A Ship of the Line

Chapter VIII

In the afternoon Hornblower was walking his quarterdeck; the problem before him was so difficult that he had quitted his stern gallery—he could not walk fast enough there, owing to his having to bend his head, to set his thoughts going. The people on the quarterdeck saw his mood, and kept warily over to the lee side, leaving the whole weather side, nearly thirty yards of quarterdeck and gangway, to him. Up and down, he walked, up and down, trying to nerve himself to make the decision he hankered after. The Sutherland was slipping slowly through the water with a westerly breeze abeam; the convoy was clustered together only a few cables’ lengths to leeward.

Gerard shut his telescope with a snap.

“Boat pulling toward us from Lord Mornington, sir,” he said. He wanted to warn his captain of the approach of visitors, so that if he thought fit he could make himself unapproachable in his cabin; but he knew, as well as Hornblower did, that it might be unwise for a captain to act in too cavalier a fashion towards the notabilities on board the East India convoy.

Hornblower looked across at the boat creeping beetle-like towards him. Ten days of a strong north-easterly wind had not merely hurried the convoy to the latitude of North Africa where he was to leave them to their own devices, but had prevented all intercourse and visiting between ships, until yesterday. Yesterday there had been a good deal of coming and going between the ships of the convoy; it was only natural that today he should receive formal calls, which he could not well refuse. In another two hours they would be parting company—it could not be a prolonged ordeal.

The boat ran alongside, and Hornblower walked forward to receive his own guests—Captain Osborn of the Lord Mornington, in his formal frock coat, and someone else, tall and bony, resplendent in civilian full dress with ribbon and star.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” said Osborn. “I wish to present you to Lord Eastlake, Governor-designate of Bombay.”

Hornblower bowed; so did Lord Eastlake.

“I have come,” said Lord Eastlake, clearing his throat, “to beg of you, Captain Hornblower, to receive on behalf of your ship’s company this purse of four hundred guineas. It has been subscribed by the passengers of the East India convoy in recognition of the skill and courage displayed by the Sutherland in the action with the two French privateers off Ushant.”

“In the name of my ship’s company I thank your Lordship,” said Hornblower.

It was a very handsome gesture, and as he took the purse he felt like Judas, knowing what designs he was cherishing against the East India convoy.

“And I,” said Osborn, “am the bearer of a most cordial invitation to you and to your first lieutenant to join us at dinner in the Lord Mornington.”

At that Hornblower shook his head with apparent regret.

“We part company in two hours,” he said. “I was about to hang out a signal to that effect. I am deeply hurt by the necessity of having to refuse.”

“We shall all be sorry on board the Lord Mornington’ said Lord Eastlake. “Ten days of bad weather have deprived us of the pleasure of the company of any of the officers of the navy. Cannot you be persuaded to alter your decision?”

“This has been the quickest passage I have made to these latitudes,” said Osborn. “I begin to regret it now that it appears to have prevented our seeing anything of you.”

“I am on the King’s service, my Lord, and under the most explicit orders from the Admiral.”

That was an excuse against which the Governor-designate of Bombay could not argue.

“I understand,” said Lord Eastlake. “At least can I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your officers?”

Once more that was a handsome gesture; Hornblower called them up and presented them one by one; horny-handed Bush, and Gerard handsome and elegant, Captain Morris of the marines and his two gawky subalterns, the other lieutenants and the master, down to the junior midshipman, all of them delighted and embarrassed at this encounter with a lord. At last Lord Eastlake turned to go.

“Good-bye, Captain,” he said, proffering his hand. “A prosperous voyage in the Mediterranean to you.”

“Thank you, my lord. And a good passage to Bombay to you. And a successful and historic term of office.”

Hornblower stood weighing the purse—an embroidered canvas bag at which someone had laboured hard recently—in his hand. He felt the weight of the gold, and under his fingers he felt the crackle of the banknotes. He would have liked to treat it as prize money, and take his share under prize money rules, but he knew he could not accept that sort of reward from civilians. Still, his crew must show full appreciation.

“Mr. Bush,” he said, as the boat shoved off. “Man the yards. Have the men give three cheers.”

Lord Eastlake and Captain Osborn acknowledged the compliment as they pulled away; Hornblower watched the boat creep back to the Lord Mornington. Four hundred guineas. It was a lot of money, but he was not going to be bought off with four hundred guineas. In that very moment he came to his decision after twenty-four hours of vacillation. He would display to the East India convoy the independence of Captain Hornblower.

“Mr. Rayner,” he said. “Clear away the launch and the long-boat. Have the helm put up and run down to leeward of the convoy. I want those boats in the water by the time we reach them. Mr. Bush. Mr. Gerard. Your attention please.”

Amid the bustle and hurry of wearing the ship, and tailing on at the stay tackles, Hornblower gave his orders briefly. For once in his life Bush ventured to demur when he realised what Hornblower had in mind.

“They’re John Company’s ships, sir,” he said.

“I had myself fancied that such was the case,” said Homblower with elaborate irony. He knew perfectly well the risk he was running in taking men from ships of the East India Company—he would be both offending the most powerful corporation in England and contravening Admiralty orders. But he needed the men, needed them desperately, and the ships from whom he was taking them would sight no land until they reached St. Helena. It would be three or four months before any protest could reach England, and six months before any censure could reach him in the Mediterranean. A crime six months old might not be prosecuted with extreme severity, and perhaps in six months’ time he would be dead.

“Give the boats’ crews pistols and cutlasses,” he said, “just to show that I’ll stand no nonsense. I want twenty men from each of those ships.”

“Twenty!” said Bush, gaping with admiration. This was flouting the law on the grand scale.

“Twenty from each. And mark you, I’ll have only white men. No Lascars. And able seamen every one of them, men who can hand, reef, and steer. And find out who their quarter gunners are and bring them. You can use some trained gunners, Gerard?”

“By God I can, sir.”

“Very good.”

Hornblower turned away. He had reached his decision unaided, and he did not want to discuss it further. The Sutherland had run down to the convoy. First the launch and then the cutter dropped into the water and pulled over to the clustered ships while the Sutherland dropped farther down to leeward to wait their return, hove to with main topsail to the mast. Through his glass Hornblower saw the flash of steel as Gerard with his boarding party ran up on to the deck of the Lord Mornington–hewas displaying his armed force early so as to overawe any thought of resistance. Hornblower was in a fever of anxiety which he had to struggle hard to conceal. He shut his glass with a snap and began to pace the deck.

“Boat pulling towards us from Lord Mornington, sir,” said Rayner, who was as excited as his captain, and far more obviously.

“Very good,” said Hornblower with careful unconcern.

That was a comfort. If Osborn had given Gerard a point blank refusal, had called his men to arms and defied him, it might give rise to a nasty situation. A court of law might call it murder if someone got killed in a scuffle while illegal demands were being enforced. But he had counted on Osborn being taken completely by surprise when the boarding party ran on to his deck. He would be able to offer no real resistance. Now Hornblower’s calculations were proving correct; Osborn was sending a protest, and he was prepared to deal with any number of protests—especially as the rest of the convoy would wait on their Commodore’s example and could be relieved of their men while the protesting was going on.

It was Osborn himself who came in through the entry port, scarlet with rage and offended dignity.

“Captain Hornblower!” he said, as he set foot on the deck. “This is an outrage! I must protest against it, sir. At this very moment your lieutenant is parading my crew with a view to impressment.”

“He is acting by my orders, sir,’ said Hornblower.

“I could hardly believe it when he told me so. Are you aware, sir, that what you propose to do is contrary to the law? It is a flagrant violation of Admiralty regulations. A perfect outrage, sir. The ships of the Honourable East India Company are exempt from impressment, and I, as Commodore, must protest to the last breath of my body against any contravention of the law.”

“I shall be glad to receive your protest when you make it, sir.”

“But—but—” spluttered Osborn. “I have delivered it. I have made my protest, sir.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Hornblower. “I thought these were only remarks preliminary to a protest.”

“Nothing of the sort,” raved Osborn, his portly form almost dancing on the deck. “I have protested, sir, and I shall continue to protest. I shall call the attention of the highest in the land to this outrage. I shall come from the ends of the earth, gladly, sir, to bear witness at your court martial. I shall not rest—I shall leave no stone unturned—I shall exert all my influence to have this crime punished as it deserves. I’ll have you cast in damages, sir, as well as broke.”

“But, Captain Osborn—” began Hornblower, changing his tune just in time to delay the dramatic departure which Osborn was about to make. From the tail of his eye Hornblower had seen the Sutherland’s boats pulling towards two more victims, having presumably stripped the first two of all possible recruits. As Hornblower began to hint at a possible change of mind on his part, Osborn rapidly lost his ill temper.

“If you restore the men, sir, I will gladly retract all I have said,” said Osborn. “Nothing more will be heard of the incident, I assure you.”

“But will you not allow me to ask for volunteers from among your crews, Captain?” pleaded Hornblower. “There may be a few men who would like to join the King’s service.”

“Well—yes, I will even agree to that. As you say, sir, you may find a few restless spirits.”

That was the height of magnanimity on Osborn’s part, although he was safe in assuming that there would be few men in his fleet foolish enough to exchange the comparative comfort of the East India Company’s service for the rigours of life in the Royal Navy.

“Your seamanship in that affair with the privateers, sir, was so admirable that I find it hard to refuse you anything,” said Osborn, pacifically. The Sutherland’s boats were alongside the last of the convoy now.

“That is very good of you, sir,” said Hornblower, bowing. “Allow me, then, to escort you into your gig. I will recall my boats. Since they will have taken volunteers first, we can rely upon it that they will have all the willing ones on board, and I shall return the unwilling ones. Thank you, Captain Osborn. Thank you.”

He saw Captain Osborn over the side and walked back to the quarterdeck. Rayner was eyeing him with amazement on account of his sudden volte-face, which gave him pleasure, for Rayner would be still more amazed soon. The cutter and launch, both of them as full of men as they could be, were running down now to rejoin, passing Osborn’s gig as it was making its slow course to windward. Through his glass Hornblower could see Osborn wave his arm as he sat in his gig; presumably he was shouting something to the boats as they went by. Bush and Gerard very properly paid him no attention. In two minutes they were alongside, and the men came pouring on deck, a hundred and twenty men laden with their small possessions, escorted by thirty of the Sutherland’s hands. They were made welcome by the rest of the crew all with broad grins. It was a peculiarity of the British pressed sailor that he was always glad to see other men pressed—in the same way, thought Hornblower, as the fox who lost his brush wanted all the other foxes to lose theirs.

Bush and Gerard had certainly secured a fine body of men; Hornblower looked them over as they stood in apathy, or bewilderment, or sullen rage, upon the Sutherland’s main deck. At no warning they had been snatched from the comfort of an Indiaman, with regular pay, ample food, and easy discipline, into the hardships of the King’s service, where the pay was problematic, the food bad, and where their backs were liable to be flogged to the bones at a simple order from their new captain. Even a sailor before the mast could look forward with pleasure to his visit to India, with all its possibilities; but these men were destined instead now to two years of monotony only varied by danger, where disease and the cannon balls of the enemy lay in wait for them.

“I’ll have those boats hoisted in, Mr. Rayner,” said Hornblower.

Rayner’s eyelids flickered for a second—he had heard Hornblower’s promise to Captain Osborn, and he knew that more than a hundred of the new arrivals would refuse to volunteer. The boats would only have to be hoisted out again to take them back. But if Hornblower’s wooden expression indicated anything at all, it was that he meant what he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Rayner.

Bush was approaching now, paper in hand, having agreed his figures regarding the recruits with Gerard.

“A hundred and twenty, total, sir, as you ordered,” said Bush. “One cooper’s mate—he was a volunteer, one hundred and nine able seamen—two of ‘em volunteered; six quarter gunners; four landsmen, all volunteers.”

“Excellent, Mr. Bush, Read ‘em in. Mr. Rayner, square away as soon as those boats are inboard. Mr. Vincent! Signal to the convoy. ‘All-men-have-volunteered. Thank you. Good-bye.’ You’ll have to spell out ‘volunteered’ but it’s worth it.”

Hornblower’s high spirits had lured him into saying an unecessary sentence. But when he took himself to task for it he could readily excuse himself. He had a hundred and twenty new hands, nearly all of them able seamen—the Sutherland had nearly her full complement now. More than that, he had guarded himself against the wrath to come. When the inevitable chiding letter arrived from the Admiralty he would be able to write back and say that he had taken the men with the East India Company’s Commodore’s permission; with any good fortune he could keep the ball rolling for another six months. That would give him a year altogether in which to convince the new hands that they had volunteered—by that time some of them at least might be sufficiently enamoured of their new life to swear to that; enough of them to befog the issue, and to afford to an Admiralty, prepared of necessity to look with indulgence on breaches of the pressing regulations, a loophole of excuse not to prosecute him too hard.

“Lord Mornington replying, sir,” said Vincent. “’Do not understand the signal. Await boat’!”

“Signal ‘Good-bye’ again,” said Hornblower.

Down on the maindeck Bush had hardly finished reading through the Articles of War to the new hands—the necessary formality to make them servants of the King, submissive to the hangman and the cat.