Hornblower and the Crisis

Chapter Nine

Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.

What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the postchaise — he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the churchgoers gathering round the postchaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning — yesterday, hard to believe though that was — and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth — he had last seen Maria — on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there — it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.

He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty — he had completely forgotten until now — the French captain’s blanket in which he had bundled the ship’s papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about — nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain’s head shattered like a cracked walnut.

He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semiconsciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no further than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.

“Who is it?”

“Admiralty messenger.”

Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.

“Captain Hornblower?”

“Yes.”

The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.

The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o’clock AM today, Tuesday.

“What’s the time now?” asked Hornblower.

“Not long past eight, sir.”

“Very well.” Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. “Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?”

“Only those over a mile, sir.” The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.

“Thank you. That will be all.”

There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.

He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha’pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.

“That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,” said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.

“We’ll know more about it in a day or two,” replied Hornblower mildly.

“He caught ‘em and let ‘em go. Nelson wouldn’t ‘a done that.”

“There’s no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.”

“Boney on our doorstep, an’ Villainnoove at sea. That Calder! ‘E ought to be ashamed. I’ve ‘eard about Admiral Byng an’ ‘ow they shot ‘im. That’s what they ought to do with Calder.”

That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen’s Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.

“Let me see a newspaper,” said Hornblower.

“Newspaper, sir? Yes, certainly, sir.”

Here was the Gazette Extraordinary, in the place of honour on the front page, but it hardly merited the lofty title, for it consisted of no more than eight lines, and was only a resumé of the first telegraphic dispatch; the full report from Calder, carried up to London by relays of couriers riding tenmile stages at full speed, would only now be arriving at the Admiralty. It was the editorial comment which was significant, for the Morning Post clearly held the same views as the wherryman and the innkeeper. Calder had been stationed to intercept Villeneuve, and the interception had taken place, thanks to good planning by the Admiralty. But Calder had failed in his particular task, which was to destroy Villeneuve once the Admiralty had brought about the meeting.

Villeneuve had arrived from the West Indies, evading Nelson who had followed him there, and had broken through the barrier England had endeavoured to interpose. Now he had reached Ferrol, where he would be able to land his sick, and renew his fresh water, ready to issue forth again to threaten the Channel. Viewed in this light it could be reckoned as a decided French success; Hornblower had no doubt that Bonaparte would represent it as a resounding victory.

“Yes, sir. What do you think, sir?” asked the innkeeper.

“Look out of your door and tell me if Boney’s marching down the street,” said Hornblower.

It was indicative of the innkeeper’s state of mind that he actually made a move towards the door before realization came to him.

“You are pleased to jest, sir.”

There was really nothing to do except to jest. These discussions of naval strategy and tactics by ignorant civilians reminded Hornblower a little of the arguments of the citizens of Gibbon’s declining Rome regarding the nature of the Trinity. Yet it was popular clamour that had compelled the death sentence on Byng to be carried out. Calder might be in serious danger of his life.

“The worst thing Boney’s done today is to keep me from my breakfast,” said Hornblower.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. This minute, sir.”

It was as the innkeeper bustled away that Hornblower caught sight of another name on the front page of the Morning Post. It was a paragraph about Doctor Claudius, and as Hornblower read he remembered why the name had been vaguely familiar to him when Marsden mentioned it. There had been references to him in earlier newspapers, old copies which he had seen even during the blockade of Brest. Claudius was a clergyman, a genuine Doctor of Divinity, and the centre of the most resounding scandal, both social and financial, in English history. He had entered into London society to gain a bishopric for himself, but, while achieving considerable popularity or notoriety, he had failed in his object. Despairing of preferment he had plunged into crime. He had built up an extensive organization specializing in the forging of bills of exchange. So perfect were his forgeries, and so cunning was his marketing of them, that he had long gone undetected.

The world wide commerce of England was conducted largely by bills of exchange. Claudius had taken advantage of the long intervals necessary between drawing and presentation to insert his forgeries into the stream, and only an error by a confederate had exposed him. Bills drawn in Beyrout and in Madras, so perfect that the very victims found it hard to dishonour them, were still coming in, and the financial world was shaken to its foundations, and, judging by this paragraph, the world of high society which had accepted him was similarly rent. Now Claudius was lodged in Newgate Gaol and his trial was imminent. Was it significant that Marsden had expressed interest in this fellow? Hornblower found it hard to believe it.

At that moment his attention was caught by the sight of his own name in another paragraph. It was headed ‘Plymouth’ and after mentions of the comings and goings of ships came ‘Captain Horatio Hornblower, late of HM Sloop Hotspur, landed this morning from the waterhoy Princess and immediately took post to London’.

It was quite ridiculous that such a triviality should improve the flavour of the gammon and spinach and fried eggs that the innkeeper set before him, but it was indeed the case. It put him in a good humour as he walked towards Whitehall. Marsden must be ready to discuss with him his promotion to Captain and to find a ship for him — the sooner this vital business was settled the better. He had no friends in high places now that Cornwallis had hauled down his flag, and Cornwallis’ recommendation could easily be shelved or even forgotten in order to make room for a favourite.

It was inconceivable in the clear light of day, after a good night’s rest and with a full stomach, that Marsden could have in mind to take any further action on the wild plan to send false orders to Villeneuve. And yet — It was not so inconceivable; nor was it such a wild plan. The forgery would have to be very good, the substitution undetected. As Ferrol was at least ten days by courier from Paris there would be no chance of Villeneuve referring back for confirmation. And because it was inconceivable that the British government should do such a thing its success would be all the more likely if it were attempted.

Here was the Admiralty. This morning he could say with assurance to the doorkeeper “I have an appointment with Mr. Marsden” to the vast envy of a couple of suppliants who were seeking admission, and he could write ‘by appointment’ on the form on which he stated his business, and he was not left more than ten minutes in the waiting room, not more than three minutes after the clock had chimed eleven, before he was summoned into Marsden’s presence. Barrow was there as well and Dorsey too, and the sight of them warned Hornblower that the agenda of the meeting might include the inconceivable.

But it was interesting to find that the First Secretary was human enough to spend a little time on preliminaries before plunging into business.

“I’m sure you’ll be flattered to hear, Captain, that His Lordship holds practically identical opinions regarding Ferrol as you do.”

“I’m very flattered, sir.” Lord Barham was not only First Lord, but he had been Comptroller of the Navy for many years and an Admiral commanding a fleet before that. He must have been responsible for the orders that had placed Calder across Villeneuve’s path.

“His Lordship was both surprised and gratified at Mr. Barrow’s familiarity with local conditions there,” went on Marsden. “Naturally Mr. Barrow did not see fit to tell him he had just finished discussing them with you.”

“Naturally not, sir,” agreed Hornblower. Then he braced himself; to speak called for resolution. “But perhaps in that case His Lordship would give favourable consideration to Admiral Cornwallis’ recommendation of me to post rank?”

Now it was said. But not a flicker of expression was observable on the faces of the two Secretaries.

“There is more urgent business at present,” said Marsden. “We are keeping someone waiting. Dorsey, kindly bring in the parson.”

Dorsey walked across and opened the door, and after a moment a short square figure came waddling in; Hornblower had a glimpse of a uniformed marine outside before the door closed. The newcomer wore a black clerical gown and a clerical wig; but his clerical clothing was at variance with his bristling unshaven cheeks which bore half an inch of black stubble. It called for a second glance to see that his wrists wore handcuffs, and that a chain ran from the handcuffs to his waist.

“This is the Reverend Doctor Claudius,” said Marsden. “Newly arrived from Newgate. His services have been lent to us by the courtesy of the Secretary of State for Home Affairs. Temporarily, at least.”

Claudius looked round at them all with a varying expression which would offer an interesting study in psychology. He had bold black eyes, yet they were cunning and sly. There was fear in his pudgy face, yet there was defiance as well, and, besides, most interesting of all, there was curiosity, irrepressible even in the shadow of death. But Marsden wasted no time.

“Claudius, you’ve been brought here to execute a forgery, if you can.”

The pudgy face showed a sudden flash of understanding, and then instantly settled into an immobility which called forth Hornblower’s admiration.

“Both politeness and convention,” said Claudius, “suggest that you address me as ‘Doctor’. I have not yet been unfrocked, and I am still a Doctor of Divinity.”

“Rubbish, Claudius,” said Marsden.

“I shouldn’t have expected politeness from underlings.”

Claudius’ voice was an unpleasant one, harsh and grating, which might explain the ill success of his quest for a bishopric. But on the other hand Claudius had taken the offensive in this very first exchange — that letter from Bonaparte which Dorsey held recommended an unexpected counterattack vigorously carried out even with an inferior force. But here in the Admiralty the enemy was commanded by a master of tactics.

“Very well, Doctor,” said Marsden. “The dignity of a Doctor of Divinity demands all the respect we can accord it. Mr. Dorsey, hand that document to the Doctor with the compliments of Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and ask the Doctor if as a result of his vast experience he thinks himself capable of making anything similar.”

Claudius took the thing in his manacled hands, and his black eyebrows came together as he studied it.

“Of French origin. That is plain. Apart from the language it is in the standard handwriting in use by French clerks. I had plenty of examples pass through my hands during the late peace.”

“And the signature?”

“An interesting piece of work. Written with a turkey quill, I should say. It would call for at least an hour’s practice before I could reproduce it. Now these seals—”

“I made moulds,” said Dorsey.

“I could see that. But they have been lifted from the paper with reasonable care. I must congratulate you on your acquirement of a difficult art. Now—”

Claudius looked up from the paper and swept his audience with a searching glance.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have much more to say on this subject. But before I do so I need some assurance that my services will not go without recompense.”

“You are having that already,” said Marsden. “Your trial has been postponed for a week.”

“A week? I used to preach sermons on how speedily time passes from Sunday to Sunday. No, gentlemen. I need my life. I have a mortal objection to hanging, and that is not spoken in jest.”

The situation was tense with drama. Hornblower looked round at the four faces — Marsden displaying the faintest possible hint of cynical amusement, Barrow a little taken aback, Dorsey displaying the proper indifference of a subordinate, and Claudius looking warily from one to another, like a condemned criminal in the Roman arena watching the lions close in on him. Barrow spoke first, addressing Marsden.

“I’ll call in the guard, sir, shall I? We don’t need him.”

There was yet no slackening in the tension.

“Call in the guard!” said Claudius; there was a clank of iron as he waved his manacled hands. “Take me away, and hang me tomorrow! Tomorrow? A week hence? If it is coming, the sooner the better. You gentlemen may never know the truth of that statement. I still have charity enough to hope that you never will. But true it is. Hang me tomorrow.”

Hornblower found it hard to decide whether Claudius was gambling or not, staking a week of life which might well be dear to him against the possibility of pardon. But in either case he could not help feeling a guilty twinge of admiration for the ugly little man, alone and helpless, fighting his last battle and refusing to lapse into a mere plea for mercy — especially when that, addressed to Marsden, would have been the least effective plea of all. Then Marsden spoke.

“You will not hang,” he said.

Ever since Claudius had been brought in the sky had been darkening. After a few days of sunny summer weather the inevitable thunderstorm of the Thames valley was building up and there was a low rumble of thunder following Marsden’s words. Hornblower was reminded of the thunder in the Iliad which confirmed the oath taken by Zeus.

Claudius darted a piercing glance at Marsden.

“Then we are agreed and I shall give you all the benefit of my experience,” he said.

Hornblower felt another spurt of admiration; the little man had been content with the four simple words spoken by Marsden — he had not gone through any ceremony of exacting a formal promise; as a gentleman he had instantly accepted a gentleman’s word. He may even have been encouraged by the peal of confirmatory thunder.

“Very well,” said Marsden, and Claudius plunged into his subject. Only a slight gulping and hesitation as he began betrayed the agonizing strain he had been through.

“It is necessary first,” he said, “to point out that ambition may outreach itself. It is quite impossible to forge a long document in the handwriting of another and to achieve deception. I take it you have in mind a letter and not a mere few words? Then it would be better to make no attempt at exact reproduction. On the other hand carelessness would easily be fatal. This script, as I said, is the standard script used by French clerks — I fancy it is the one which used to be taught in Jesuit schools. There are French refugees in plenty. Have one of those write your letter.”

“That’s very true, sir,” said Dorsey to Marsden.

“And again,” went on Claudius, “have your French composed by a Frenchman. You gentlemen may pride yourselves on writing good French, grammatical French, but a Frenchman reading it would know it was not written by a Frenchman. I’ll go further than that, gentlemen. Give a Frenchman a passage in English and tell him to render it into French and a Frenchman will still be aware that all is not well when he reads it. You must have your French composed ab initio by Frenchmen, contenting yourselves with merely outlining what is to be said.”

Hornblower caught Marsden nodding agreement. It was apparent that he was impressed, however little he wished to appear so.

“Now, gentlemen,” went on Claudius. “With regard to details of a lower degree of sensibility. I take it you have in mind to send your forged letter to a naval, or possibly a military, man? In that case the task can be approached with more confidence. Business men, soulless bankers, hard headed merchants, with something more important to lose than other men’s lives, are likely to scrutinize documents more closely. But on the staff of a general there may always be some interfering underling wishing to call attention to himself. It is necessary to be quite perfect. This signature I am confident I can reproduce in perfection. This ink — I believe it can be matched in Chancery Lane; it will be necessary to make complete tests. This printed heading — you will need to have type specially cast in exact imitation. You will have less trouble in that respect than I encountered.”

“Yes,” said Marsden, actually betrayed into speech.

“But the paper—” went on Claudius, feeling its texture carefully with stubby but apparently sensitive fingers. “I will have to instruct you where to search for that, too. Would you be so kind, sir, as to hold the sheet up between my eyes and the light? This chain restricts my movements to an inconvenient degree. Thank you, sir. Yes, as I thought. I know that quality of linen, but there is a fortunate absence of watermark. It may not be necessary to have paper made de novo to match it. You may not appreciate the necessity for uniformity, gentlemen, unless you make use of your imagination. A single document may well be accepted, but you must think of a series. After receiving, let us say, six genuine documents, someone receives one spurious one. The recipent naturally lays them together in the course of the routine of his office. If one is markedly different from all the others — even if one is different in only a small degree — attention is clamorously called to it. Hinc illae lachrymae. And if that one has a content somewhat unusual — even though in other circumstances it might have passed — then the fat is in the fire, and Bow Street is called in. Et ego in arcadia vixi, gentlemen.”

“Most illuminating,” said Marsden, and Hornblower knew enough about him now to realize that this was the equivalent of a long speech in praise.

“Now I come to ‘lastly’ in my present sermon, gentlemen,” said Claudius as the lightning flashed again and the thunder rolled. “Even in the pulpit I could feel the relief in my congregation at that word ‘lastly’, so I will be brief. The method of delivery must conform to the method of all the other deliveries. Once again, the greatest care is necessary in allowing nothing to call particular attention to this one item out of all the others.”

Claudius when he had entered the room had been of a sickly pallor under the bristling beard, and he was whiter still when he finished his lecture.

“Perhaps, gentlemen, you would permit me to sit down?” he said. “I have not now the strength of which I used once to boast.”

“Take him out, Dorsey,” snapped Marsden. “Give him a glass of wine. I dare say he’s hungry, too.”

It may have been at the thought of food that Claudius recovered something of his unabashed selfassertion.

“A beefsteak, gentlemen?” he said. “Might I hope for a beefsteak? For the past week empty dreams of a beefsteak have further embittered my nightmares of the rope.”

“See that he has a beefsteak, Dorsey,” said Marsden.

Claudius turned back, still wavering a little, but with something of a smile just visible on his bristly lips.

“In that case, gentlemen, you can count on my heartiest exertions for my King, my Country, and my Self.”

With the departure of Dorsey and Claudius, Marsden turned to face Hornblower again. The room was almost dark, at high noon, with the black thunder clouds overhead. A sudden lightning flash filled the room instantly followed by a clap of thunder, like a vast cannon shot, coming without warning and ending without reverberation.

“His Lordship,” said Marsden in complete disregard of it, “has already approved in principle of the attempt being made. I consulted him this morning. Mr. Barrow, I am sure, has in mind the French émigrés to attend to the composition and writing of the dispatch.”

“I have, Mr. Marsden,” said Barrow.

“It will be necessary to recapture the style, of course, sir,” said Hornblower.

“Undoubtedly, Captain,” agreed Barrow.

“And the orders must be such that there is nothing patently impossible about them, too.”

Marsden intervened.

“Did your grandmother never learn to suck eggs, Captain?” he asked, in the same unvarying tone. It was a deft reminder that the Secretaries had had years of experience in the writing of orders, and Hornblower had the sense to smile.

“I had forgotten how much practice she has had,” he said. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I was only anxious about the success of the plan.”

Now the thunderstorm had burst. A breath of cooler air came stealing into the room, bearing with it the sound of torrential rain roaring down outside. Through the windows there was nothing to be seen but the rain.

“Mr. Barrow and Dorsey and Claudius can be trusted to deal with the details. The next point to consider is the landing.”

“That should be the simplest part of the whole operation, sir.”

The Spanish Biscay coast extended for almost three hundred miles from the French frontier to Ferrol, sparsely populated and rugged. There were inlets innumerable. The Royal Navy, omnipresent at sea, could be relied upon to put a small party on shore undetected.

“I am delighted that you think so, Captain,” said Marsden.

There was a dramatic pause — a melodramatic pause. Hornblower looked from Marsden to Barrow and back again, and experienced an internal upheaval as he observed the glances they exchanged.

“What have you in mind, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Is it not quite obvious, Captain, that you are the man best fitted to undertake this mission?”

That was what Marsden said, in that same tone. Barrow spoke in his support.

“You are acquainted with Ferrol, Captain. You have had some experience of Spain. You speak a little Spanish. You should have command.”

That gave the cue for Marsden again.

“You have no other command at present, Captain.”

The significance of this particular remark was too obvious.

“Really, gentlemen—” said Hornblower. For once he could not think quickly enough to word his protests.

“It is not a duty you could be ordered to perform,” went on Marsden. “That is quite clear. It would be a purely voluntary mission.”

To enter a hostile country in disguise would be to risk a shameful death. The gallows, the rope — but in Spain it would be the iron collar of the garotte. Strangulation. Convulsions, contortions, preceding death. No fighting service could ever order its officers to take that risk.

“This Spaniard, Miranda, can be trusted, I am sure,” said Barrow. “And if a Frenchman is needed as well — your opinion on that point would be valuable, Captain — there are at least three who have already done important work for us.”

It was inconceivable that these two Secretaries, men of marble, could ever abase themselves to plead, but it seemed as if they were as close to doing so as ever in their lives. The Navy could order a man to climb the highest, steepest side of a ship of the line in face of well aimed musketry; it took it for granted that a man would face unflinching broadside after broadside of grape; it could send him aloft on the darkest and stormiest night to save a few yards of canvas; and it could hang him or shoot him or flog him to death should he hesitate. But it could not order him to risk the garotte, not even with the nation’s existence trembling in the balance.

Now this — this recollection of England’s desperate need — was something overwhelming, something that overshadowed every other consideration. In the calm atmosphere of this very room he had estimated the vital need for a victory at sea, and had balanced against it the trifling cost of his suggested attempt. That cost might be his own life, as it now appeared. And — and — who could he trust to keep a clear head, who could he trust to plan and to extemporize in an emergency? And already, unsought, there were forming in his mind improvements, refinements, in the rough plan which demanded his own personal action. He would have to agree; and in a moment of illumination he felt that he would never be happy again if he were to refuse. He must say yes.

“Captain,” said Marsden. “We have not forgotten Admiral Cornwallis’ recommendation that you should be made post.”

The speech was so utterly disassociated from Hornblower’s present train of thought, so unrelated to what he had been about to say, that he could not possibly say it. Barrow glanced over at Marsden and then made his contribution.

“There would be no need to find you a ship, Captain,” he said. “You could be given a command in the Sea Fencibles which would confer post rank. Then you could be transferred for special service.”

Indeed this was something alien intruding into the conversation. This was what Hornblower had given more than a passing thought to on his way here. Promotion to captain’s rank; he would be ‘made post’, placed on the list of captains. He would cease to be a mere commander perennially irked by the conventional form of address of ‘Captain’. He would be a real captain, he would have achieved the ambition of every naval officer down to the lowest King’s Letterboy in the service; once on the list only a court martial or death could stop his eventually becoming an admiral. And he had quite forgotten about promotion; he had forgotten his decision to press for it. It was not so surprising that he had forgotten about the Sea Fencibles, who constituted a volunteer reserve navy formed of wherrymen and bargees and fishermen who could be called into active service should an actual attempt at invasion occur. England was divided into districts for the organization and elementary training of these men, and each district was a Captain’s command — a Post Captain’s command.

“Well, Captain?” asked Marsden.

“I’ll do it,” said Hornblower.

He saw glances interchanged again; he could see relief, or perhaps satisfaction, or perhaps selfcongratulation in those glances. They were pleased that their bribe had been effective, and he was about to burst out in an indignant denial that the offer had had any weight with him. Then he shut his mouth again, remembering the philosopher who said that he had often regretted having spoken but had never regretted remaining silent. A few seconds of silence — utterly fortuitous — had won him promotion to post rank; a few seconds of speech might imperil it. And he knew, too, that these two cynical men would not believe any such protestations for a moment. His apparent bargaining may even have won their respect; certainly they would deem a denial to be hypocritical and worthy of contempt.

“Then I had better arrange for you to make Miranda’s acquaintance, Captain,” said Marsden. “And I should be obliged if you would consider and elaborate a detailed plan for me to submit to His Lordship.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Orally, if you please. Nothing may be committed to paper regarding this plan, Captain. Except possibly you final report after achieving success.”

“I understand, sir.”

Was there the slightest hint of softening in Marsden’s expression? That last sentence of his was undoubtedly meant as a joke; it was something entirely out of the ordinary. Hornblower had a sudden insight; the Secretary, in addition to all his routine work, carried a responsibility which must occasion him considerable anxiety. He had necessarily to deal (because transient First Lords and Sea Lords could not maintain the needed continuity) with all matters of this sort, the gathering of information, the dissemination on occasions of false information — with spying, in fact, to use a single and ugly word. Hornblower could see already now how difficult it must be to find reliable agents, men who could be trusted not to play a double role. Marsden was experiencing relief at this moment, to such an extent as actually to show it.

“I will make the arrangements for your posting to be gazetted, Captain.” This was Barrow, attending to details. “You will read yourself in before the end of the week.”

“Very well, sir.”

When Hornblower reached the street the rain was only falling softly although with every appearance of doing so for a long time. He had no cloak, no tarpaulin, but he went out into the rain quite gladly. He felt he must walk and walk and walk. The rain on his face was pleasant, and he told himself that the soft rainwater would dissolve out the clammy seasalt with which all his clothes were impregnated. The thought only distracted him for a moment from the others that were writhing in his brain like eels in a sack. He was about to become a captain at last, and he was about to become a spy.

C. S. Forester died before be could finish HORNBLOWER AND THE CRISIS, but from the notes that he left behind it is possible to see how the story would have ended.

Hornblower goes through a period of training in preparation for his spy mission. He brushes up his Spanish with a ruddy complexioned Count Miranda whom he is to accompany to Spain in the disguise of the Count’s servant. ‘He would have to watch every word and gesture, his life depended on doing nothing that would betray them.’ Then Hornblower goes through a crisis of conscience about becoming a spy.

As he is rowed towards the ship that will take him from Spithead to Spain Hornblower thinks: One stage farther along a hateful voyage. Each stroke of the boatman’s oars was carrying him nearer to a time of frightful strain; to something close to a certainty of a shameful and hideous death. .

He wonders whether to turn back, but sense of duty prevails.

Forged letters are delivered to Villeneuve which prompts the Frenchman to come out and fight. This is what Nelson wants.

It leads to the victory at Trafalgar. The course of history is changed.