapling. "The Black Death! I saw it in Smyrna
in '96."

He and the other Englishmen had shrunk back on the one side, the
soldiers and the Treasurer on the other, leaving the palpitating body
lying in the clear space between them.

"The plague, by St. Peter!" squealed one of the young sailors. He would
have headed a rush to the longboat.

"Stand still, there!" roared Hornblower, scared of the plague but with
the habits of discipline so deeply engrained in him by now that he
checked the panic automatically.

"I was a fool not to have thought of it before" said Tapling. "That
dying rat--that fellow over there who we thought was drunk. I should
have known!"

The soldier who appeared to be the sergeant in command of the
Treasurer's escort was in explosive conversation with the chief of the
overseers of the slaves, both of them staring and pointing at the dying
Duras; the Treasurer himself was clutching his robe about him and
looking down at the wretched man at his feet in fascinated horror.

"Well, sir" said Hornblower to Tapling "what do we do?"

Hornblower was of the temperament that demands immediate action in face
of a crisis.

"Do?" replied Tapling with a bitter smile. "We stay here and rot."

"Stay _here_?"

"The fleet will never have us back. Not until we have served three weeks
of quarantine. Three weeks after the last case has occurred. Here in
Oran."

"Nonsense!" said Hornblower, with all the respect due to his senior
startled out of him. "No one would order that."

"Would they not? Have you ever seen an epidemic in a fleet?"

Hornblower had not, but he had heard enough about them--fleets where
nine out of ten had died of putrid fevers. Crowded ships with twenty-two
inches of hammock space per man were ideal breeding places for
epidemics. He realised that no captain, no admiral, would run that risk
for the sake of a longboat's crew of twenty men.

The two xebecs against the jetty had suddenly cast off, and were working
their way out of the harbour under sweeps.

"The plague can only have struck today" mused Hornblower, the habit of
deduction strong in him despite his sick fear.

The cattle herders were abandoning their work, giving a wide berth to
that one of their number who was lying on the quay. Up at the town gate
it appeared that the guard was employed in driving people back into the
town--apparently the rumour of plague had spread sufficiently therein to
cause a panic, while the guard had just received orders not to allow the
population to stream out into the surrounding country. There would be
frightful things happening in the town soon. The Treasurer was climbing
on his donkey; the crowd of grain-carrying slaves was melting away as
the overseers fled.

"I must report this to the ship" said Hornblower; Tapling as a civilian
diplomatic officer, held no authority over him. The whole responsibility
was Hornblower's. The longboat and the longboat's crew were Hornblower's
command, entrusted to him by Captain Pellew whose authority derived from
the King.

Amazing, how the panic was spreading. The Treasurer was gone; Duras'
Negro slave had ridden off on his late master's donkey; the soldiers had
hastened off in a single group. The waterfront was deserted now except
for the dead and dying; along the waterfront, presumably, at the foot of
the wall, lay the way to the open country which all desired to seek. The
Englishmen were standing alone, with the bags of gold at their feet.

"Plague spreads through the air" said Tapling. "Even the rats die of it.
We have been here for hours. We were near enough to--that--" he nodded
at the dying Duras--"to speak to him, to catch his breath. Which of us
will be the first?"

"We'll see when the times comes" said Hornblower. It was his contrary
nature to be sanguine in the face of depression; besides, he did not
want the men to hear what Tapling was saying.

"And there's the fleet!" said Tapling bitterly. "This lot"--he nodded at
the deserted lighters, one almost full of cattle, the other almost full
of grain sacks--"this lot would be a Godsend. The men are on two-thirds
rations."

"Damn it, we can do something about it" said Hornblower. "Maxwell, put
the gold back in the boat, and get that awning in."

The officer of the watch in H.M.S. _Indefatigable_ saw the ship's
longboat returning from the town. A slight breeze had swung the frigate
and the _Caroline_ (the transport brig) to their anchors, and the
longboat, instead of running alongside, came up under the
_Indefatigable's_ stern to leeward.

"Mr. Christie!" hailed Hornblower, standing up in the bows of the
longboat.

The officer of the watch came aft to the taffrail.

"What is it?" he demanded, puzzled.

"I must speak to the Captain."

"Then come on board and speak to him. What the devil----?"

"Please ask the Captain if I may speak to him."

Pellew appeared at the after-cabin window; he could hardly have helped
hearing the bellowed conversation.

"Yes, Mr. Hornblower?"

Hornblower told him the news.

"Keep to loo'ard, Mr. Hornblower."

"Yes, sir. But the stores--"

"What about them?"

Hornblower outlined the situation and made his request.

"It's not very regular" mused Pellew. "Besides----"

He did not want to shout aloud his thoughts that perhaps everyone in the
longboat would soon be dead of plague.

"We'll be all right, sir. It's a week's rations for the squadron."

That was the point, the vital matter. Pellew had to balance the possible
loss of a transport brig against the possible gain of supplies,
immeasurably more important, which would enable the squadron to maintain
its watch over the outlet to the Mediterranean. Looked at in that light
Hornblower's suggestion had added force.

"Oh, very well, Mr. Hornblower. By the time you bring the stores out
I'll have the crew transferred. I appoint you to the command of the
_Caroline_."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mr. Tapling will continue as passenger with you."

"Very good, sir."

So when the crew of the longboat, toiling and sweating at the sweeps,
brought the two lighters down the bay, they found the _Caroline_
swinging deserted at her anchors, while a dozen curious telescopes from
the _Indefatigable_ watched the proceedings. Hornblower went up the
brig's side with half a dozen hands.

"She's like a blooming Noah's Ark, sir" said Maxwell.

The comparison was apt; the _Caroline_ was flush-decked, and the whole
available deck area was divided by partitions into stalls for the
cattle, while to enable the ship to be worked light gangways had been
laid over the stalls into a practically continuous upper deck.

"An' all the animiles, sir" said another seaman.

"But Noah's animals walked in two by two" said Hornblower. "We're not so
lucky. And we've got to get the grain on board first. Get those hatches
unbattened."

In ordinary conditions a working party of two or three hundred men from
the _Indefatigable_ would have made short work of getting in the cargo
from the lighters, but now it had to be done by the longboat's
complement of eighteen. Luckily Pellew had had the forethought and
kindness to have the ballast struck out of the holds, or they would have
had to do that weary job first.

"Tail onto those tackles, men" said Hornblower.

Pellew saw the first bundle of grain sacks rise slowly into the air from
the lighter, and swung over and down the _Caroline's_ hatchway.

"He'll be all right" he decided. "Man the capstan and get under way, if
you please, Mr. Bolton."

Hornblower, directing the work on the tackles, heard Pellew's voice come
to him through the speaking trumpet.

"Good luck, Mr. Hornblower. Report in three weeks at Gibraltar."

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir."

Hornblower turned back to find a seaman at his elbow knuckling his
forehead.

"Beg pardon, sir. But can you hear those cattle bellerin', sir? 'Tis
mortal hot, an' 'tis water they want, sir."

"Hell" said Hornblower.

He would never get the cattle on board before nightfall. He left a small
party at work transferring cargo, and with the rest of the men he began
to extemporize a method of watering the unfortunate cattle in the
lighter. Half _Caroline's_ hold space was filled with water barrels and
fodder, but it was an awkward business getting water down to the lighter
with pump and hose, and the poor brutes down there surged about
uncontrollably at the prospect of water. Hornblower saw the lighter heel
and almost capsize; one of his men--luckily one who could swim--went
hastily overboard from the lighter to avoid being crushed to death.

"Hell" said Hornblower again, and that was by no means the last time.

Without any skilled advice he was having to learn the business of
managing livestock at sea; each moment brought its lessons. A naval
officer on active service indeed found himself engaged on strange
duties. It was well after dark before Hornblower called a halt to the
labours of his men, and it was before dawn that he roused them up to
work again. It was still early in the morning that the last of the grain
sacks was stowed away and Hornblower had to face the operation of
swaying up the cattle from the lighter. After their night down there,
with little water and less food, they were in no mood to be trifled
with, but it was easier at first while they were crowded together. A
bellyband was slipped round the nearest, the tackle hooked on, and the
animal was swayed up, lowered to the deck through an opening in the
gangways, and herded into one of the stalls with ease. The seamen,
shouting and waving their shirts, thought it was great fun, but they
were not sure when the next one, released from its bellyband went on the
rampage and chased them about the deck, threatening death with its
horns, until it wandered into its stall where the bar could be promptly
dropped to shut it in. Hornblower, looking at the sun rising rapidly in
the east, did not think it fun at all.

And the emptier the lighter became, the more room the cattle had to rush
about in it; to capture each one so as to put a bellyband on it was a
desperate adventure. Nor were those half-wild bullocks soothed by the
sight of their companions being successively hauled bellowing into the
air over their heads. Before the day was half done Hornblower's men were
as weary as if they had fought a battle, and there was not one of them
who would not gladly have quitted this novel employment in exchange for
some normal seamen's duty like going aloft to reef topsails on a stormy
night. As soon as Hornblower had the notion of dividing the interior of
the lighter up into sections with barricades of stout spars the work
became easier, but it took time, and before it was done the cattle had
already suffered a couple of casualties--weaker members of the herd
crushed underfoot in the course of the wild rushes about the lighter.

And there was a distraction when a boat came out from the shore, with
swarthy Moors at the oars and the Treasurer in the stem. Hornblower left
Tapling to negotiate--apparently the Bey at least had not been so
frightened of the plague as to forget to ask for his money. All
Hornblower insisted upon was that the boat should keep well to leeward,
and the money was floated off to it headed up in an empty rum-puncheon.
Night found not more than half the cattle in the stalls on board, with
Hornblower worrying about feeding and watering them, and snatching at
hints diplomatically won from those members of his crew who had had
bucolic experience. But the earliest dawn saw him driving his men to
work again, and deriving a momentary satisfaction from the sight of
Tapling having to leap for his life to the gangway out of reach of a
maddened bullock which was charging about the deck and refusing to enter
a stall. And by the time the last animal was safely packed in Hornblower
was faced with another problem--that of dealing with what one of the men
elegantly termed 'mucking out'. Fodder--water--mucking out; that
deck-load of cattle seemed to promise enough work in itself to keep his
eighteen men busy, without any thought of the needs of handling the
ship.

But there were advantages about the men being kept busy, as Hornblower
grimly decided; there had not been a single mention of plague since the
work began. The anchorage where the _Caroline_ lay was exposed to
north-easterly winds, and it was necessary that he should take her out
to sea before such a wind should blow. He mustered his men to divide
them into watches; he was the only navigator, so that he had to appoint
the coxswain and the undercoxswain, Jordan, as officers of the watch.
Someone volunteered as cook, and Hornblower, running his eye over his
assembled company, appointed Tapling as cook's mate. Tapling opened his
mouth to protest, but there was that in Hornblower's expression which
cut the protest short. There was no bos'un, no carpenter--no surgeon
either, as Hornblower pointed out to himself gloomily. But on the other
hand if the need for a doctor should arise it would, he hoped, be
mercifully brief.

"Port watch, loose the jibs and maintops'l" ordered Hornblower.
"Starboard watch, man the capstan."

So began that voyage of H.M. transport brig _Caroline_ which became
legendary (thanks to the highly coloured accounts retailed by the crew
during innumerable dog watches in later commissions) throughout the
King's navy. The _Caroline_ spent her three weeks of quarantine in
homeless wanderings about the western Mediterranean. It was necessary
that she should keep close up to the Straits, for fear lest the
westerlies and the prevailing inward set of the current should take her
out of reach of Gibraltar when the time came, so she beat about between
the coasts of Spain and Africa trailing behind her a growing farmyard
stench. The _Caroline_ was a worn-out ship; with any sort of sea running
she leaked like a sieve; and there were always hands at work on the
pumps, either pumping her out or pumping sea water onto her deck to
clean it or pumping up fresh water for the cattle.

Her top hamper made her almost unmanageable in a fresh breeze; her deck
seams leaked, of course, when she worked, allowing a constant drip of
unspeakable filth down below. The one consolation was in the supply of
fresh meat--a commodity some of Hornblower's men had not tasted for
three months. Hornblower recklessly sacrificed a bullock a day, for in
that Mediterranean climate meat could not be kept sweet. So his men
feasted on steaks and fresh tongues; there were plenty of men on board
who had never in their whole lives before eaten a beef steak.

But fresh water was the trouble--it was a greater anxiety to Hornblower
than even it was to the average ship's captain, for the cattle were
always thirsty; twice Hornblower had to land a raiding party at dawn on
the coast of Spain, seize a fishing village, and fill his water casks in
the local stream.

It was a dangerous adventure, and the second landing revealed the
danger, for while the _Caroline_ was trying to claw off the land again a
Spanish guarda-costa lugger came gliding round the point with all sail
set. Maxwell saw her first, but Hornblower saw her before he could
report her presence.

"Very well, Maxwell" said Hornblower, trying to sound composed.

He turned his glass upon her. She was no more than three miles off, a
trifle to windward, and the _Caroline_ was embayed, cut off by the land
from all chance of escape. The lugger could go three feet to her two,
while the _Caroline's_ clumsy superstructure prevented her from lying
nearer than eight points to the wind. As Hornblower gazed, the
accumulated irritation of the past seventeen days boiled over. He was
furious with fate for having thrust this ridiculous mission on him. He
hated the _Caroline_ and her clumsiness and her stinks and her cargo. He
raged against the destiny which had caught him in this hopeless
position.

"Hell!" said Hornblower, actually stamping his feet on the upper gangway
in his anger. "Hell _and_ damnation!"

He was dancing with rage, he observed with some curiosity. But with his
fighting madness at the boil there was no chance of his yielding without
a struggle, and his mental convulsions resulted in his producing a
scheme for action. How many men of a crew did a Spanish guardacosta
carry? Twenty? That would be an outside figure--those luggers were only
intended to act against petty smugglers. And with surprise on his side
there was still a chance, despite the four eight-pounders that the
lugger carried.

"Pistols and cutlasses, men" he said. "Jordan, choose two men and show
yourselves up here. But the rest of you keep under cover. Hide
yourselves. Yes, Mr. Tapling, you may serve with us. See that you are
armed."

No one would expect resistance from a laden cattle transport; the
Spaniards would expect to find on board a crew of a dozen at most, and
not a disciplined force of twenty. The problem lay in luring the lugger
within reach.

"Full and by" called Hornblower down to the helmsman below. "Be ready to
jump, men. Maxwell, if a man shows himself before my order shoot him
with your own hand. You hear me? That's an order, and you disobey me at
your peril."

"Aye aye, sir" said Maxwell.

The lugger was romping up towards them; even in that light air there was
a white wave under her sharp bows. Hornblower glanced up to make sure
that the _Caroline_ was displaying no colours. That made his plan legal
under the laws of war. The report of a gun and a puff of smoke came from
the lugger as she fired across the _Caroline's_ bows.

"I'm going to heave to, Jordan" said Hornblower. "Main tops'l braces.
Helm-a-lee."

The _Caroline_ came to the wind and lay there wallowing, a surrendered
and helpless ship apparently, if ever there was one.

"Not a sound, men" said Hornblower.

The cattle bellowed mournfully. Here came the lugger, her crew plainly
visible now. Hornblower could see an officer clinging to the main
shrouds ready to board, but no one else seemed to have a care in the
world. Everyone seemed to be looking up at the clumsy superstructure and
laughing at the farmyard noises issuing from it.

"Wait, men, wait" said Hornblower.

The lugger was coming alongside when Hornblower suddenly realised, with
a hot flood of blood under his skin, that he himself was unarmed. He had
told his men to take pistols and cutlasses; he had advised Tapling to
arm himself, and yet he had clean forgotten about his own need for
weapons. But it was too late now to try to remedy that. Someone in the
lugger hailed in Spanish, and Hornblower spread his hands in a show of
incomprehension. Now they were alongside.

"Come on, men!" shouted Hornblower.

He ran across the superstructure and with a gulp he flung himself across
the gap at the officer in the shrouds. He gulped again as he went
through the air; he fell with all his weight on the unfortunate man,
clasped him round the shoulders, and fell with him to the deck. There
were shouts and yells behind him as the _Caroline_ spewed up her crew
into the lugger. A rush of feet, a clatter and a clash. Hornblower got
to his feet empty handed. Maxwell was just striking down a man with his
cutlass. Tapling was heading a rush forward into the bows, waving a
cutlass and yelling like a madman. Then it was all over; the astonished
Spaniards were unable to lift a hand in their own defence.

So it came about that on the twenty-second day of her quarantine the
_Caroline_ came into Gibraltar Bay with a captured guarda-costa lugger
under her lee. A thick barnyard stench trailed with her, too, but at
least, when Hornblower went on board the _Indefatigable_ to make his
report, he had a suitable reply ready for Mr. Midshipman Bracegirdle.

"Hullo, Noah, how are Shem and Ham?" asked Mr. Bracegirdle.

"Shem and Ham have taken a prize" said Hornblower. "I regret that Mr.
Bracegirdle can't say the same."

But the Chief Commissary of the squadron, when Hornblower reported to
him, had a comment to which even Hornblower was unable to make a reply.

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Hornblower" said the Chief Commissary "that
you allowed your men to eat fresh beef? A bullock a day for your
eighteen men? There must have been plenty of ship's provisions on board.
That was wanton extravagance, Mr. Hornblower, I'm surprised at you."




                              THE DUCHESS
                              AND THE DEVIL
                                    *


Acting-Lieutenant Hornblower was bringing the sloop _Le Reve_, prize
of H.M.S. _Indefatigable_, to anchor in Gibraltar Bay. He was nervous;
if anyone had asked him if he thought that all the telescopes in the
Mediterranean Fleet were trained upon him he would have laughed at the
fantastic suggestion, but he felt as if they were. Nobody ever gauged
more cautiously the strength of the gentle following breeze, or
estimated more anxiously the distances between the big anchored ships of
the line, or calculated more carefully the space _Le Reve_ would need to
swing at her anchor. Jackson, his petty officer, was standing forward
awaiting the order to take in the jib, and he acted quickly at
Hornblower's hail.

"Helm-a-lee" said Hornblower next, and _Le Reve_ rounded into the wind.
"Brail up!"

_Le Reve_ crept forward, her momentum diminishing as the wind took her
way off her.

"Let go!"

The cable growled a protest as the anchor took it out through the
hawsehole--that welcome splash of the anchor, telling of the journey's
end. Hornblower watched carefully while _Le Reve_ took up on her cable,
and then relaxed a little. He had brought the prize safely in. The
commodore--Captain Sir Edward Pellew of H.M.S. _Indefatigable_--had
clearly not yet returned, so that it was Hornblower's duty to report to
the port admiral.

"Get the boat hoisted out" he ordered, and then, remembering his
humanitarian duty, "And you can let the prisoners up on deck."

They had been battened down below for the last forty-eight hours,
because the fear of a recapture was the nightmare of every prizemaster.
But here in the Bay with the Mediterranean fleet all round that danger
was at an end. Two hands at the oars of the gig sent her skimming over
the water, and in ten minutes Hornblower was reporting his arrival to
the admiral.

"You say she shows a fair turn of speed?" said the latter, looking over
at the prize.

"Yes, sir. And she's handy enough" said Hornblower.

"I'll purchase her into the service. Never enough despatch vessels"
mused the Admiral.

Even with that hint it was a pleasant surprise to Hornblower when he
received heavily sealed official orders and, opening them, read that
'you are hereby requested and required' to take H.M. sloop _Le Reve_
under his command and to proceed 'with the utmost expedition' to
Plymouth as soon as the despatches destined for England should be put in
his charge. It was an independent command; it was a chance of seeing
England again (it was three years since Hornblower had last set foot on
the English shore) and it was a high professional compliment. But there
was another letter, delivered at the same moment, which Hornblower read
with less elation.

"Their Excellencies, Major-General Sir Hew and Lady Dalrymple, request
the pleasure of Acting-Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower's company at dinner
today, at three o'clock, at Government House."

It might be a pleasure to dine with the Governor of Gibraltar and his
lady, but it was only a mixed pleasure at best for an acting-lieutenant
with a single sea chest, faced with the need to dress himself suitably
for such a function. Yet it was hardly possible for a young man to walk
up to Government House from the landing slip without a thrill of
excitement, especially as his friend Mr. Midshipman Bracegirdle, who
came from a wealthy family and had a handsome allowance, had lent him a
pair of the finest white stockings of China silk--Bracegirdle's calves
were plump, and Hornblower's were skinny, but that difficulty had been
artistically circumvented. Two small pads of oakum, some strips of
sticking plaster from the surgeon's stores, and Hornblower now had a
couple of legs of which no one need be ashamed. He could put his left
leg forward to make his bow without any fear of wrinkles in his
stockings, and sublimely conscious, as Bracegirdle said, of a leg of
which any gentleman would be proud.

At Government House the usual polished and languid aide-de-camp took
charge of Hornblower and led him forward. He made his bow to Sir Hew, a
red-faced and fussy old gentleman, and to Lady Dalrymple, a red-faced
and fussy old lady.

"Mr. Hornblower" said the latter "I must present you--Your Grace, this
is Mr. Hornblower, the new captain of _Le Reve_. Her Grace the Duchess
of Wharfedale."

A duchess, no less! Hornblower poked forward his padded leg, pointed his
toe, laid his hand on his heart and bowed with all the depth the
tightness of his breeches allowed--he had still been growing when he
bought them on joining the _Indefatigable_. Bold blue eyes, and a once
beautiful middle-aged face.

"So this 'ere's the feller in question?" said the duchess. "Matilda, my
dear, are you going to hentrust me to a henfant in harms?"

The startling vulgarity of the accent took Hornblower's breath away. He
had been ready for almost anything except that a superbly dressed
duchess should speak in the accent of Seven Dials. He raised his eyes to
stare, while forgetting to straighten himself up, standing with his chin
poked forward and his hand still on his heart.

"You look like a gander on a green" said the duchess. "I hexpects you to
'iss hany moment."

She stuck her own chin out and swung from side to side with her hands on
her knees in a perfect imitation of a belligerent goose, apparently with
so close a resemblance to Hornblower as well as to excite a roar of
laughter from the other guests. Hornblower stood in blushing confusion.

"Don't be 'ard on the young feller" said the duchess, coming to his
defence and patting him on the shoulder. "'E's on'y young, an' thet's
nothink to be ashamed of. Somethink to be prard of, for thet matter, to
be trusted with a ship at thet hage."

It was lucky that the announcement of dinner came to save Hornblower
from the further confusion into which this kindly remark had thrown him.
Hornblower naturally found himself with the riff-raff, the ragtag and
bobtail of the middle of the table along with the other junior
officers--Sir Hew sat at one end with the duchess, while Lady Dalrymple
sat with a commodore at the other. Moreover, there were not nearly as
many women as men; that was only to be expected, as Gibraltar was,
technically at least, a beleaguered fortress. So Hornblower had no woman
on either side of him; at his right sat the young aide-de-camp who had
first taken him in charge.

"Your health, Your Grace" said the commodore, looking down the length of
the table and raising his glass.

"Thank 'ee" replied the duchess. "Just in time to save my life. I was
wonderin' 'oo'd come to my rescue."

She raised her brimming glass to her lips and when she put it down again
it was empty.

"A jolly boon companion you are going to have" said the aide-de-camp to
Hornblower.

"How is she going to be my companion?" asked Hornblower, quite
bewildered.

The aide-de-camp looked at him pityingly.

"So you have not been informed?" he asked. "As always, the man most
concerned is the last to know. When you sail with your despatches
tomorrow you will have the honour of bearing Her Grace with you to
England."

"God bless my soul" said Hornblower.

"Let's hope He does" said the aide-de-camp piously, nosing his wine.
"Poor stuff this sweet Malaga is. Old Hare bought a job lot in '95, and
every governor since then seems to think it's his duty to use it up."

"But who _is_ she?" asked Hornblower.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Wharfedale" replied the aide-de-camp. "Did you
not hear Lady Dalrymple's introduction?"

"But she doesn't talk like a duchess" protested Hornblower.

"No. The old duke was in his dotage when he married her. She was an
innkeeper's widow, so her friends say. You can imagine, if you like,
what her enemies say."

"But what is she doing here?" went on Hornblower.

"She is on her way back to England. She was at Florence when the French
marched in, I understand. She reached Leghorn and bribed a coaster to
bring her here. She asked Sir Hew to find her a passage, and Sir Hew
asked the Admiral--Sir Hew would ask anyone for anything on behalf of a
duchess, even one said by her friends to be an innkeeper's widow."

"I see" said Hornblower.

There was a burst of merriment from the head of the table, and the
duchess was prodding the governor's scarlet-coated ribs with the handle
of her knife, as if to make sure he saw the joke.

"Maybe you will not lack for mirth on your homeward voyage" said the
aide-de-camp.

Just then a smoking sirloin of beef was put down in front of Hornblower,
and all his other worries vanished before the necessity of carving it
and remembering his manners. He took the carving knife and fork gingerly
in his hands and glanced round at the company.

"May I help you to some of this beef, Your Grace? Madam? Sir? Well done
or underdone, sir? A little of the brown fat?"

In the hot room the sweat ran down his face as he wrestled with the
joint; he was fortunate that most of the guests desired helpings from
the other removes so that he had little carving to do. He put a couple
of haggled slices on his own plate as the simplest way of concealing the
worst results of his own handiwork.

"Beef from Tetuan" sniffed the aide-de-camp. "Tough and stringy."

That was all very well for a governor's aide-de-camp--he could not guess
how delicious was this food to a young naval officer fresh from beating
about at sea in an overcrowded frigate. Even the thought of having to
act as host to a duchess could not entirely spoil Hornblower's appetite.
And the final dishes, the meringues and macaroons, the custards and the
fruits, were ecstasy for a young man whose last pudding had been currant
duff last Sunday.

"Those sweet things spoil a man's palate" said the aide-de-camp--much
Hornblower cared.

They were drinking formal toasts now. Hornblower stood for the King and
the royal family, and raised his glass for the duchess.

"And now for the enemy" said Sir Hew, "may their treasure galleons try
to cross the Atlantic."

"A supplement to that, Sir Hew" said the commodore at the other end "may
the Dons make up their minds to leave Cadiz."

There was a growl almost like wild animals from round the table. Most of
the naval officers present were from Jervis' Mediterranean squadron
which had beaten about in the Atlantic for the past several months
hoping to catch the Spaniards should they come out. Jervis had to detach
his ships to Gibraltar two at a time to replenish their stores, and
these officers were from the two ships of the line present at the moment
in Gibraltar.

"Johnny Jervis would say amen to that" said Sir Hew. "A bumper to the
Dons then, gentlemen, and may they come out from Cadiz."

The ladies left them then, gathered together by Lady Dalrymple, and as
soon as it was decently possible Hornblower made his excuses and slipped
away, determined not to be heavy with wine the night before he sailed in
independent command.

Maybe the prospect of the coming on board of the duchess was a useful
counter-irritant, and saved Hornblower from worrying too much about his
first command. He was up before dawn--before even the brief
Mediterranean twilight had begun--to see that his precious ship was in
condition to face the sea, and the enemies who swarmed upon the sea. He
had four popgun four-pounders to deal with those enemies, which meant
that he was safe from no one; his was the weakest vessel at sea, for the
smallest trading brig carried a more powerful armament. So that like all
weak creatures his only safety lay in flight--Hornblower looked aloft in
the half-light, where the sails would be set on which so much might
depend. He went over the watch bill with his two watch-keeping officers,
Midshipman Hunter and Master's Mate Winyatt, to make sure that every man
of his crew of eleven knew his duty. Then all that remained was to put
on his smartest seagoing uniform, try to eat breakfast, and wait for the
duchess.

She came early, fortunately; Their Excellencies had had to rise at a
most unpleasant hour to see her off. Mr. Hunter reported the approach of
the governor's launch with suppressed excitement.

"Thank you, Mr. Hunter" said Hornblower coldly--that was what the
service demanded, even though not so many weeks before they had been
playing follow-my-leader through the _Indefatigable's_ rigging together.

The launch swirled alongside, and two neatly dressed seamen hooked on
the ladder. _Le Reve_ had such a small free-board that boarding her
presented no problem even for ladies. The governor stepped on board to
the twittering of the only two pipes _Le Reve_ could muster, and Lady
Dalrymple followed him. Then came the duchess, and the duchess's
companion; the latter was a younger woman, as beautiful as the duchess
must once have been. A couple of aides-de-camp followed, and by that
time the minute deck of _Le Reve_ was positively crowded, so that there
was no room left to bring up the duchess's baggage.

"Let us show you your quarters, Your Grace" said the governor.

Lady Dalrymple squawked her sympathy at sight of the minute cabin, which
the two cots almost filled, and everyone's head, inevitably, bumped
against the deck-beam above.

"We shall live through it" said the duchess stoically "an' that's more
than many a man makin' a little trip to Tyburn could say."

One of the aides-de-camp produced a last minute packet of despatches and
demanded Hornblower's signature on the receipt; the last farewells were
said, and Sir Hew and Lady Dalrymple went down the side again to the
twittering of the pipes.

"Man the windlass!" bellowed Hornblower the moment the launch's crew
bent to their oars.

A few seconds' lusty work brought _Le Reve_ up to her anchor.

"Anchor's aweigh, sir" reported Winyatt.

"Jib halliards!" shouted Hornblower. "Mains'l halliards!"

_Le Reve_ came round before the wind as her sails were set and her
rudder took a grip on the water. Everyone was so busy catting the anchor
and setting sail that it was Hornblower himself who dipped his colours
in salute as _Le Reve_ crept out beyond the mole before the gentle
south-easter, and dipped her nose to the first of the big Atlantic
rollers coming in through the Gut. Through the skylight beside him he
heard a clatter and a wail, as something fell in the cabin with that
first roll, but he could spare no attention for the woman below. He had
the glass to his eye now, training it first on Algeciras and then upon
Tarifa--some well-manned privateer or ship of war might easily dash out
to snap up such a defenceless prey as _Le Reve_. He could not relax
while the forenoon watch wore on. They rounded Cape Marroqui and he set
a course for St. Vincent, and then the mountains of Southern Spain began
to sink below the horizon. Cape Trafalgar was just visible on the
starboard bow when at last he shut the telescope and began to wonder
about dinner; it was pleasant to be captain of his own ship and to be
able to order dinner when he choose. His aching legs told him he had
been on his feet too long--eleven continuous hours; if the future
brought him many independent commands he would wear himself out by this
sort of behaviour.

Down below he relaxed gratefully on the locker, and sent the cook to
knock at the duchess's cabin door to ask with his compliments if all was
well; he heard the duchess's sharp voice saying that they needed
nothing, not even dinner. Hornblower philosophically shrugged his
shoulders and ate his dinner with a young man's appetite. He went on
deck again as night closed in upon them; Winyatt had the watch.

"It's coming up thick, sir" he said.

So it was. The sun was invisible on the horizon, engulfed in watery
mist. It was the price he had to pay for a fair wind, he knew; in the
winter months in these latitudes there was always likely to be fog where
the cool land breeze reached the Atlantic.

"It'll be thicker still by morning" he said gloomily, and revised his
night orders, setting a course due west instead of west by north as he
originally intended. He wanted to make certain of keeping clear of Cape
St. Vincent in the event of fog.

That was one of those minute trifles which may affect a man's whole
after life--Hornblower had plenty of time later to reflect on what might
have happened had he not ordered that alteration of course. During the
night he was often on deck, peering through the increasing mist, but at
the time when the crisis came he was down below snatching a little
sleep. What woke him was a seaman shaking his shoulder violently.

"Please, sir. Please, sir. Mr. Hunter sent me. Please, sir, won't you
come on deck, he says, sir."

"I'll come" said Hornblower, blinking himself awake and rolling out of
his cot.

The faintest beginnings of dawn were imparting some slight luminosity to
the mist which was close about them. _Le Reve_ was lurching over an ugly
sea with barely enough wind behind her to give her steerage way. Hunter
was standing with his back to the wheel in an attitude of tense anxiety.

"Listen!" he said, as Hornblower appeared.

He half-whispered the word, and in his excitement he omitted the 'sir'
which was due to his captain--and in his excitement Hornblower did not
notice the omission. Hornblower listened. He heard the shipboard noises
he could expect--the clattering of the blocks as _Le Reve_ lurched, the
sound of the sea at her bows. Then he heard other shipboard noises.
There were other blocks clattering; the sea was breaking beneath other
bows.

"There's a ship close alongside" said Hornblower.

"Yes, sir" said Hunter. "And after I sent below for you I heard an order
given. And it was in Spanish--some foreign tongue, anyway."

The tenseness of fear was all about the little ship like the fog.

"Call all hands. Quietly" said Hornblower.

But as he gave the order he wondered if it would be any use. He could
send his men to their stations, he could man and load his four-pounders,
but if that ship out there in the fog was of any force greater than a
merchant ship he was in deadly peril. Then he tried to comfort
himself--perhaps the ship was some fat Spanish galleon bulging with
treasure, and were he to board her boldly she would become his prize and
make him rich for life.

"A 'appy Valentine's day to you" said a voice beside him, and he nearly
jumped out of his skin with surprise. He had actually forgotten the
presence of the duchess on board.

"Stop that row!" he whispered furiously at her, and she pulled up
abruptly in astonishment. She was bundled up in a cloak and hood against
the damp air, and no further detail could be seen of her in the darkness
and fog.

"May I hask----" she began.

"Shut up!" whispered Hornblower.

A harsh voice could be heard through the fog, other voices repeating the
order, whistles being blown, much noise and bustle.

"That's Spanish, sir, isn't it?" whispered Hunter.

"Spanish for certain. Calling the watch. Listen!"

The two double-strokes of a ship's bell came to them across the water.
Four bells in the morning watch. And instantly from all round them a
dozen other bells could be heard, as if echoing the first.

"We're in the middle of a fleet, by God!" whispered Hunter.

"Big ships, too, sir" supplemented Winyatt who had joined them with the
calling of all hands. "I could hear half a dozen different pipes when
they called the watch."

"The Dons are out, then" said Hunter.

And the course I set has taken us into the midst of them, thought
Hornblower bitterly. The coincidence was maddening, heartbreaking, but
he forebore to waste breath over it. He even suppressed the frantic gibe
that rose to his lips at the memory of Sir Hew's toast about the
Spaniards coming out from Cadiz.

"They're setting more sail" was what he said. "Dagos snug down at night,
just like some fat Indiaman. They only set their t'gallants at
daybreak."

All round them through the fog could be heard the whine of sheaves in
blocks, the stamp-and-go of the men at the halliards, the sound of ropes
thrown on decks, the chatter of a myriad voices.

"They make enough noise about it, blast'em" said Hunter.

The tension under which he laboured was apparent as he stood straining
to peer through the mist.

"Please God they're on a different course to us" said Winyatt, more
sensibly. "Then we'll soon be through 'em."

"Not likely" said Hornblower.

_Le Reve_ was running almost directly before what little wind there was;
if the Spaniards were beating against it or had it on their beam they
would be crossing her course at a considerable angle, so that the volume
of sound from the nearest ship would have diminished or increased
considerably in this time, and there was no indication of that whatever.
It was far more likely that _Le Reve_ had overhauled the Spanish fleet
under its nightly short canvas and had sailed forward into the middle of
it. It was a problem what to do next in that case, to shorten sail, or
to heave to, and let the Spaniards get ahead of them again, or to clap
on sail to pass through. But the passage of the minutes brought clear
proof that fleet and sloop were on practically the same course, as
otherwise they could hardly fail to pass some ship close. As long as the
mist held they were safest as they were.

But that was hardly to be expected with the coming of day.

"Can't we alter course, sir?" asked Winyatt.

"Wait" said Hornblower.

In the faint growing light he had seen shreds of denser mist blowing
past them--a clear indication that they could not hope for continuous
fog. At that moment they ran out of a fog-bank into a clear patch of
water.

"There she is, by God!" said Hunter.

Both officers and seamen began to move about in sudden panic.

"Stand still, damn you!" rasped Hornblower, his nervous tension
releasing itself in the fierce monosyllables.

Less than a cable's length away a three-decked ship of the line was
standing along parallel to them on their starboard side. Ahead and on
the port side could be seen the outlines, still shadowy, of other
battleships. Nothing could save them if they drew attention to
themselves; all that could be done was to keep going as if they had as
much right there as the ships of the line. It was possible that in the
happy-go-lucky Spanish navy the officer of the watch over there did not
know that no sloop like _Le Reve_ was attached to the fleet--or even
possibly by a miracle there _might_ be one. _Le Reve_ was French built
and French rigged, after all. Side by side _Le Reve_ and the battleship
sailed over the lumpy sea. They were within point-blank range of fifty
big guns, when one well-aimed shot would sink them. Hunter was uttering
filthy curses under his breath, but discipline had asserted itself; a
telescope over there on the Spaniard's deck would not discover any
suspicious bustle on board the sloop. Another shred of fog drifted past
them, and then they were deep in a fresh fog bank.

"Thank God!" said Hunter, indifferent to the contrast between this
present piety and his preceding blasphemy.

"Hands wear ship" said Hornblower. "Lay her on the port tack."

There was no need to tell the hands to do it quietly; they were as well
aware of their danger as anyone. _Le Reve_ silently rounded-to, the
sheets were hauled in and coiled down without a sound; and the sloop, as
close to the wind as she would lie, heeled to the small wind, meeting
the lumpy waves with her port bow.

"We'll be crossing their course now" said Hornblower.

"Please God it'll be under their sterns and not their bows" said
Winyatt.

There was the duchess still in her cloak and hood, standing right aft as
much out of the way as possible.

"Don't you think Your Grace had better go below?" asked Hornblower,
making use by a great effort of the formal form of address.

"Oh no, _please_" said the duchess. "I couldn't bear it." Hornblower
shrugged his shoulders, and promptly forgot the duchess's presence again
as a new anxiety struck him. He dived below and came up again with the
two big sealed envelopes of despatches. He took a belaying pin from the
rail and began very carefully to tie the envelopes to the pin with a bit
of line.

"Please" said the duchess "please, Mr. Hornblower, tell me what you are
doing?"

"I want to make sure these will sink when I throw them overboard if
we're captured" said Hornblower grimly.

"Then they'll be lost for good?"

"Better that than that the Spaniards should read 'em" said Hornblower
with all the patience he could muster.

"I could look after them for you" said the duchess. "Indeed I could."

Hornblower looked keenly at her.

"No" he said "they might search your baggage. Probably they would."

"Baggage!" said the duchess. "As if I'd put them in my baggage! I'll put
them next my skin--they won't search _me_ in any case. They'll never
find 'em, not if I put 'em up my petticoats."

There was a brutal realism about those words that staggered Hornblower a
little, but which also brought him to admit to himself that there was
something in what the duchess was saying.

"If they capture us" said the duchess "--I pray they won't, but if they
do--they'll never keep me prisoner. You know that. They'll send me to
Lisbon or put me aboard a King's ship as soon as they can. Then the
despatches will be delivered eventually. Late, but better late than
never."

"That's so" mused Hornblower.

"I'll guard them like my life" said the duchess. "I swear I'll never
part from them. I'll tell no one I have them, not until I hand them to a
King's officer."

She met Hornblower's eyes with transparent honesty in her expression.

"Fog's thinning, sir" said Winyatt.

"Quick!" said the duchess.

There was no time for further debate. Hornblower slipped the envelopes
from their binding of rope and handed them over to her, and replaced the
belaying pin in the rail.

"These damned French fashions" said the duchess. "I was right when I
said I'd put these letters up my petticoats. There's no room in my
bosom."

Certainly the upper part of her gown was not at all capacious; the waist
was close up under the armpits and the rest of the dress hung down from
there quite straight in utter defiance of anatomy.

"Give me a yard of that rope, quick!" said the duchess.

Winyatt cut her a length of the line with his knife and handed it to
her. Already she was hauling at her petticoats; the appalled Hornblower
saw a gleam of white thigh above her stocking tops before he tore his
glance away. The fog was certainly thinning.

"You can look at me now" said the duchess; but her petticoats only just
fell in time as Hornblower looked round again. "They're inside my shift,
next my skin as I promised. With these Directory fashions no one wears
stays any more. So I tied the rope round my waist outside my shift. One
envelope is flat against my chest and the other against my back. Would
you suspect anything?"

She turned round for Hornblower's inspection.

"No, nothing shows" he said. "I must thank Your Grace."

"There is a certain thickening" said the duchess "but it does not matter
what the Spaniards suspect as long as they do not suspect the truth."

Momentary cessation of the need for action brought some embarrassment to
Hornblower. To discuss with a woman her shift and stays--or the absence
of them--was a strange thing to do.

A watery sun, still nearly level, was breaking through the mist and
shining in his eyes. The mainsail cast a watery shadow on the deck. With
every second the sun was growing brighter.

"Here it comes" said Hunter.

The horizon ahead expanded rapidly, from a few yards to a hundred, from
a hundred yards to half a mile. The sea was covered with ships. No less
than six were in plain sight, four ships of the line and two big
frigates, with the red-and-gold of Spain at their mastheads, and, what
marked them even more obviously as Spaniards, huge wooden crosses
hanging at their peaks.

"Wear ship again, Mr. Hunter" said Hornblower. "Back into the fog."

That was the one chance of safety. Those ships running down towards them
were bound to ask questions, and they could not hope to avoid them all.
_Le Reve_ spun around on her heel, but the fog-bank from which she had
emerged was already attenuated, sucked up by the thirsty sun. They could
see a drifting stretch of it ahead, but it was lazily rolling away from
them at the same time as it was dwindling. The heavy sound of a cannon
shot reached their ears, and close on their starboard quarter a ball
threw up a fountain of water before plunging into the side of a wave
just ahead. Hornblower looked round just in time to see the last of the
puff of smoke from the bows of the frigate astern pursuing them.

"Starboard two points" he said to the helmsman, trying to gauge at one
and the same moment the frigate's course, the direction of the wind, the
bearing of the other ships, and that of the thin last nucleus of that
wisp of fog.

"Starboard two points" said the helmsman.

"Tore and main sheets!" said Hunter.

Another shot, far astern this time but laid true for line; Hornblower
suddenly remembered the duchess.

"You must go below, Your Grace" he said curtly.

"Oh, no, no, no!" burst out the duchess with angry vehemence. "Please
let me stay here. I can't go below to where that seasick maid of mine
lies hoping to die. Not in that stinking box of a cabin."

There would be no safety in that cabin, Hornblower reflected--_Le
Reve's_ scantlings were too fragile to keep out any shot at all. Down
below the waterline in the hold the women might be safe, but they would
have to lie flat on top of beef barrels.

"Sail ahead!" screamed the lookout.

The mist there was parting and the outline of a ship of the line was
emerging from it, less than a mile away and on almost the same course as
_Le Reve's_. Thud--thud from the frigate astern. Those gunshots by now
would have warned the whole Spanish fleet that something unusual was
happening. The battleship ahead would know that the little sloop was
being pursued. A ball tore through the air close by, with its usual
terrifying noise. The ship ahead was awaiting their coming; Hornblower
saw her topsails slowly turning.

"Hands to the sheets!" said Hornblower. "Mr. Hunter, jibe her over."

_Le Reve_ came round again, heading for the lessening gap on the port
side. The frigate astern turned to intercept. More jets of smoke from
her bows. With an appalling noise a shot passed within a few feet of
Hornblower, so that the wind of it made him stagger. There was a hole in
the mainsail.

"Your Grace" said Hornblower "those aren't warning shots----"

It was the ship of the line which fired then, having succeeded in
clearing away and manning some of her upper-deck guns. It was as if the
end of the world had come. One shot hit _Le Reve's_ hull, and they felt
the deck heave under their feet as a result as if the little ship were
disintegrating. But the mast was hit at the same moment, stays and
shrouds parting, splinters raining all round. Mast, sails, boom, gaff
and all went from above them over the side to windward. The wreckage
dragged in the sea and turned the helpless wreck round with the last of
her way. The little group aft stood momentarily dazed.

"Anybody hurt?" asked Hornblower, recovering himself.

"On'y a scratch, sir" said one voice.

It seemed a miracle that no one was killed.

"Carpenter's mate, sound the well" said Hornblower and then,
recollecting himself, "No, damn it. Belay that order. If the Dons can
save the ship, let 'em try."

Already the ship of the line whose salvo had done the damage was filling
her topsails again and bearing away from them, while the frigate which
had pursued them was running down on them fast. A wailing figure came
scrambling out of the after hatchway. It was the duchess's maid, so mad
with terror that her seasickness was forgotten. The duchess put a
protective arm round her and tried to comfort her.

"Your Grace had better look to your baggage" said Hornblower. "No doubt
you'll be leaving us shortly for other quarters with the Dons. I hope
you will be more comfortable."

He was trying desperately hard to speak in a matter-of-fact way, as if
nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if he were not soon to be
a prisoner of the Spaniards; but the duchess saw the working of the
usually firm mouth, and marked how the hands were tight clenched.

"How can I tell you how sorry I am about this?" asked the duchess, her
voice soft with pity.

"That makes it the harder for me to bear" said Hornblower, and he even
forced a smile.

The Spanish frigate was just rounding-to, a cable's length to windward.

"Please, sir" said Hunter.

"Well?"

"We can fight, sir. You give the word. Cold shot to drop in the boats
when they try to board. We could beat 'em off once, perhaps."

Hornblower's tortured misery nearly made him snap out 'Don't be a fool',
but he checked himself. He contented himself with pointing to the
frigate. Twenty guns were glaring at them at far less than point-blank
range. The very boat the frigate was hoisting out would be manned by at
least twice as many men as _Le Reve_ carried--she was no bigger than
many a pleasure yacht. It was not odds of ten to one, or a hundred to
one, but odds of ten thousand to one.

"I understand, sir" said Hunter.

Now the Spanish frigate's boat was in the water, about to shove off.

"A private word with you, please, Mr. Hornblower" said the duchess
suddenly.

Hunter and Winyatt heard what she said, and withdrew out of earshot.

"Yes, Your Grace?" said Hornblower.

The duchess stood there, still with her arm round her weeping maid,
looking straight at him.

"I'm no more of a duchess than you are" she said.

"Good God!" said Hornblower. "Who--who are you, then?"

"Kitty Cobham."

The name meant a little to Hornblower, but only a little.

"You're too young for that name to have any memories for you, Mr.
Hornblower, I see. It's five years since last I trod the boards."

That was it. Kitty Cobham the actress.

"I can't tell it all now" said the duchess--the Spanish boat was dancing
over the waves towards them. "But when the French marched into Florence
that was only the last of my misfortunes. I was penniless when I escaped
from them. Who would lift a finger for a onetime actress--one who had
been betrayed and deserted? What was I to do? But a duchess--that was
another story. Old Dalrymple at Gibraltar could not do enough for the
Duchess of Wharfedale."

"Why did you choose that title?" asked Hornblower in spite of himself.

"I knew of her" said the duchess with a shrug of the shoulders. "I knew
her to be what I played her as. That was why I chose her--I always
played character parts better than straight comedy. And not nearly so
tedious in a long role."

"But my despatches!" said Hornblower in a sudden panic of realisation.
"Give them back, quick."

"If you wish me to" said the duchess. "But I can still be the duchess
when the Spaniards come. They will still set me free as speedily as they
can. I'll guard those despatches better than my life--I swear it, I
swear it! In less than a month I'll deliver them, if you trust me."

Hornblower looked at the pleading eyes. She might be a spy, ingeniously
trying to preserve the despatches from being thrown overboard before the
Spaniards took possession. But no spy could have hoped that _Le Reve_
would run into the midst of the Spanish fleet.

"I made use of the bottle, I know" said the Duchess. "I drank. Yes, I
did. But I stayed sober in Gibraltar, didn't I? And I won't touch a
drop, not a drop, until I'm in England. I'll swear that, too. Please,
sir--please. I beg of you. Let me do what I can for my country."

It was a strange decision for a man of nineteen to have to make--one who
had never exchanged a word with an actress in his life before. A harsh
voice overside told him that the Spanish boat was about to hook on.

"Keep them, then" said Hornblower. "Deliver them when you can."

He had not taken his eyes from her face. He was looking for a gleam of
triumph in her expression. Had he seen anything of the sort he would
have torn the despatches from her body at that moment. But all he saw
was the natural look of pleasure, and it was then that he made up his
mind to trust her--not before.

"Oh, thank you, sir" said the duchess.

The Spanish boat had hooked on now, and a Spanish lieutenant was
awkwardly trying to climb aboard. He arrived on the deck on his hands
and knees, and Hornblower stepped over to receive him as he got to his
feet. Captor and captive exchanged bows. Hornblower could not understand
what the Spaniard said, but obviously they were formal sentences that he
was using. The Spaniard caught sight of the two women aft and halted in
surprise; Hornblower hastily made the presentation in what he hoped was
Spanish.

"Seor el tenente Espanol" he said. "Seora la Duquesa de Wharfedale."

The title clearly had its effect; the lieutenant bowed profoundly, and
his bow was received with the most lofty aloofness by the duchess.
Hornblower could be sure the despatches were safe. That was some
alleviation of the misery of standing here on the deck of his
waterlogged little ship, a prisoner of the Spaniards. As he waited he
heard, from far to leeward, roll upon roll of thunder coming up against
the wind. No thunder could endure that long. What he could hear must be
the broadsides of ships in action--of fleets in action. Somewhere over
there by Cape St. Vincent the British fleet must have caught the
Spaniards at last. Fiercer and fiercer sounded the roll of the
artillery. There was excitement among the Spaniards who had scrambled
onto the deck of _Le Reve_, while Hornblower stood bareheaded waiting to
be taken into captivity.

Captivity was a dreadful thing. Once the numbness had worn off
Hornblower came to realise what a dreadful thing it was. Not even the
news of the dreadful battering which the Spanish navy had received at
St. Vincent could relieve the misery and despair of being a prisoner. It
was not the physical conditions--ten square feet of floor space per man
in an empty sail loft at Ferrol along with other captive warrant
officers--for they were no worse than what a junior officer often had to
put up with at sea. It was the loss of freedom, the fact of being a
captive, that was so dreadful.

There were four months of it before the first letter came through to
Hornblower; the Spanish government, inefficient in all ways, had the
worst postal system in Europe. But here was the letter, addressed and
re-addressed, now safely in his hands after he had practically snatched
it from a stupid Spanish non-commissioned officer who had been puzzling
over the strange name. Hornblower did not know the handwriting, and when
he broke the seal and opened the letter the salutation made him think
for a moment that he had opened someone else's letter.

'Darling Boy' it began. Now who on earth would call him that? He read on
in a dream.

    'Darling Boy,

    I hope it will give you happiness to hear that what you gave me
    has reached its destination. They told me, when I delivered it,
    that you are a prisoner, and my heart bleeds for you. And they
    told me too that they were pleased with you for what you had
    done. And one of those admirals is a shareholder in Drury Lane.
    Whoever would have thought of such a thing? But he smiled at me,
    and I smiled at him. I did not know he was a shareholder then,
    and I only smiled out of the kindness of my heart. And all that
    I told him about my dangers and perils with my precious burden
    were only histrionic exercises, I am afraid. Yet he believed me,
    and so struck was he by my smile and my adventures, that he
    demanded a part for me from Sherry, and behold, now I am playing
    second lead, usually a tragic mother, and receiving the acclaim
    of the groundlings. There are compensations in growing old,
    which I am discovering too. And I have not tasted wine since I
    saw you last, nor shall I ever again. As one more reward, my
    admiral promised me that he would forward this letter to you in
    the next cartel--an expression which no doubt means more to you
    than to me. I only hope that it reaches you in good time and
    brings you comfort in your affliction.

     I pray nightly for you.
                                      Ever your devoted friend,
                                               Katharine Cobham.'

Comfort in his affliction? A little, perhaps. There was some comfort in
knowing that the despatches had been delivered; there was some comfort
in a second-hand report that Their Lordships were pleased with him.
There was comfort even in knowing that the duchess was re-established on
the stage. But the sum total was nothing compared with his misery.

Here was a guard come to bring him to the commandant, and beside the
commandant was the Irish renegade who served as interpreter. There were
further papers on the commandant's desk--it looked as if the same cartel
which had brought in Kitty Cobham's note had brought in letters for the
commandant.

"Good afternoon, sir" said the commandant, always polite, offering a
chair.

"Good afternoon, sir, and many thanks" said Hornblower. He was learning
Spanish slowly and painfully.

"You have been promoted" said the Irishman in English.

"W-what?" said Hornblower.

"Promoted" said the Irishman. "Here is the letter--'The Spanish
authorities are informed that on account of his meritorious service the
acting-commission of Mr. Horatio Hornblower, midshipman and
acting-lieutenant, has been confirmed. Their Lordships of the Admiralty
express their confidence that Mr. Horatio Hornblower will be admitted
immediately to the privileges of commissioned rank.' There you are,
young man."

"My felicitations, sir" said the commandant.

"Many thanks, sir" said Hornblower.

The commandant was a kindly old gentleman with a pleasant smile for the
awkward young man. He went on to say more, but Hornblower's Spanish was
not equal to the technicalities he used, and Hornblower in despair
looked at the interpreter.

"Now that you are a commissioned officer" said the latter "you will be
transferred to the quarters for captured officers."

"Thank you" said Hornblower.

"You will receive the half pay of your rank."

"Thank you."

"And your parole will be accepted. You will be at liberty to visit in
the town and the neighbourhood for two hours each day on giving your
parole."

"Thank you" said Hornblower.

Perhaps, during the long months which followed, it was some mitigation
of his unhappiness that for two hours each day his parole gave him
freedom; freedom to wander in the streets of the little town, to have a
cup of chocolate or a glass of wine--providing he had any money--making
polite and laborious conversation with Spanish soldiers or sailors or
civilians. But it was better to spend his two hours wandering over the
goat paths of the headland in the wind and the sun, in the companionship
of the sea, which might alleviate the sick misery of captivity. There
was slightly better food, slightly better quarters. And there was the
knowledge that now he was a lieutenant, that he held the King's
commission, that if ever, ever, the war should end and he should be set
free he could starve on half pay--for with the end of the war there
would be no employment for junior lieutenants. But he had earned his
promotion. He had gained the approval of authority, that was something
to think about on his solitary walks.

There came a day of south-westerly gales, with the wind shrieking in
from across the Atlantic. Across three thousand miles of water it came,
building up its strength unimpeded on its way, and heaping up the sea
into racing mountain ridges which came crashing in upon the Spanish
coast in thunder and spray. Hornblower stood on the headland above
Ferrol harbour, holding his worn greatcoat about him as he leaned
forward into the wind to keep his footing. So powerful was the wind that
it was difficult to breathe while facing it. If he turned his back he
could breathe more easily, but then the wind blew his wild hair forward
over his eyes, almost inverted his greatcoat over his head, and
furthermore forced him into little tottering steps down the slope
towards Ferrol, whither he had no wish to return at present. For two
hours he was alone and free, and those two hours were precious. He could
breathe the Atlantic air, he could walk, he could do as he liked during
that time. He could stare out to sea; it was not unusual to catch sight,
from the headland, of some British ship of war which might be working
slowly along the coast in the hope of snapping up a coasting vessel
while keeping a watchful eye upon the Spanish naval activity. When such
a ship went by during Hornblower's two hours of freedom, he would stand
and gaze at it, as a man dying of thirst might gaze at a bucket of water
held beyond his reach; he would note all the little details, the cut of
the topsails and the style of the paint, while misery wrung his bowels.
For this was the end of his second year as a prisoner of war. For
twenty-two months, for twenty-two hours every day, he had been under
lock and key, herded with five other junior lieutenants in a single room
in the fortress of Ferrol. And today the wind roared by him, shouting in
its outrageous freedom. He was facing into the wind; before him lay
Corunna, its white houses resembling pieces of sugar scattered over the
slopes. Between him and Corunna was all the open space of Corunna Bay,
flogged white by the wind, and on his left hand was the narrow entrance
to Ferrol Bay. On his right was the open Atlantic; from the foot of the
low cliffs there the long wicked reef of the Dientes del Diablo--the
Devil's Teeth--ran out to the northward, square across the path of the
racing rollers driven by the wind. At half-minute intervals the rollers
would crash against the reef with an impact that shook even the solid
headland on which Hornblower stood, and each roller dissolved into spray
which was instantly whirled away by the wind to reveal again the long
black tusks of the rocks.

Hornblower was not alone on the headland; a few yards away from him a
Spanish militia artilleryman on lookout duty gazed with watery eyes
through a telescope with which he continually swept the seaward horizon.
When at war with England it was necessary to be vigilant; a fleet might
suddenly appear over the horizon, to land a little army to capture
Ferrol, and burn the dockyard installations and the ships. No hope of
that today, thought Hornblower--there could be no landing of troops on
that raging lee shore.

But all the same the sentry was undoubtedly staring very fixedly through
his telescope right to windward; the sentry wiped his streaming eyes
with his coat sleeve and stared again. Hornblower peered in the same
direction, unable to see what it was that had attracted the sentry's
attention. The sentry muttered something to himself, and then turned and
ran clumsily down to the little stone guardhouse where sheltered the
rest of the militia detachment stationed there to man the guns of the
battery on the headland. He returned with the sergeant of the guard, who
took the telescope and peered out to windward in the direction pointed
out by the sentry. The two of them jabbered in their barbarous Gallego
dialect; in two years of steady application Hornblower had mastered
Galician as well as Castilian, but in that howling gale he could not
intercept a word. Then finally, just as the sergeant nodded in
agreement, Hornblower saw with his naked eyes what they were discussing.
A pale grey square on the horizon above the grey sea--a ship's topsail.
She must be running before the gale making for the shelter of Corunna or
Ferrol.

It was a rash thing for a ship to do, because it would be no easy matter
for her to round-to into Corunna Bay and anchor, and it would be even
harder for her to hit off the narrow entrance to the Ferrol inlet. A
cautious captain would claw out to sea and heave-to with a generous
amount of sea room until the wind moderated. These Spanish captains,
said Hornblower to himself, with a shrug of his shoulders; but naturally
they would always wish to make harbour as quickly as possible when the
Royal Navy was sweeping the seas. But the sergeant and the sentry were
more excited than the appearance of a single ship would seem to justify.
Hornblower could contain himself no longer, and edged up to the
chattering pair, mentally framing his sentences in the unfamiliar
tongue.

"Please, gentlemen" he said, and then started again, shouting against
the wind. "Please, gentlemen, what is it that you see?"

The sergeant gave him a glance, and then, reaching some undiscoverable
decision, handed over the telescope--Hornblower could hardly restrain
himself from snatching it from his hands. With the telescope to his eye
he could see far better; he could see a ship-rigged vessel, under close
reefed topsails (and that was much more sail than it was wise to carry)
hurtling wildly towards them. And then a moment later he saw the other
square of grey. Another topsail. Another ship. The foretopmast was
noticeably shorter than the maintopmast, and not only that, but the
whole effect was familiar--she was a British ship of war, a British
frigate, plunging along in hot pursuit of the other, which seemed most
likely to be a Spanish privateer. It was a close chase; it would be a
very near thing, whether the Spaniard would reach the protection of the
shore batteries before the frigate overhauled her. He lowered the
telescope to rest his eye, and instantly the sergeant snatched it from
him. He had been watching the Englishman's face, and Hornblower's
expression had told him what he wanted to know. Those two ships out
there were behaving in such a way as to justify his rousing his officer
and giving the alarm. Sergeant and sentry went running back to the
guardhouse, and in a few moments the artillerymen were pouring out to
man the batteries on the verge of the cliff. Soon enough came a mounted
officer urging his horse up the path; a single glance through the
telescope sufficed for him. He went clattering down to the battery and
the next moment the boom of a gun from there alerted the rest of the
defences. The flag of Spain rose up the flagstaff beside the battery,
and Hornblower saw an answering flag rise up the flagstaff on San Anton
where another battery guarded Corunna Bay. All the guns of the harbour
defences were now manned, and there would be no mercy shown to any
English ship that came in range.

Pursuer and pursued had covered quite half the distance already towards
Corunna. They were hull-up over the horizon now to Hornblower on the
headland, who could see them plunging madly over the grey
sea--Hornblower momentarily expected to see them carry away their
topmasts or their sails blow from the bolt-ropes. The frigate was half a
mile astern still, and she would have to be much closer than that to
have any hope of hitting with her guns in that sea. Here came the
commandant and his staff, clattering on horseback up the path to see the
climax of the drama; the commandant caught sight of Hornblower and
doffed his hat with Spanish courtesy, while Hornblower, hatless, tried
to bow with equal courtesy. Hornblower walked over to him with an urgent
request--he had to lay his hand on the Spaniard's saddlebow and shout up
into his face to be understood.

"My parole expires in ten minutes, sir" he yelled. "May I please extend
it? May I please stay?"

"Yes, stay, seor" said the commandant generously.

Hornblower watched the chase, and at the same time observed closely the
preparations for defence. He had given his parole, but no part of the
gentlemanly code prevented him from taking note of all he could see. One
day he might be free, and one day it might be useful to know all about
the defences of Ferrol. Everyone else of the large group on the headland
was watching the chase, and excitement rose higher as the ships came
racing nearer. The English captain was keeping a hundred yards or more
to seaward of the Spaniard, but he was quite unable to overhaul her--in
fact it seemed to Hornblower as if the Spaniard was actually increasing
his lead. But the English frigate being to seaward meant that escape in
that direction was cut off. Any turn away from the land would reduce the
Spaniard's lead to a negligible distance. If he did not get into Corunna
Bay or Ferrol Inlet he was doomed.

Now he was level with the Corunna headland, and it was time to put his
helm hard over and turn into the bay and hope that his anchors would
hold in the lee of the headland. But with a wind of that violence
hurtling against cliffs and headlands strange things can happen. A flaw
of wind coming out of the bay must have caught her aback as she tried to
round-to. Hornblower saw her stagger, saw her heel as the back-lash died
away and the gale caught her again. She was laid over almost on her
beam-ends and as she righted herself Hornblower saw a momentary gap open
up in her maintopsail. It was momentary because from the time the gap
appeared the life of the topsail was momentary; the gap appeared and at
once the sail vanished, blown into ribbons as soon as its continuity was
impaired. With the loss of its balancing pressure the ship became
unmanageable; the gale pressing against the foretopsail swung her round
again before the wind like a weathervane. If there had been time to
spare to set a fragment of sail farther aft she would have been saved,
but in those enclosed waters there was no time to spare. At one moment
she was about to round the Corunna headland; at the next she had lost
the opportunity for ever.

There was still the chance that she might fetch the opening to the
Ferrol inlet; the wind was nearly fair for her to do that--nearly.
Hornblower on the Ferrol headland was thinking along with the Spanish
captain down there on the heaving deck. He saw him try to steady the
ship so as to head for the narrow entrance, notorious among seamen for
its difficulty. He saw him get her on her course, and for a few seconds
as she flew across the mouth of the bay it seemed as if the Spaniard
would succeed, against all probability, in exactly hitting off the
entrance to the inlet. Then the back-lash hit her again. Had she been
quick on the helm she might still have been safe, but with her sail
pressure so outbalanced she was bound to be slow in her response to her
rudder. The shrieking wind blew her bows round, and it was instantly
obvious, too, that she was doomed, but the Spanish captain played the
game out to the last. He would not pile his ship up against the foot of
the low cliffs. He put his helm hard over; with the aid of the wind
rebounding from the cliffs he made a gallant attempt to clear the Ferrol
headland altogether and give himself a chance to claw out to sea.

A gallant attempt, but doomed to failure as soon as begun; he actually
cleared the headland, but the wind blew his bows round again, and, bows
first, the ship plunged right at the long jagged line of the Devil's
Teeth. Hornblower, the commandant, and everyone, hurried across the
headland to look down at the final act of the tragedy. With tremendous
speed, driving straight before the wind, she raced at the reef. A roller
picked her up as she neared it and seemed to increase her speed. Then
she struck, and vanished from sight for a second as the roller burst
into spray all about her. When the spray cleared she lay there
transformed. Her three masts had all gone with the shock, and it was
only a black hulk which emerged from the white foam. Her speed and the
roller behind her had carried her almost over the reef--doubtless
tearing her bottom out--and she hung by her stern, which stood out clear
of the water, while her bows were just submerged in the comparatively
still water in the lee of the reef.

There were men still alive on her. Hornblower could see them crouching
for shelter under the break of her poop. Another Atlantic roller came
surging up, and exploded on the Devil's Teeth, wrapping the wreck round
with spray. But yet she emerged again, black against the creaming foam.
She had cleared the reef sufficiently far to find shelter for most of
her length in the lee of the thing that had destroyed her. Hornblower
could see those living creatures crouching on her deck. They had a
little longer to live--they might live five minutes, perhaps, if they
were lucky. Five hours if they were not.

All round him the Spaniards were shouting maledictions. Women were
weeping; some of the men were shaking their fists with rage at the
British frigate, which, well satisfied with the destruction of her
victim, had rounded-to in time and was now clawing out to sea again
under storm canvas. It was horrible to see those poor devils down there
die. If some larger wave than usual, bursting on the reef, did not lift
the stern of the wreck clear so that she sank, she would still break up
for the survivors to be whirled away with the fragments. And, if it took
a long time for her to break up, the wretched men sheltering there would
not be able to endure the constant beating of the cold spray upon them.
Something should be done to save them, but no boat could round the
headland and weather the Devil's Teeth to reach the wreck. That was so
obvious as not to call for a second thought. But... Hornblower's
thoughts began to race as he started to work on the alternatives. The
commandant on his horse was speaking vehemently to a Spanish naval
officer, clearly on the same subject, and the naval officer was
spreading his hands and saying that any attempt would be hopeless. And
yet... For two years Hornblower had been a prisoner; all his pent-up
restlessness was seeking an outlet, and after two years of the misery of
confinement he did not care whether he lived or died. He went up to the
commandant and broke into the argument.

"Sir" he said "let me try to save them. Perhaps from the little bay
there.... Perhaps some of the fishermen would come with me."

The commandant looked at the officer and the officer shrugged his
shoulders.

"What do you suggest, sir?" asked the commandant of Hornblower.

"We might carry a boat across the headland from the dockyard" said
Hornblower, struggling to word his ideas in Spanish "but we must be
quick--quick!"

He pointed to the wreck, and force was added to his words by the sight
of a roller bursting over the Devil's Teeth.

"How would you carry a boat?" asked the commandant.

To shout his plan in English against that wind would have been a strain;
to do so in Spanish was beyond him.

"I can show you at the dockyard, sir" he yelled. "I cannot explain. But
we must hurry!"

"You want to go to the dockyard, then?"

"Yes--oh yes."

"Mount behind me, sir" said the commandant.

Awkwardly Hornblower scrambled up to a seat astride the horse's haunches
and clutched at the commandant's belt. He bumped frightfully as the
animal wheeled round and trotted down the slope. All the idlers of the
town and garrison ran beside them.

The dockyard at Ferrol was almost a phantom organisation, withered away
like a tree deprived of its roots, thanks to the British blockade.
Situated as it was at the most distant corner of Spain, connected with
the interior by only the roughest of roads, it relied on receiving its
supplies by sea, and any such reliance was likely with British cruisers
off the coast to be disappointed. The last visit of Spanish ships of war
had stripped the place of almost all its stores, and many of the
dockyard hands had been pressed as seamen at the same time. But all that
Hornblower needed was there, as he knew, thanks to his careful
observation. He slid off the horse's hindquarters--miraculously avoiding
an instinctive kick from the irritated animal--and collected his
thoughts. He pointed to a low dray--a mere platform on wheels--which was
used for carrying beef barrels and brandy kegs to the pier.

"Horses" he said, and a dozen willing hands set to work harnessing a
team.

Beside the jetty floated half a dozen boats. There was tackle and
shears, all the apparatus necessary for swinging heavy weights about. To
put slings under a boat and swing her up was the work of only a minute
or two. These Spaniards might be dilatory and lazy as a rule, but
inspire them with the need for instant action, catch their enthusiasm,
present them with a novel plan, and they would work like madmen--and
some of them were skilled workmen, too. Oars, mast and sail (not that
they would need the sail), rudder, tiller and balers were all present. A
group came running from a store shed with chocks for the boat, and the
moment these were set up on the dray the dray was backed under the
tackle and the boat lowered onto them.

"Empty barrels" said Hornblower. "Little ones--so."

A swarthy Galician fisherman grasped his intention at once, and
amplified Hornblower's halting sentences with voluble explanation. A
dozen empty water breakers, with their bungs driven well home, were
brought, and the swarthy fisherman climbed on the dray and began to lash
them under the thwarts. Properly secured, they would keep the boat
afloat even were she filled to the gunwale with water.

"I want six men" shouted Hornblower, standing on the dray and looking
round at the crowd. "Six fishermen who know little boats."

The swarthy fisherman lashing the breakers in the boat looked up from
his task.

"I know whom we need, sir" he said.

He shouted a string of names, and half a dozen men came forward; burly,
weather-beaten fellows, with the self-reliant look in their faces of men
used to meeting difficulties. It was apparent that the swarthy Galician
was their captain.

"Let us go, then" said Hornblower, but the Galician checked him.

Hornblower did not hear what he said, but some of the crowd nodded,
turned away, and came hastening back staggering under a breaker of fresh
water and a box that must contain biscuit. Hornblower was cross with
himself for forgetting the possibility of their being blown out to sea.
And the commandant, still sitting his horse and watching these
preparations with a keen eye, took note of these stores too.

"Remember, sir, that I have your parole" he said.

"You have my parole, sir" said Hornblower--for a few blessed moments he
had actually forgotten that he was a prisoner.

The stores were safely put away into the sternsheets and the
fishing-boat captain caught Hornblower's eye and got a nod from him.

"Let us go" he roared to the crowd.

The iron-shod hoofs clashed on the cobbles and the dray lurched forward,
with men leading the horses, men swarming alongside, and Hornblower and
the captain riding on the dray like triumphing generals in a procession.
They went through the dockyard gate, along the level main street of the
little town, and turned up a steep lane which climbed the ridge
constituting the backbone of the headland. The enthusiasm of the crowd
was still lively; when the horses slowed as they breasted the slope a
hundred men pushed at the back, strained at the sides, tugged at the
traces to run the dray up the hillside. At the crest the lane became a
track, but the dray still lurched and rumbled along. From the track
diverged an even worse track, winding its way sideways down the slope
through arbutus and myrtle towards the sandy cove which Hornblower had
first had in mind--on fine days he had seen fishermen working a seine
net on that beach, and he himself had taken note of it as a suitable
place for a landing party should the Royal Navy ever plan a descent
against Ferrol.

The wind was blowing as wildly as ever; it shrieked round Hornblower's
ears. The sea as it came in view was chaotic with wave-crests, and then
as they turned a shoulder of the slope they could see the line of the
Devil's Teeth running out from the shore up there to windward, and still
hanging precariously from their jagged fangs was the wreck, black
against the seething foam. Somebody raised a shout at the sight,
everybody heaved at the dray, so that the horses actually broke into a
trot and the dray leaped and bounced over the obstructions in its way.

"Slowly" roared Hornblower. "Slowly!"

If they were to break an axle or smash a wheel at this moment the
attempt would end in ludicrous failure. The commandant on his horse
enforced Hornblower's cries with loud orders of his own, and restrained
the reckless enthusiasm of his people. More sedately the dray went on
down the trail to the edge of the sandy beach. The wind picked up even
the damp sand and flung it stinging into their faces, but only small
waves broke here, for the beach was in a recess in the shoreline, the
south-westerly wind was blowing a trifle off shore here, and up to
windward the Devil's Teeth broke the force of the rollers as they raced
along in a direction nearly parallel to the shoreline. The wheels
plunged into the sand and the horses stopped at the water's edge. A
score of willing hands unharnessed them and a hundred willing arms
thrust the dray out into the water--all these things were easy with such
vast manpower available. As the first wave broke over the floor of the
dray the crew scrambled up and stood ready. There were rocks here, but
mighty heaves by the militiamen and the dockyard workers waist-deep in
water forced the dray over them. The boat almost floated off its chocks,
and the crew forced it clear and scrambled aboard, the wind beginning to
swing her immediately. They grabbed for their oars and put their backs
into half a dozen fierce strokes which brought her under command; the
Galician captain had already laid a steering oar in the notch in the
stern, with no attempt at shipping rudder and tiller. As he braced
himself to steer he glanced at Hornblower, who tacitly left the job to
him.

Hornblower, bent against the wind, was standing in the sternsheets
planning a route through the rocks which would lead them to the wreck.
The shore and the friendly beach were gone now, incredibly far away, and
the boat was struggling out through a welter of water with the wind
howling round her. In those jumbled waves her motion was senseless and
she lurched in every direction successively. It was well that the
boatmen were used to rowing in broken water so that their oars kept the
boat under way, giving the captain the means by which, tugging fiercely
at the steering oar, he could guide her through that maniacal confusion.
Hornblower, planning his course, was able to guide the captain by his
gestures, so that the captain could devote all the necessary attention
to keeping the boat from being suddenly capsized by an unexpected wave.
The wind howled, and the boat heaved and pitched as she met each lumpy
wave, but yard by yard they were struggling up to the wreck. If there
was any order in the waves at all, they were swinging round the outer
end of the Devil's Teeth, so that the boat had to be carefully steered,
turning to meet the waves with her bows and then turning back to gain
precarious yards against the wind. Hornblower spared a glance for the
men at the oars; at every second they were exerting their utmost
strength. There could never be a moment's respite--tug and strain, tug
and strain, until Hornblower wondered how human hearts and sinews could
endure it.

But they were edging up towards the wreck. Hornblower, when the wind and
spray allowed, could see the whole extent of her canted deck now. He
could see human figures cowering under the break of the poop. He saw
somebody there wave an arm to him. Next moment his attention was called
away when a jagged monster suddenly leaped out of the sea twenty yards
ahead. For a second he could not imagine what it was, and then it leaped
clear again and he recognised it--the butt end of a broken mast. The
mast was still anchored to the ship by a single surviving shroud
attached to the upper end of the mast and to the ship, and the mast,
drifting down to leeward, was jerking and leaping on the waves as though
some sea god below the surface was threatening them with his wrath.
Hornblower called the steersman's attention to the menace and received a
nod in return; the steersman's shouted 'Nombre de Dios' was whirled away
in the wind. They kept clear of the mast, and as they pulled up along it
Hornblower could form a clearer notion of the speed of their progress
now that he had a stationary object to help his judgment. He could see
the painful inches gained at each frantic tug on the oars, and could see
how the boat stopped dead or even went astern when the wilder gusts hit
her, the oar blades pulling ineffectively through the water. Every inch
of gain was only won at the cost of an infinity of labour.

Now they were past the mast, close to the submerged bows of the ship,
and close enough to the Devil's Teeth to be deluged with spray as each
wave burst on the farther side of the reef. There were inches of water
washing back and forth in the bottom of the boat, but there was neither
time nor opportunity to bale it out. This was the trickiest part of the
whole effort, to get close enough alongside the wreck to be able to take
off the survivors without stoving in the boat; there were wicked fangs
of rock all about the after end of the wreck, while forward, although
the forecastle was above the surface at times the forward part of the
waist was submerged. But the ship was canted a little over to port,
towards them, which made the approach easier. When the water was at its
lowest level, immediately before the next roller broke on the reef,
Hornblower, standing up and craning his neck, could see no rocks beside
the wreck in the middle part of the waist where the deck came down to
water level. It was easy to direct the steersman towards that particular
point, and then, as the boat moved in, to wave his arms and demand the
attention of the little group under the break of the poop, and to point
to the spot to which they were approaching. A wave burst upon the reef,
broke over the stern of the wreck, and filled the boat almost full. She
swung back and forth in the eddies, but the kegs kept her afloat and
quick handling of the steering oar and lusty rowing kept her from being
dashed against either the wreck or the rocks.

"Now!" shouted Hornblower--it did not matter that he spoke English at
this decisive moment. The boat surged forward, while the survivors,
releasing themselves from the lashings which had held them in their
shelter, came slithering down the deck towards them. It was a little of
a shock to see there were but four of them--twenty or thirty men must
have been swept overboard when the ship hit the reef. The bows of the
boat moved towards the wreck. At a shouted order from the steersman the
oars fell still. One survivor braced himself and flung himself into the
bows. A stroke of the oars, a tug at the steering oar, and the boat
nosed forward again, and another survivor plunged into the boat. Then
Hornblower, who had been watching the sea, saw the next breaker rear up
over the reef. At his warning shout the boat backed away to
safety--comparative safety--while the remaining survivors went
scrambling back up the deck to the shelter of the poop. The wave burst
and roared, the foam hissed and the spray rattled, and then they crept
up to the wreck again. The third survivor poised himself for his leap,
mistimed it, and fell into the sea, and no one ever saw him again. He
was gone, sunk like a stone, crippled as he was with cold and
exhaustion, but there was no time to spare for lamentation. The fourth
survivor was waiting his chance and jumped at once, landing safely in
the bows.

"Any more?" shouted Hornblower, and receiving a shake of the head in
reply; they had saved three lives at the risk of eight.

"Let us go" said Hornblower, but the steersman needed no telling.

Already he had allowed the wind to drift the boat away from the wreck,
away from the rocks--away from the shore. An occasional strong pull at
the oars sufficed to keep her bows to wind and wave. Hornblower looked
down at the fainting survivors lying in the bottom of the boat with the
water washing over them. He bent down and shook them into consciousness;
he picked up the balers and forced them into their numb hands. They must
keep active or die. It was astounding to find darkness closing about
them, and it was urgent that they should decide on their next move
immediately. The men at the oars were in no shape for any prolonged
further rowing; if they tried to return to the sandy cove whence they
had started they might be overtaken both by night and by exhaustion
while still among the treacherous rocks off the shore there. Hornblower
sat down beside the Galician captain, who laconically gave his views
while vigilantly observing the waves racing down upon them.

"It is growing dark" said the captain, glancing round the sky. "Rocks.
The men are tired."

"We had better not go back" said Hornblower.

"No."

"Then we must get out to sea."

Years of duty on blockade, of beating about off a lee shore, had
ingrained into Hornblower the necessity for seeking sea-room.

"Yes" said the captain, and he added something which Hornblower, thanks
to the wind and his unfamiliarity with the language, was unable to
catch. The captain roared the expression again, and accompanied his
words with a vivid bit of pantomime with the one hand he could spare
from the steering oar.

"A sea anchor" decided Hornblower to himself. "Quite right."

He looked back at the vanishing shore, and gauged the direction of the
wind. It seemed to be backing a little southerly; the coast here trended
away from them. They could ride to a sea anchor through the hours of
darkness and run no risk of being cast ashore as long as these
conditions persisted.

"Good" said Hornblower aloud.

He imitated the other's bit of pantomime and the captain gave him a
glance of approval. At a bellow from him the two men forward took in
their oars and set to work at constructing a sea anchor--merely a pair
of oars attached to a long painter paid out over the bows. With this
gale blowing the pressure of the wind on the boat set up enough drag on
the float to keep their bows to the sea. Hornblower watched as the sea
anchor began to take hold of the water.

"Good" he said again.

"Good" said the captain, taking in his steering oar.

Hornblower realised only now that he had been long exposed to a winter
gale while wet to the skin. He was numb with cold, and he was shivering
uncontrollably. At his feet one of the three survivors of the wreck was
lying helpless; the other two had succeeded in baling out most of the
water and as a result of their exertions were conscious and alert. The
men who had been rowing sat drooping with weariness on their thwarts.
The Galician captain was already down in the bottom of the boat lifting
the helpless man in his arms. It was a common impulse of them all to
huddle down into the bottom of the boat, beneath the thwarts, away from
that shrieking wind.

So the night came down on them. Hornblower found himself welcoming the
contact of other human bodies; he felt an arm round him and he put his
arm round someone else. Around them a little water still surged about on
the floorboards; above them the wind still shrieked and howled. The boat
stood first on her head and then on her tail as the waves passed under
them, and at the moment of climbing each crest she gave a shuddering
jerk as she snubbed herself to the sea anchor. Every few seconds a new
spat of spray whirled into the boat upon their shrinking bodies; it did
not seem long before the accumulation of spray in the bottom of the boat
made it necessary for them to disentangle themselves, and set about,
groping in the darkness, the task of baling the water out again. Then
they could huddle down again under the thwarts.

It was when they pulled themselves together for the third baling that in
the middle of his nightmare of cold and exhaustion Hornblower was
conscious that the body across which his arm lay was unnaturally stiff;
the man the captain had been trying to revive had died as he lay there
between the captain and Hornblower. The captain dragged the body away
into the sternsheets in the darkness, and the night went on, cold wind
and cold spray, jerk, pitch, and roll, sit up and bale and cower down
and shudder. It was hideous torment; Hornblower could not trust himself
to believe his eyes when he saw the first signs that the darkness was
lessening. And then the grey dawn came gradually over the grey sea, and
they were free to wonder what to do next. But as the light increased the
problem was solved for them, for one of the fishermen, raising himself
up in the boat, gave a hoarse cry, and pointed to the northern horizon,
and there, almost hull-up, was a ship, hove-to under storm canvas. The
captain took one glance at her--his eyesight must have been
marvellous--and identified her.

"The English frigate" he said.

She must have made nearly the same amount of leeway hove-to as the boat
did riding to her sea anchor.

"Signal to her" said Hornblower, and no one raised any objections.

The only white object available was Hornblower's shirt, and he took it
off, shuddering in the cold, and they tied it to an oar and raised the
oar in the maststep. The captain saw Hornblower putting on his dripping
coat over his bare ribs and in a single movement peeled off his thick
blue jersey and offered it to him.

"Thank you, no" protested Hornblower, but the captain insisted; with a
wide grin he pointed to the stiffened corpse lying in the sternsheets
and announced he would replace the jersey with the dead man's clothing.

The argument was interrupted by a further cry from one of the fishermen.
The frigate was coming to the wind; with treble-reefed fore and
maintopsails she was heading for them under the impulse of the lessening
gale. Hornblower saw her running down on them; a glance in the other
direction showed him the Galician mountains, faint on the southern
horizon--warmth, freedom and friendship on the one hand; solitude and
captivity on the other. Under the lee of the frigate the boat bobbed and
heaved fantastically; many inquisitive faces looked down on them. They
were cold and cramped; the frigate dropped a boat and a couple of nimble
seamen scrambled on board. A line was flung from the frigate, a whip
lowered a breeches ring into the boat, and the English seamen helped the
Spaniards one by one into the breeches and held them steady as they were
swung up to the frigate's deck.

"I go last" said Hornblower when they turned to him. "I am a King's
officer."

"Good Lor' lumme" said the seamen.

"Send the body up, too" said Hornblower. "It can be given decent
burial."

The stiff corpse was grotesque as it swayed through the air. The
Galician captain tried to dispute with Hornblower the honour of going
last, but Hornblower would not be argued with. Then finally the seamen
helped him put his legs into the breeches, and secured him with a line
round his waist. Up he soared, swaying dizzily with the roll of the
ship; then they drew him in to the deck, lowering and shortening, until
half a dozen strong arms took his weight and laid him gently on the
deck.

"There you are, my hearty, safe and sound" said a bearded seaman.

"I am a King's officer" said Hornblower. "Where's the officer of the
watch?"

Wearing marvellous dry clothing, Hornblower found himself soon drinking
hot rum-and-water in the cabin of Captain George Crome, of His Majesty's
frigate _Syrtis_. Crome was a thin pale man with a depressed expression,
but Hornblower knew of him as a first-rate officer.

"These Galicians make good seamen" said Crome. "I can't press them. But
perhaps a few will volunteer sooner than go to a prison hulk."

"Sir" said Hornblower, and hesitated. It is ill for a junior lieutenant
to argue with a post captain.

"Well?"

"Those men came to sea to save life. They are not liable to capture."

Crome's cold grey eyes became actively frosty--Hornblower was right
about it being ill for a junior lieutenant to argue with a post captain.

"Are you telling me my duty, sir?" he asked.

"Good heavens no, sir" said Hornblower hastily. "It's a long time since
I read the Admiralty Instructions and I expect my memory's at fault."

"Admiralty Instructions, eh?" said Crome, in a slightly different tone
of voice.

"I expect I'm wrong, sir" said Hornblower "but I seem to remember the
same instruction applied to the other two--the survivors."

Even a post captain could only contravene Admiralty Instructions at his
peril.

"I'll consider it" said Crome.

"I had the dead man sent on board, sir" went on Hornblower "in the hope
that perhaps you might give him proper burial. Those Galicians risked
their lives to save him, sir, and I expect they'd be gratified."

"A Popish burial? I'll give orders to give 'em a free hand."

"Thank you, sir" said Hornblower.

"And now as regards yourself. You say you hold a commission as
lieutenant. You can do duty in this ship until we meet the admiral
again. Then he can decide. I haven't heard of the _Indefatigable_ paying
off, and legally you may still be borne on her books."

And that was when the devil came to tempt Hornblower, as he took another
sip of hot rum-and-water. The joy of being in a King's ship again was so
keen as to be almost painful. To taste salt beef and biscuit again, and
never again to taste beans and garbanzos. To have a ship's deck under
his feet, to talk English. To be free--to be free! There was precious
little chance of ever falling again into Spanish hands. Hornblower
remembered with agonising clarity the flat depression of captivity. All
he had to do was not to say a word. He had only to keep silence for a
day or two. But the devil did not tempt him long, only until he had
taken his next sip of rum-and-water. Then he thrust the devil behind him
and met Crome's eyes again.

"I'm sorry, sir" he said.

"What for?"

"I am here on parole. I gave my word before I left the beach."

"You did? That alters the case. You were within your rights, of course."

The giving of parole by captive British officers was so usual as to
excite no comment.

"It was in the usual form, I suppose?" went on Crome. "That you would
make no attempt to escape?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then what do you decide as a result?"

Of course Crome could not attempt to influence a gentleman's decision on
a matter as personal as a parole.

"I must go back, sir" said Hornblower "at the first opportunity."

He felt the sway of the ship, he looked round the homely cabin, and his
heart was breaking.

"You can at least dine and sleep on board tonight" said Crome. "I'll not
venture inshore again until the wind moderates. I'll send you to Corunna
under a flag of truce when I can. And I'll see what the Instructions say
about those prisoners."

It was a sunny morning when the sentry at Fort San Anton, in the harbour
of Corunna, called his officer's attention to the fact that the British
cruiser off the headland had hove-to out of gunshot and was lowering a
boat. The sentry's responsibility ended there, and he could watch idly
as his officer observed that the cutter, running smartly in under sail,
was flying a white flag. She hove-to within musket shot, and it was a
mild surprise to the sentry when in reply to the officer's hail someone
rose up in the boat and replied in unmistakable Gallego dialect.
Summoned alongside the landing slip, the cutter put ashore ten men and
then headed out again to the frigate. Nine men were laughing and
shouting; the tenth, the youngest, walked with a fixed expression on his
face with never a sign of emotion--his expression did not change even
when the others, with obvious affection, put their arms round his
shoulders. No one ever troubled to explain to the sentry who the
imperturbable young man was, and he was not very interested. After he
had seen the group shipped off across Corunna Bay towards Ferrol he
quite forgot the incident.

It was almost spring when a Spanish militia officer came into the
barracks which served as a prison for officers in Ferrol.

"Seor Hornblower?" he asked--at least Hornblower, in the corner, knew
that was what he was trying to say. He was used to the way Spaniards
mutilated his name.

"Yes?" he said, rising.

"Would you please come with me? The commandant has sent me for you,
sir."

The commandant was all smiles. He held a despatch in his hands.

"This, sir" he said, waving it at Hornblower, "is a personal order. It
is countersigned by the Duke of Fuentesauco, Minister of Marine, but it
is signed by the First Minister, Prince of the Peace and Duke of
Alcudia."

"Yes, sir" said Hornblower.

He should have begun to hope at that moment, but there comes a time in a
prisoner's life when he ceases to hope. He was more interested, even, in
that strange title of Prince of the Peace which was now beginning to be
heard in Spain.

"It says: 'We, Carlos Leonardo Luis Manuel de Godoy y Boegas, First
Minister of His Most Catholic Majesty, Prince of the Peace, Duke of
Alcudia and Grandee of the First Class, Count of Alcudia, Knight of the
Most Sacred Order of the Golden Fleece, Knight of the Holy Order of
Santiago, Knight of the Most Distinguished Order of Calatrava,
Captain-General of His Most Catholic Majesty's forces by Land and Sea,
Colonel General of the Guardia de Corps, Admiral of the Two Oceans,
General of the cavalry, of the infantry, and of the artillery'--in any
event, sir, it is an order to me to take immediate steps to set you at
liberty. I am to restore you under flag of truce to your fellow
countrymen, in recognition of 'your courage and self-sacrifice in saving
life at the peril of your own'."

"Thank you, sir" said Hornblower.






[End of Mr. Midshipman Hornblower, by C. S. Forester]
