Hornblower and the Hotspur

Chapter III

“Slack water now, sir,” announced Bush. “First of the ebb in ten minutes. And anchor’s hove short, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bush.” There was enough grey light in the sky now to see Bush’s face as something more definite than a blur. At Bush’s shoulder stood Prowse, the acting-master, senior master’s mate with an acting-warrant. He was competing unobtrusively with Bush for Hornblower’s attention. Prowse was charged, by Admiralty instructions, with ‘navigating and conducting the ship from port to port under the direction of the captain’. But there was no reason at all why Hornblower should not give his other officers every opportunity to exercise their skill; on the contrary. And it was possible, even likely, that Prowse, with thirty years of sea duty behind him, would endeavour to take the direction of the ship out of the hands of a young and inexperienced captain.

“Mr. Bush!” said Hornblower. “Get the ship under way, if you please. Set a course to weather the Foreland.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower watched Bush keenly, while doing his best not to appear to be doing so. Bush took a final glance round him, gauging the gentle wind and the likely course of the ebb.

“Stand by there, at the capstan,” he ordered. “Loose the heads’ls. Hands aloft to loose the tops’ls.”

Hornblower could see in a flash that he could place implicit reliance on Bush’s seamanship. He knew he should never have doubted it, but his memories were two years old and might have been blurred by the passage of time. Bush gave his orders in a well-timed sequence. With the anchor broken out Hotspur gathered momentary sternway. With the wheel hard over and the forecastle hands drawing at the headsail sheets she brought her head round. Bush sheeted home and ordered hands to the braces. In the sweetest possible way Hotspur caught the gentle wind, lying over hardly more than a degree or two. In a moment she was under way, slipping forward through the water, rudder balanced against sail-pressure, a living, lovely thing.

There was no need to drop any word of commendation to Bush regarding such a simple operation as getting under way. Hornblower could savour the pleasure of being afloat, as the hands raced to set the topgallant sails and then the courses. Then suddenly he remembered.

“Let me have that glass, please, Mr. Prowse.”

He put the massive telescope to his eye and trained it out over the port quarter. It was still not yet full daylight, and there was the usual hint of haze, and Hotspur had left her anchorage half a mile or more astern. Yet he could just see it; a solitary, lonely speck of grey, on the water’s edge, over there on the Hard. Perhaps—just possibly—there was a flicker of white; Maria might be waving her handkerchief, but he could not be sure. In fact he thought not. There was just the solitary grey speck. Hornblower looked again, and then he made himself lower the telescope; it was heavy, and his hands were trembling a trifle so that the image was blurred. It was the first time in all his life that he had put to sea leaving behind him someone who was interested in his fate.

“Thank you, Mr. Prowse,” he said, harshly, handing back the telescope.

He knew he had to think about something different, that he must quickly find something else to occupy his thoughts; fortunately as captain of a ship just setting sail there was no lack of subjects.

“Now, Mr. Prowse,” he said, glancing at the wake and at the trim of the sails. “The wind’s holding steady at the moment. I want a course for Ushant.”

“Ushant, sir?” Prowse had a long lugubrious face like a mule’s, and he stood there digesting this piece of information without any change of expression.

“You heard what I said,” snapped Hornblower, in sudden irritation.

“Yes, sir,” answered Prowse, hastily. “Ushant, sir. Aye aye, sir.”

There was of course, some excuse for his first reaction. Nobody in the ship save Hornblower knew the content of the orders which were taking Hotspur to sea; nobody knew to what point in the whole world she was destined to sail. The mention of Ushant narrowed down the field to some extent at least. The North Sea and the Baltic were ruled out. So were Ireland and the Irish Sea and the St. Lawrence across the Atlantic. But it still might be the West Indies or the Cape of Good Hope or the Mediterranean; Ushant was a point of departure for all those.

“Mr. Bush!” said Hornblower.

“Sir!”

“You may dismiss the watch below, and send the hands to breakfast when you think proper.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Who’s the officer of the watch?”

“Cargill, sir.”

“He has charge of the deck, then.”

Hornblower looked about him. Everything was in order, and Hotspur was standing out for the Channel. But there was something odd, something different, something unusual. Then it dawned upon him. For the first time in his life he was going to sea in time of peace. He had served ten years as a naval officer without this experience. Always before, whenever his ship emerged from harbour, she was in instant danger additional to the hazards of the sea. In every previous voyage any moment might bring an enemy up over the horizon; at an hour’s notice ship and ship’s company might be fighting for their lives. And the most dangerous time of all was when first putting to sea with a raw crew, with drill and organization incomplete—it was a likely moment to meet an enemy, as well as the most inconvenient one.

Now here they were putting to sea without any of these worries. It was an extraordinary sensation, something new—something new, like leaving Maria behind. He tried to shake that thought from him; as a buoy slithered past the starboard quarter he tried to leave the thought with it. It was a relief to see Prowse approaching again, with a piece of paper in his hand as he glanced up to the commission pendant and then out to the horizon in an attempt to forecast the weather.

“Course is sou’west by west, half west, sir,” he said. “When we tack we may just be able to make that good, close-hauled.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prowse. You may mark it on the board.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Prowse was pleased at this mark of confidence. He naturally had no idea that Hornblower, revolving in his mind, yesterday afternoon, all the responsibilities he would be carrying on the morrow, had made the same calculation to reach the same result. The green hills of the Isle of Wight were momentarily touched by a watery and level sun.

“There’s the buoy, sir,” said Prowse.

“Thank you. Mr. Cargill! Tack the ship, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower withdrew aft. He wanted not merely to observe how Cargill handled the ship, but also how Hotspur behaved. When war should come it was not a mere possibility, but a definite probability, that success or failure, freedom or captivity, might hinge on how Hotspur went about, how handy she was in stays.

Cargill was a man of thirty, red-faced and corpulent in advance of his years; he was obviously trying hard to forget that he was under the simultaneous scrutiny of the captain, the first lieutenant, and the sailing master, as he applied himself to the manoeuvre. He stood beside the wheel looking warily up at the sails and aft at the wake. Hornblower watched Cargill’s right hand, down by his thigh, opening and shutting. That might be a symptom of nervousness or a mere habitual gesture of calculation. The watch on deck were all at their stations. So far the men were all unknown faces to Hornblower; it would be profitable to devote some of his attention to the study of their reactions as well.

Cargill obviously braced himself for action and then gave his preliminary order to the wheel.

“Helm’s alee!” he bellowed, but not a very effective bellow, for his voice cracked half-way.

“Headsail sheets!” That was hardly better. It would not have served in a gale of wind, although it carried forward in present conditions. Jib and fore-topsail began to shiver.

“Raise up tacks and sheets!”

Hotspur was coming round into the wind, rising to an even keel. She was coming round, coming round—now was she going to hang in stays?

“Haul, mains’l! Haul!”

This was the crucial moment. The hands knew their business; the port-side bowlines and braces were cast off smartly, and the hands tailed on to the starboard-side ones. Round came the yards, but the Hotspur refused to answer. She baulked. She hung right in the eye of the wind, and then fell off again two points to port, with every sail ashiver and every yard of way lost. She was in irons, helpless until further action should be taken.

“A fine thing if we were on a lee shore, sir,” growled Bush.

“Wait,” said Hornblower. Cargill was glancing round at him for orders, and that was disappointing. Hornblower would have preferred an officer who went stolidly on to retrieve the situation. “Carry on, Mr. Cargill.”

The hands were behaving well. There was no chatter, and they were standing by for further orders. Cargill was drumming on his right thigh with his fingers, but for his own sake he must find his way out of his troubles unaided. Hornblower saw the fingers clench, saw Cargill glance ahead and astern as he pulled himself together. Hotspur was slowly gathering stern-way as the wind pushed directly back on the sails. Cargill took the plunge, made the effort. A sharp order put the wheel hard-a-port, another order brought the yards ponderously round again. Hotspur hung reluctant for a moment, and then sulkily turned back on the starboard tack and gathered way as Cargill in the nick of time sent the wheel spinning back and took a pull on the braces. There was no lack of sea room, there was no dangerous lee shore to demand instant action, and Cargill could wait until every sail was drawing fully again, and Hotspur had plenty of way on her to enable the rudder to bite. Cargill even had the sense to allow her head to fall off another point so as to give plenty of momentum for his next attempt, although Hornblower noticed with a slight pang of regret that he hurried it a trifle more than he should have done. He should have waited perhaps two more minutes.

“Headsail sheets!” ordered Cargill again; his fingers started drumming on his thigh once more with the strain of waiting.

But Cargill’s head was clear enough to give his orders in the correct sequence. Round came Hotspur into the wind again. Sheets and braces were handled smartly. There was a paralysing moment as she baulked again, hung as though she was determined once more to miss stays, but this time she had a trifle more momentum, and in the last possible second a fortunate combination of wind and wave pushed her bows round through the vital final degrees of swing. Round she came, at last.

“Full and bye!” said Cargill to the helmsman, the relief very evident in his voice. “Fore tack, there! Sheets! Braces!”

With the operation completed he turned to face the criticism of his superiors; there was sweat trickling down his forehead. Hornblower could feel Bush beside him ready to rate him thoroughly; Bush believed sincerely that everyone was the better for a severe dressing-down in any circumstance, and he was usually right. But Hornblower had been watching Hotspur’s behaviour closely.

“Carry on, Mr. Cargill,” he said, and Cargill, relieved turned away again, and Bush met Hornblower’s glance with some slight surprise.

“The ship’s trimmed too much by the head,” said Hornblower. “That makes her unhandy in stays.”

“It might do so,” agreed Bush, doubtfully.

If the bow gripped the water more firmly than the stern Hotspur would act like a weather-vane, persisting in keeping her bow to the wind.

“We’ll have to try it,” said Hornblower. “She’ll never do as she is. We’ll have to trim her so that she draws six inches more aft. At least that. Now, what is there we can shift aft?”

“Well—” began Bush.

In his mind’s eye he called up a picture of the interior of the Hotspur, with every cubic foot crammed with stores. It had been a Herculean feat to prepare her for sea; to find room for everything necessary had called for the utmost ingenuity. It seemed as if no other arrangement could be possible. Yet maybe—

“Perhaps—” went on Bush, and they were instantly deep in a highly technical discussion.

Prowse came up and touched his hat, to report that Hotspur was just able to make good the course for Ushant. Bush could hardly help but prick up his ears at the mention of the name; Prowse could hardly help but be drawn into the discussion regarding the alteration in the trim of the ship. They had to move aside to make room for the hourly casting of the log; the breeze flapped their coats round them. Here they were at sea; the nightmare days and nights of fitting out were over, and so were the—what was the right word? Delirious, perhaps—the delirious days of marriage. This was normal life. Creative life, making a living organism out of Hotspur, working out improvements in material and in personnel.

Bush and Prowse were still discussing possible alteration in the ship’s trim as Hornblower came back into his present world.

“There’s a vacant port right aft on each side,” said Hornblower; a simple solution had presented itself to his mind, as so often happened when his thoughts had strayed to other subjects. “We can bring two of the forward guns aft.”

Prowse and Bush paused while they considered the matter; Hornblower’s rapid mind was already dealing with the mathematics of it. The ship’s nine-pounders weighed twenty-six hundred-weight each. Along with the gun carriages and the ready use shot which would have to be brought aft too there would be a total transfer of four tons. Hornblower’s eye measured the distances, forward and aft of the centre of flotation, from forty feet before to thirty feet abaft. No, the leverage would be a little excessive, even though Hotspur’s dead weight was over four hundred tons.

“Maybe she’d gripe a little, sir,” suggested Prowse, reaching the same conclusions two minutes later.

“Yes. We’ll take the No. 3 guns. That should be exactly right.”

“And leave a gap, sir?” asked Bush in faint protest.

It certainly would, as conspicuous as a missing front tooth. It would break into the two ordered rows of cannon, conveying a make-shift appearance to the ship.

“I’d rather have an ugly ship afloat,” said Hornblower, “than a good-looking one on the rocks of a lee shore.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bush, swallowing this near-heresy.

“As the stores are consumed we can put things to rights again,” added Hornblower soothingly. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to attend to it now?”

“Aye aye, sir.” Bush turned his mind to the practical aspects of the problem of shifting cannon in a moving ship. “I’ll hoist ‘em out of the carriages with the stay tackle and lower them on to a mat—”

“Quite right. I’m sure you can deal with it, Mr. Bush.”

No one in his senses would try to move a gun in its carriage along a heeling deck—it would go surging about out of control in a moment. But out of its carriage, lying helpless on a mat, with its trunnions prohibiting any roll, it could be dragged about comparatively easily, and hoisted up into its carriage again after that had been moved into its new position. Bush had already passed the word for Mr. Wise, the boatswain, to have the stay-tackles rigged.

“The quarter-bill will have to be changed,” said Hornblower incautiously as the thought struck him—the guns’ crews would need to be re-allotted.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush. His sense of discipline was too acute to allow more than a hint of reproach to be apparent in his tone. As first lieutenant it was his business to remember these things without being reminded by his captain. Hornblower made amends as best he could.

“I’ll leave it all in your charge, then, Mr. Bush. Report to me when the guns are moved.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower crossed the quarter-deck to go to his cabin, passing Cargill as he went; Cargill was keeping an eye on the hands rigging the stay-tackles.

“The ship will be more handy in stays when those guns are shifted, Mr. Cargill,” said Hornblower. “Then you’ll have another opportunity to show how you can handle her.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Cargill. He had clearly been brooding over his recent failure.

Hornblower walked along to his cabin; the moving cogs in the complex machine that was a ship always needed lubrication, and it was a captain’s duty to see that it was provided. The sentry at his door came to attention as he passed in. He glanced round at the bare necessities there. His cot swung from the deck-beams; there was a single chair, a mirror on the bulkhead with a canvas basin on a frame below it. On the opposite bulkhead was clamped his desk, with his sea chest beneath it. A strip of canvas hanging from the deck-beams served as a wardrobe to screen the clothes hanging within. That was all; there was no room for anything else, but the fact that the cabin was so tiny was an advantage in one way. There were no guns mounted in it—it was right aft—and there would be no necessity when the ship cleared for action, to sweep all this away.

And this was luxury, this was affluence, this was the most superlative good fortune. Nine days ago—no, ten days, now—he had been a half-pay lieutenant, under stoppage of pay because the Peace of Amiens had resulted in his promotion not being confirmed. He had been doubtful where his next meal would be coming from. A single night had changed all this. He had won forty-five pounds at a sitting of whist from a group of senior officers, one of them a Lord of Admiralty. The King had sent a message to Parliament announcing the government’s decision to set the Navy on a war footing again. And he had been appointed Commander and given the Hotspur to prepare for sea. He could be sure now of his next meal, even though it would be salt beef and biscuit. And—not so much as a coincidence, but rather as a sequel to all this—he had found himself betrothed to Maria and committed to an early marriage.

The fabric of the ship transmitted the sound of one of the nine-pounders being dragged aft; Bush was a fast worker. Bush had been a half-pay lieutenant too, ten days ago, and senior to Hornblower. It was with diffidence that Hornblower had asked him if he would care to serve as first lieutenant—as the only lieutenant allowed on the establishment of a sloop of war—of the Hotspur, under Hornblower’s command. It had been astonishing, and extremely flattering, to see the delight in Bush’s face at the invitation.

“I’d been hoping you’d ask me, sir,” said Bush. “I couldn’t really think you’d want me as a first lieutenant.”

“Nobody I’d like better,” Hornblower had replied.

At this moment he nearly lost his footing as Hotspur heaved up her bows, rolled, and then cocked up her stern in the typical motion of a ship close-hauled. She was out now from the lee of the Wight, meeting the full force of the Channel rollers. Fool that he was! He had almost forgotten about this; on the one or two occasions during the past ten days when the thought of seasickness had occurred to him he had blithely assumed that he had grown out of that weakness in eighteen months on land. He had not thought about it all this morning, being too busy. Now with his first moment of idleness here it came. He had lost his sea-legs—a new roll sent him reeling—and he was going to be sick. He could feel a cold sweat on his skin and the first wave of nausea rising to his throat. There was time for a bitter jest—he had just been congratulating himself on knowing where his next meal was coming from, but now he could be more certain still about where his last meal was going to. Then the sickness struck, horribly.

Now he lay face downward across his cot. He heard the rumble of wheels, and cleared his thoughts sufficiently to make the deduction that, with the guns brought aft, Bush was bringing the gun-carriages aft as well. But he hardly cared. His stomach heaved again and he cared even less. He could think about nothing but his own misery. Now what was that? Someone pounding vigorously on the door, and he realized that the pounding had grown up from an earlier gentle tapping that he had ignored.

“What is it?” he called, croaking.

“Message from the master, sir,” said an unknown voice. “From Mr. Prowse.”

He had to hear what it was. He dragged himself from his cot, and staggered over and dumped himself into his chair, hunching his shoulders over his desk so that his face could not be seen.

“Come in!” he called.

The opening of the door admitted considerably more of the noise that had been more and more insistently making itself heard.

“What is it?” repeated Hornblower, hoping that his attitude indicated deep concentration upon the paper-work of the ship.

“Message from Mr. Prowse, sir,” said a voice that Hornblower could hardly place. “Wind’s freshening an’ hauling forward. Course will have to be altered, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll come.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He certainly would have to come. He stood up, holding on to the desk with one hand while he adjusted his clothes with the other. He braced himself, and then he plunged out on to the quarter-deck. He had forgotten all these things; he had forgotten how fresh the wind blew at sea, how the rigging shrieked in a gust, how the deck heaved under unwary feet. As the stern rose he was hurried forward, struggling vainly to retain his dignity, and just managed to fetch up without disaster against the hammock netting. Prowse came up at once.

“Course is sou’west by south, now, sir,” he said. “I had to let her fall off a couple of points. Wind’s still backing westerly.”

“So I see,” said Hornblower. He looked at sky and sea, making himself think. “How’s the glass?”

“Hardly fallen at all, sir. But it’s going to blow harder before nightfall, sir.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Bush appeared at this moment, touching the hat that was now pulled down hard on to his head.

“The guns are shifted aft, sir. The lashings are bowsed up taut.”

“Thank you.”

Hornblower kept his hands on the hammock netting, and his gaze steadily forward, so that, by not turning either to Bush on one side or to Prowse on the other, the whiteness of his landlubber’s face might not be noticed. He struggled to picture the chart of the Channel that he had studied so carefully yesterday. There was the twenty-league gap between the Casquets and the Start; an incorrect decision now might keep them wind-bound for days inside it.

“We might just weather the Start on this course, sir,” prompted Prowse.

Unexpected nausea suddenly welled up in Hornblower, and he moved restlessly as he fought with it. He did not want Prowse to prompt him, and as he swung about he caught sight of Cargill standing by the wheel. It was still Cargill’s watch—that was one more factor to bring Hornblower to a decision, along with Bush’s report and Prowse’s prompting.

“No,” he said. “We’ll put the ship about.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Prowse, in reluctant agreement.

Hornblower looked towards Cargill, summoning him with a glance; he did not wish to leave the comforting support of the hammock netting.

“Mr. Cargill,” said Hornblower. “Let’s see you tack the ship again, now that we’ve altered her trim.”

“Aye aye, sir,” answered Cargill. That was the only thing the poor devil could say in any case, in reply to a direct order. But he was clearly nervous. He went back to the wheel and took the speaking trumpet from its beckets—the freshening wind made that necessary.

“Hands ‘bout ship!” he called, and the order was instantly underlined by the calls of the bos’n’s mates and the bellowings of Mr. Wise. The hands ran to their stations. Cargill stared round at wind and sea; Hornblower saw him swallow as he nerved himself. Then he gave the order to the wheel; this time it was the fingers of his left hand that drummed upon his thigh, for his right was occupied by the speaking-trumpet. Hotspur rose to an even keel while sheets and braces were being handled. She was turning—she was turning.

“Let go and haul!” yelled Cargill into the speaking-trumpet. Hornblower felt he would have waited three or four more seconds before giving that order, but he knew that he might be wrong; not only was sea-sickness dulling his judgement but, standing as he did, looking aft, he did not have the ‘feel’ of the ship. Events proved that Cargill did, or else was lucky, for Hotspur came on round without hesitation.

“Hard-a-lee!” snapped Cargill to the helmsman, and the wheel spun round in a blur of spokes, catching Hotspur at the moment when she was beginning to fall off. A straining group of men hauled out the fore-tack; others tailed on to the bowlines. Hotspur was on the new tack, having handled as sweetly, apparently, as anyone could ask.

Hornblower walked up to the wheel.

“Does she gripe?” he asked the quartermaster.

The quartermaster eased off the wheel a couple of spokes, squinting up at the leech of the main-topsail, and then brought her up to the wind again.

“Can’t say that she does, sir,” he decided. “Mebbe she does, a trifle. No, sir, I can’t say that she gripes. Just a touch of weather helm’s all she needs now, sir.”

“That’s as it should be,” said Hornblower. Bush and Prowse had not spoken a word, and there was no need even for a glance to underline the situation, but a word to Cargill would not be out of place. “You can go off watch feeling better pleased with yourself now, Mr. Cargill.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said Cargill.

Cargill’s round red face split into a grin. Hotspur rose to a wave, lay over, and Hornblower, taken by surprise, staggered down the deck on to Cargill’s broad chest. Luckily Gargill was a heavyweight and fast of footing; he took the shock without staggering—otherwise he and his captain might have gone reeling across the deck into the scuppers. Hornblower felt a burst of shame. He had no more sea-legs than the merest landlubber; his envy of Cargill and Bush and Prowse, standing firm and swaying easily with the send of the ship, amounted to positive dislike. And his stomach was about to betray him again. His dignity was in peril, and he summoned up all that was left of it, turning to Bush stiff-legged and stiff-necked.

“See that I am called when any alteration of course is necessary, if you please, Mr. Bush,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir.”

The deck was heaving, but he knew it was not heaving as much as his distorted mind told him it was. He forced himself somehow to walk aft to his cabin; twice he had to stop and brace himself, and when Hotspur rose to a wave he was nearly made to run—certainly he had to walk faster than a captain should—past the sentry, and he fetched up against the door with some little violence. It was no comfort—in fact it added to his distress—to see that the sentry had a bucket on the deck beside him. He wrenched open the door, hung suspended for a moment as Hotspur completed her pitch, with her stern in the air, and then crashed down groaning on to his cot, his feet dragging on the deck as the cot swung.