Hornblower and the Hotspur

Chapter XIV

Tor Bay was a tossing expanse of white horses. The land lessened the effect of the wind to some extent; the Channel waves were hampered in their entry to Berry Head, but all the same the wind blew violently and the waves racing up the Channel managed to wheel leftwards, much weakened, but now running across the wind, and with the tide to confuse the issue Tor Bay boiled like a cauldron. For forty hours after Hotspur’s arrival the Hibernia, Cornwallis’s big three-decker, flew the signal 715 with a negative beside it, and 715 with a negative meant that boats were not to be employed.

Not even the Brixham fishermen, renowned for their small boat work, could venture out into Tor Bay while it was in that mood, so that until the second morning at anchor the crew of the Hotspur supported an unhappy existence on two quarts of tainted water a day. And Hornblower was the unhappiest man on board, from causes both physical and mental. The little ship almost empty of stores was the plaything of wind and wave and tide; she surged about at her anchors like a restive horse. She swung and she snubbed herself steady with a jerk; she plunged and snubbed herself again. With her topmasts sent down she developed a shallow and rapid roll. It was a mixture of motions that would test the strongest stomach, and Hornblower’s stomach was by no means the strongest, while there was the depressing association in his memory of his very first day in a ship of war, when he had made himself a laughing stock by being seasick in the old Justinian at anchor in Spithead.

He spent those forty hours vomiting his heart out, while to the black depression of sea-sickness was added the depression resulting from the knowledge that Maria was only thirty miles away in Plymouth, and by a good road. Cornwallis’s representations had caused the government to cut that road, over the tail end of Dartmoor, so that the Channel Fleet in its rendezvous could readily be supplied from the great naval base. Half a day on a good horse and Hornblower could be holding Maria in his arms, he could be hearing news first-hand about the progress of the child, on whom (to his surprise) his thoughts were beginning to dwell increasingly. The hands spent their free moments on the forecastle, round the knightheads, gazing at Brixham and Brixham Pier; even in that wind with its deluges of rain there were women to be seen occasionally, women in skirts, at whom the crew stared like so many Tantaluses. After one good night’s sleep, and with pumping only necessary now for half an hour in each watch, those men had time and energy so that their imaginations had free play. They could think about women, and they could think about liquor—most of them dreamed dreams of swilling themselves into swinish unconsciousness on Brixham’s smuggled brandy, while Hornblower could only vomit and fret.

But he slept during the second half of the second night, when the wind not only moderated but backed two points northerly, altering the conditions in Tor Bay like magic, so that after he had assured himself at midnight that the anchors were still holding, his fatigue took charge and he could sleep without moving for seven hours. He was still only half awake when Doughty came bursting in on him.

“Signal from the Flag, sir.”

There were strings of bunting flying from the halliards of the Hibernia; with the shift of wind they could be read easily enough from the quarter-deck of the Hotspur.

“There’s our number there, sir,” said Foreman, glass at eye. “It comes first.”

Cornwallis was giving orders for the victualling and re-watering of the fleet, establishing the order in which the ships were to be replenished, and that signal gave Hotspur priority over all the rest.

“Acknowledge,” ordered Hornblower.

“We’re lucky, sir,” commented Bush.

“Possibly,” agreed Hornblower. No doubt Cornwallis had been informed about Hotspur’s appeal for drinking water, but he might have further plans, too.

“Look at that, sir,” said Bush. “They waste no time.”

Two lighters, each propelled by eight sweeps, and with a six-oared yawl standing by, were creeping out round the end of Brixham Pier.

“I’ll see about the fend-offs, sir,” said Bush, departing hastily.

These were the water lighters, marvels of construction, each of them containing a series of vast cast-iron tanks. Hornblower had heard about them; they were of fifty-tons’ burthen each of them, and each of them carried ten thousand gallons of drinking water, while Hotspur, with every cask and hogshead brim full, could not quite store fifteen thousand.

So now began an orgy of freshwater, clear springwater which had not lain in the cast-iron tanks for more than a few days. With the lighters chafing uneasily alongside, a party from Hotspur went down to work the beautiful modern pumps which the lighters carried, forcing the water up through four superb canvas hoses passed in through the ports and then down below. The deck scuttle butt, so long empty, was swilled out and filled, to be instantly emptied by the crew and filled again; just possibly at that moment the hands would rather have freshwater than brandy.

It was glorious waste; down below the casks were swilled and scrubbed out with freshwater, and the swillings drained into the bilge whence the ship’s pumps would later have to force it overboard at some cost of labour. Every man drank his fill and more; Hornblower gulped down glass after glass until he was full, yet half an hour later found him drinking again. He could feel himself expanding like a desert plant after rain.

“Look at this, sir,” said Bush, telescope in hand and gesturing towards Brixham.

The telescope revealed a busy crowd at work there, and there were cattle visible.

“Slaughtering,” said Bush. “Fresh meat.”

Soon another lighter was creeping out to them; hanging from a frame down the midship line were sides of beef, carcasses of sheep and pigs.

“I won’t mind a roast of mutton, sir,” said Bush.

Bullocks and sheep and swine had been driven over the moors to Brixham, and slaughtered and dressed on the waterfront immediately before shipping so that the meat would last fresh as long as possible.

“Four days’ rations there, sir,” said Bush making a practiced estimate. “An’ there’s a live bullock an’ four sheep an’ four pigs. Excuse me, sir, and I’ll post a guard at the side.”

Most of the hands had money in their pockets and would spend it freely on liquor if they were given the chance, and the men in the victualling barges would sell to them unless the closest supervision were exercised. The water-lighters had finished their task and were casting off. It had been a brief orgy; from the moment that the hoses were taken in ship’s routine would be re-established. One gallon of water per man per day for all purposes from now on.

The place of the watering barges was taken by the dry victualling barge, with bags of biscuit, sacks of dried peas, kegs of butter, cases of cheese, sacks of oatmeal, but conspicuous on top of all this were half a dozen nets full of fresh bread. Two hundred four-pound loaves—Hornblower could taste the crustiness of them in his watering mouth when he merely looked at them. A beneficent government, under the firm guidance of Cornwallis, was sending these luxuries aboard; the hardships of a life at sea were the result of natural circumstances quite as much as of ministerial ineptitude.

There was never a quiet moment all through that day. Here was Bush touching his hat again with a final demand on his attention.

“You’ve given no order about wives, sir.”

“Wives?”

“Wives, sir.”

There was an interrogative lift in Hornblower’s voice as he said the word; there was a flat, complete absence of expression in Bush’s. It was usual in His Majesty’s Ships when they lay in harbour for women to be allowed on board, and one or two of them might well be wives. It was some small compensation for the system that forbade a man to set foot on shore lest he desert; but the women inevitably smuggled liquor on board, and the scenes of debauchery that ensued on the lower-deck were as shameless as in Nero’s court. Disease and indiscipline were the natural result; it took days or weeks to shake the crew down again into an efficient team. Hornblower did not want his fine ship ruined but if Hotspur were to stay long at anchor in Tor Bay he could not deny what was traditionally a reasonable request. He simply could not deny it.

“I’ll give my orders later this morning,” he said.

It was not difficult, some minutes later, to intercept Bush at a moment when a dozen of the hands were within earshot.

“Oh, Mr. Bush!” Hornblower hoped his voice did not sound as stilted and theatrical as he feared. “You’ve plenty of work to be done about the ship.”

“Yes, sir. There’s a good deal of standing rigging I’d like set up again. And there’s running rigging to be re-rove. And there’s the paintwork—”

“Very well, Mr. Bush. When the ship’s complete in all respects we’ll allow the wives on board, but not until then. Not until then, Mr. Bush. And if we have to sail before then it will be the fortune of war.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Next came the letters; word must have reached the post office in Plymouth of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay, and the letters had been sent across overland. Seven letters from Maria; Hornblower tore open the last first, to find that Maria was well and her pregnancy progressing favourably, and then he skimmed through the others to find, as he expected, that she had rejoiced to read her Valiant Hero’s Gazette letter although she was perturbed by the risks run by her Maritime Alexander, and although she was consumed with sorrow because the Needs of the Service had denied from her eyes the light of his Countenance. Hornblower was half-way through writing a reply when a midshipman came escorted to his cabin door with a note…

Hornblower went out on to the quarter-deck.

“Mr. Foreman. Signal ‘Hotspur to Flag. Affirmative’.”

“Just affirmative, sir?”

“You heard me.”

An invitation from the Commander in Chief was as much a royal command as if it had been signed George R.—even if the postcript did not dictate the reply.

Then there was the powder to be put on board, with all the care and precautions that operation demanded; Hotspur had fired away one ton of the five tons of gunpowder that her magazine could hold. The operation was completed when Prowse brought up one of the hands who manned the powder-barge.

“This fellow says he has a message for you, sir.”

This was a swarthy gypsy-faced fellow who met Hornblower’s eye boldly with all the assurance to be expected of a man who carried in his pocket a protection against impressment.

“What is it?”

“Message for you from a lady, sir, and I was to have a shilling for delivering it to you.”

Hornblower looked him over keenly. There was only one lady who could be sending a message.

“Nonsense. That lady promised sixpence. Now didn’t she?”

Hornblower knew that much about Maria despite his brief married life.

“Well, yes, sir.”

“Here’s the shilling. What’s the message?”

“The lady said look for her on Brixham Pier, sir.”

“Very well.”

Hornblower took the glass from its becket and walked forward. Busy though the ship was, there were nevertheless a few idlers round the knightheads who shrank away in panic at the remarkable sight of their captain here. He trained the glass; Brixham Pier, as might be expected, was crowded with people, and he searched for a long time without result, training the glass first on one woman and then on another. Was that Maria? She was the only woman wearing a bonnet and not a shawl. Of course it was Maria; momentarily he had forgotten that this was the end of the seventh month. She stood in the front row of the crowd; as Hornblower watched she raised an arm and fluttered a scarf. She could not see him, or at least she certainly could not recognize him at that distance without a telescope. She must have heard, along with the rest of Plymouth, of the arrival of Hotspur in Tor Bay; presumably she had made her way here via Totnes in the carrier’s cart—a long and tedious journey.

She fluttered her scarf again, in the pathetic hope that he was looking at her. In that part of his mind which never ceased attending to the ship Hornblower became conscious of the pipes of the bos’n’s mate—the pipes had been shrilling one call or another all day long.

“Quarter-boat away-ay-ay!”

Hornblower had never been so conscious of the slavery of the King’s service. Here he was due to leave the ship to dine with the Commander-in-Chief, and the Navy had a tradition of punctuality that he could not flout. And there was Foreman, breathless from his run forward.

“Message from Mr. Bush, sir. The boat’s waiting.”

What was he to do? Ask Bush to write Maria a note and send it by a shore boat? No, he would have to risk being late—Maria could not bear to receive second hand messages at this time of all times. A hurried scribble with the left-handed quill.

He used that initial in all his letters to her; he did not like his first name and he could not bring himself to sign ‘Harry’. Damn it all, here was the half-finished letter, interrupted earlier that day and never completed. He thrust it aside and struggled to apply a wafer to the finished note. Seven months at sea had destroyed every vestige of gum and the wafer would not adhere. Doughty was hovering over him with sword and hat and cloak—Doughty was just as aware of the necessity for punctuality as he was. Hornblower gave the open note to Bush.

“Seal this, if you please, Mr. Bush. And send it by shore boat to Mrs Hornblower on the pier. Yes, she’s on the pier. By a shore boat, Mr. Bush; no one from the ship’s to set foot on land.”

Down the side and into the boat. Hornblower could imagine the explanatory murmur through the crowd on the pier, as Maria would learn from better informed bystanders what was going on.

“That’s the captain going down into the boat.” She would feel a surge of excitement and happiness. The boat shoved off, the conditions of wind and current dictating that her bow was pointing right at the pier; that would be Maria’s moment of highest hope. Then the boat swung round while the hands hauled at the halliards and the balance-lug rose up the mast. Next moment she was flying towards the flagship, flying away from Maria without a word or a sign, and Hornblower felt a great welling of pity and remorse within his breast.

Hewitt responded to the flagship’s hail, turned the boat neatly into the wind, dropped the sail promptly, and with the last vestige of the boat’s way ran her close enough to the starboard main-chains for the bowman to hook on. Hornblower judged his moment and went up the ship’s side. As his head reached the level of the main-deck the pipes began to shrill in welcome. And through that noise Hornblower heard the three sharp double strokes of the ship’s bell. Six bells in the afternoon watch; three o’clock, the time stated in his invitation.

The great stern cabin in the Hibernia was furnished in a more subdued fashion than Pellew had affected in the Tonnant, more Spartan and less lavish, but comfortable enough. Somewhat to Hornblower’s surprise there were no other visitors; present in the cabin were only Cornwallis, and Collins, the sardonic Captain of the Fleet, and the flag lieutenant, whose name Hornblower vaguely heard as one of these new-fangled double barrelled names with a hyphen.

Hornblower was conscious of Cornwallis’s blue eyes fixed upon him, examining him closely in a considering, appraising way that might have unsettled him in other conditions. But he was still a little preoccupied with his thoughts about Maria, on the one hand, while on the other seven months at sea, seven weeks of continuous storms, provided all necessary excuse for his shabby coat and his seaman’s trousers. He could meet Cornwallis’s glance without shyness. Indeed, the effect of Cornwallis’s kindly but unsmiling expression was much modified because his wig was slightly awry; Cornwallis still affected a horsehair bobwig of the sort that was now being relegated by fashion to noblemen’s coachmen, and today it had a rakish cant that dissipated all appearance of dignity.

Yet, wig or no wig, there was something in the air, some restraint, some tension, even though Cornwallis was a perfect host who did the honours of his table with an easy grace. The quality of the atmosphere was such that Hornblower hardly noticed the food that covered the table, and he felt acutely that the polite conversation was guarded and cautious. They discussed the recent weather; Hibernia had been in Tor Bay for several days, having run for shelter just in time to escape the last hurricane.

“How were your stores when you came in, Captain?” asked Collins.

Now here was another sort of atmosphere, something artificial. There was an odd quality about Collins’ tone, accentuated by the formal ‘Captain’, particularly when addressed to a lowly Commander. Then Hornblower identified it. This was a stilted and prepared speech, exactly of the same nature as his recent speech to Bush regarding the admission of women to the ship. He could identity the tone, but he still could not account for it. But he had a commonplace answer, so commonplace that he made it in a commonplace way.

“I still had plenty, sir. Beef and pork for a month at least.”

There was a pause a shade longer than natural, as if the information was being digested, before Cornwallis asked the next question in a single word.

“Water?”

“That was different, sir. I’d never been able to fill my casks completely from the hoys. We were pretty low when we got in. That was why we ran for it.”

“How much did you have?”

“Two days at half-rations, sir. We’d been on half-rations for a week, and two-thirds rations for four weeks before that.”

“Oh,” said Collins, and in that instant the atmosphere changed.

“You left very little margin for error, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis, and now he was smiling, and now Hornblower in his innocence realized what had been going on. He had been suspected of coming in unnecessarily early, of being one of those captains who wearied of combating tempests. Those were the captains Cornwallis was anxious to weed out from the Channel Fleet, and Hornblower had been under consideration for weeding out.

“You should have come in at least four days earlier,” said Cornwallis.

“Well, sir—” Hornblower could have covered himself by quoting the orders of Chambers of the Naiad, but he saw no reason to, and he changed what he was going to say. “It worked out all right in the end.”

“You’ll be sending in your journals, of course, sir?” asked the flag lieutenant.

“Of course,” said Hornblower.

The ship’s log would be documentary proof of his assertions, but the question was a tactless, almost an insulting one, impugning of his veracity, and Cornwallis instantly displayed a hot-tempered impatience at this awkwardness on the part of his flag lieutenant.

“Captain Hornblower can do that all in his own good time,” he said. “Now, wine with you, sir?”

It was extraordinary how pleasant the meeting had become; the change in the atmosphere was as noticeable as the change in the lighting at this moment when the stewards brought in candles. The four of them were laughing and joking when Newton, captain of the ship, came in to make his report and for Hornblower to be presented to him.

“Wind’s steady at west nor’west, sir,” said Newton.

“Thank you, captain.” Cornwallis rolled his blue eyes on Hornblower. “Are you ready for sea?”

“Yes, sir.” There could be no other reply.

“The wind’s bound to come easterly soon,” meditated Cornwallis. “The Downs, Spithead, Plymouth Sound—all of them jammed with ships outward bound and waiting for a fair wind. But one point’s all you need with Hotspur.”

“I could fetch Ushant with two tacks now, sir,” said Hornblower. There was Maria huddled in some lodging in Brixham at this moment, but he had to say it.

“M’m,” said Cornwallis, still in debate with himself. “I’m not comfortable without you watching the Goulet, Hornblower. But I can let you have one more day at anchor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That is if the wind doesn’t back any further.” Cornwallis reached a decision. “Here are your orders. You sail at nightfall tomorrow. But if the wind backs one more point you hoist anchor instantly. That is, with the wind at nor’west by west.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower knew how he liked his own officers to respond to his orders, and he matched his deportment with that mental model. Cornwallis went on, his eye still considering him.

“We took some reasonable claret out of a prize a month ago. I wonder if you would honour me by accepting a dozen, Hornblower?”

“With the greatest of pleasure, sir.”

“I’ll have it put in your boat.”

Cornwallis turned to give the order to his steward, who apparently had something to say in return in a low voice; Hornblower heard Cornwallis reply, “Yes, yes, of course,” before he turned back.

“Perhaps your steward would pass the word for my boat at the same time, sir?” said Hornblower, who was in no doubt that his visit had lasted long enough by Cornwallis’s standards.

It was quite dark when Hornblower went down the side into the boat, to find at his feet the case that held the wine, and by now the wind was almost moderate. The dark surface of Tor Bay was spangled with the lights of ships, and there were the lights of Torquay and of Paignton and Brixham visible as well. Maria was somewhere there, probably uncomfortable, for these little places were probably full of naval officers’ wives.

“Call me the moment the wind comes nor’west by west,” said Hornblower to Bush as soon as he reached the deck.

“Nor’west by west. Aye aye, sir. The hands managed to get liquor on board, sir.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his earrings in exchange.

“I had trouble with some of ‘em, sir, especially after the beer issue.”

Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.

“You dealt with ‘em?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Bush.”

A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it open with a hand-spike.

“The only place to put it, sir,” explained Doughty, apologetically.

That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores, even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient, there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he had removed from the case.

“What’s that?” demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he repeated the question more sharply still.

“It’s just a parcel from the Admiral’s steward, sir.”

“Show me.”

Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled goods.

“It’s only cabin stores, sir.”

“Show me.”

“Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.” Doughty examined the contents while exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what he would find. “This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here’s coffee—only half a pound, by the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And…”

“How the devil did you get these?”

“I wrote a note, sir, to the Admiral’s steward, and sent it by your coxs’n. It isn’t right that you shouldn’t have these things sir. Now I can cook for you properly.”

“Does the Admiral know?”

“I’d be surprised if he did, sir.”

There was an assured superior expression on Doughty’s face as he said this, which suddenly revealed to Hornblower a world of which he had been ignorant until then. There might be Flag Officers and Captains, but under that glittering surface was an unseen circle of stewards, with its own secret rites and passwords, managing the private lives of their officers without reference to them.

“Sir!” This was Bush, entering the cabin with hurried step. “Wind’s nor’west by west, sir. Looks as if it’ll back further still.”

It took a moment for Hornblower to re-orient his thoughts, to switch from stewards and dried herbs to ships; and sailing orders. Then he was himself again, rapping his commands.

“Call all hands. Sway the topmasts up. Get the yards crossed. I want to be under way in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The quiet of the ship was broken by the pipes and the curses of the petty officers, as they drove the hands to work. Heads bemused by beer and brandy cleared themselves with violent exercise and the fresh air of the chilly night breeze. Clumsy fingers clutched hoists and halliards. Men tripped and stumbled in the darkness and were kicked to their feet by petty officers goaded on by the master’s mates goaded on in turn by Bush and Prowse. The vast cumbersome sausages that were the sails were dragged out from where they had been laid away on the booms.

“Ready to set sail, sir,” reported Bush.

“Very well. Send the hands to the capstan. Mr. Foreman, what’s the night signal for ‘Am getting under way’?”

“One moment, sir.” Foreman had not learned the night signal book as thoroughly as he should have done in seven months. “One blue light and one Bengal fire shown together, sir.”

“Very well. Make that ready. Mr. Prowse, a course from the Start to Ushant, if you please.”

That would let the hands know what fate awaited them, if they did not guess already. Maria would know nothing at all until she looked out at Tor Bay tomorrow to find Hotspur’s place empty. And all she had to comfort her was the curt note he had sent before dinner; cold comfort, that. He must not think of Maria, or of the child.

The capstan was clanking as they hove the ship up towards the best bower. They would have to deal with the extra weight of the boat carronade that backed that anchor; the additional labour was the price to be paid for the security of the past days. It was a clumsy, as well as a laborious operation.

“Shall I heave short on the small bower, sir?”

“Yes, if you please, Mr. Bush. And you can get under way as soon as is convenient to you.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Make that signal, Mr. Foreman.”

The quarter-deck was suddenly illuminated, the sinister blue light blending with the equally sinister crimson of the Bengal fire. The last splutterings had hardly died away before the answer came from the flagship, a blue light that winked three times as it was momentarily screened.

“Flagship acknowledges, sir!”

“Very well.”

And this was the end of his stay in harbour, of his visit to England. He had seen the last of Maria for months to come; she would be a mother when he saw her next.

“Sheet home!”

Hotspur was gathering way, turning on her heel with a fair wind to weather Berry Head. Hornblower’s mind played with a score of inconsequential thoughts as he struggled to put aside his overwhelming melancholy. He remembered the brief private conversation that he had witnessed between Cornwallis and the steward. He was quite sure that the latter had been telling his Admiral about the parcel prepared for transmission to Hotspur. Doughty was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. That conclusion called up a weak smile as Hotspur breasted the waters of the Channel, with Berry Head looming up on her starboard beam.