Lord Hornblower

Chapter IX

The tricolour was still flying over the citadel—the fortress of Ste. Adresse—of Le Havre; Hornblower could see it through his glass as he stood on the deck of the Flame, which was creeping along under easy sail, just out of range of the shore batteries. He had decided, inevitably, to assist Lebrun in his scheme. He was telling himself again, at that very moment, and for the thousandth time, that there was much to gain whatever the result, and little enough to lose. Only Lebrun’s life, and perhaps Hornblower’s reputation. Heaven only knew what Whitehall and Downing Street would say when they heard of what he had been doing. No one had decided yet what to do about the government of France when Bonaparte should fall; certainly there was no unanimity of opinion regarding the restoration of the Bourbons. The Government could refuse to honour the promises he had made regarding import licences; they could come out with a bold announcement that they had no intention of recognising Louis XVIII’s pretensions; they could rap him over the knuckles very sharply indeed for most of his actions since recapture of the Flame.

He had used his powers to pardon forty mutineers, all the seamen and boys, in fact, that were in the crew of the latter vessel. He could plead sheer necessity as a defence for that decision; to keep the mutineers as well as the prisoners under guard, and to provide prize crews for the two prizes, would have called for the services of every man at his disposal. He would hardly have had enough to handle the vessels, and certainly he could have attempted nothing further. As it was, he had relieved himself of all these difficulties by a few simple decisions. Every Frenchman had been sent on shore in the Bonne Celestine under flag of truce, with Lebrun ostensibly to arrange for their exchange; the Indiaman had been manned by a minimum crew and sent with despatches to Pellew and the Mid-Channel Squadron, and he had been able to retain the two brigs, each at least sufficiently manned, under his own command. That had been a convenient way of getting rid of Chadwick, too—he had been entrusted with the despatches and the command of the Indiaman. Chadwick had been pale, as a result of two weeks’ confinement in the Black Hole, and two weeks’ imminent danger of hanging. There had been no evident pleasure in his red-rimmed eyes when he realised that his rescuer had been young Hornblower, once his junior in the gunroom of the Indefatigable and now his immeasurable superior. Chadwick had snarled a little on receiving his orders—only a little. He had weighed the despatches in his hand, presumably wondering what was said in them about himself, but discretion or long habit had their way, and he said, “Aye aye, sir,” and turned away.

By now those despatches should have passed through Pellew’s hands, and, their contents noted, might even be on their way to Whitehall. The wind had been fair for the Indiaman to have fetched the Mid-Channel Squadron off the Start—fair, too, for the reinforcements Hornblower had asked for to make their way to him. Pellew would send them, he knew. It was fifteen years since they had last met; nearly twenty years since Pellew had promoted him to a lieutenancy in the Indefatigable. Now Pellew was an admiral and a commander-in-chief, and he was commodore, but Pellew would be the loyal friend and the helpful colleague he had always been.

Hornblower glanced out to seaward, where, dim on the horizon, the Porta Coeli patrolled in the mist. She would halt the reinforcements before they could be sighted from the shore, for there was no reason why the authorities in Le Havre should be given the least chance to think that anything unusual portended, although it was not a vital matter. England had always flaunted her naval might in sight of the enemy, making the hostile coast her sea frontier—the Flame, here, wearing the White Ensign under the noses of the citizens of Le Havre, was no unusual sight to them. That was why he did not hesitate to stay here, with the tricolour on the citadel within range of his telescope.

“Keep a sharp lookout for any signal from the Porta Coeli,” he said sharply to the midshipman of the watch.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Porta Coeli, the Gate of Heaven; the Silly Porter was what the men called her. Hornblower had a vague memory of reading about the action which resulted in the strange name appearing in the Navy List. The first Porta Coeli had been a Spanish privateer—half pirate, probably—captured off Havannah. She had put up so fierce a resistance that the action had been commemorated by naming an English ship after her. The Tonnant, the Temeraire, most of the foreign names in the Navy List came there as a result of similar actions—if the war were to go on long enough there would be more ships in the Navy with foreign names than with English ones, and among the rival navies the converse might eventually become true. The French Navy boasted a Swiftsure; maybe the Americans would have a Macedonian on their Navy List in future years. He had not heard yet of a French Sutherland; Hornblower felt a sudden twinge of strange regret. He snapped his telescope shut and turned abruptly on his heel, walking fast as though to shake off the memories that assailed him. He did not like to think about surrendering the Sutherland, even though the court martial had so honourably acquitted him; and, strangely enough, the passage of time made his feelings of shame about the incident more acute instead of less. And his regrets about the Sutherland brought with them, inevitably, memories of Maria, now nearly three years in her grave. Memories of poverty and despair, of pinchbeck shoebuckles; of the pity and sympathy he had felt for Maria—a poor substitute for love, and yet the memory of it hurt intensely. The past was coming to life again in his mind, a resurrection as horrible as any other resurrection would be. He remembered Maria, snoring softly in her sleep beside him, and he remembered the sour smell of her hair; Maria, tactless and stupid, of whom he had been fond as one is fond of a child, although not nearly as fond as he was now of Richard. He was almost shaking with the memory when it abruptly faded out and was replaced by the memory of Marie de Graçay—why the devil was he thinking about her? The unreserved love that she gave him, her warmth and tenderness, the quickness of perception with which she understood his moods; it was insane that he should find himself hungering at this day for Marie de Graçay, and yet he was, even though it was hardly a week since he had left the arms of a loyal and understanding wife. He tried to think about Barbara, and yet the mental images he conjured up were instantly thrust again into the background by pictures of Marie. It would be better even to think about surrendering the Sutherland. Hornblower walked the deck of the Flame with ghosts at his side in the chill, bleak winter day. Men saw his face and shrank from crossing his path with greater care even than usual. Yet most of them thought Hornblower was only planning some further deviltry against the French.

It was late afternoon before the expected interruption came.

“Signal from Porta Coeli, sir! Eighteen—fifty-one—ten. That’s friendly ships in sight, bearing nor’west.”

“Very good. Ask their numbers.”

This must be the reinforcements sent by Pellew. The signal hands bent on the flags and hauled away at the halliards; it was several minutes before the midshipman noted the reply and translated it by reference to the list.

“Nonsuch, 74, Captain Bush, sir.”

“Bush, by God!”

The exclamation leaped uncontrolled from Hornblower’s lips; the devils that surrounded him were chased away as though by holy water at the thought of his old staunch matter-of-fact friend being only just over the horizon. Of course Pellew would send Bush if he were available, knowing the friendship that had so long existed between him and Hornblower.

“Camilla, 36, Captain Howard, sir.”

He knew nothing about Howard whatever. He looked at the list—a captain of less than two years’ seniority. Presumably Pellew had selected him as junior to Bush.

“Very good. Reply—’Commodore to—’”

“Porta’s still signalling, begging your pardon, sir. ‘Nonsuch to Commodore. Have—on board—three hundred—marines—above—complement’.”

Good for Pellew. He had stripped his squadron to give Hornblower a landing force that could make itself felt. Three hundred marines, and the Nonsuch’s detachment as well, and a body of seamen. He could march five hundred men into Le Havre should the opportunity arise.

“Very good. Make ‘Commodore to Nonsuch and Camilla. Delighted to have you under my command’.”

Hornblower looked again over at Le Havre. He looked up at the sky, he gauged the strength of the wind, remembered the state of the tide, calculated the approach of night. Over there Lebrun must be bringing his plans to fruition, tonight if at all. He must be ready to strike his blow.

“Make ‘Commodore to all vessels. Join me here after dark. Night signal two lanterns horizontally at fore yard-arms’.”

“—fore yardarms. Aye aye, sir,” echoed the midshipman, scribbling on his slate.

It was good to see Bush again, to shake his hand in welcome as he hoisted himself in the darkness onto the Flame’s deck. It was good to sit in the stuffy little cabin with Bush and Howard and Freeman as he told them about his plans for the morrow. It was wonderful to be planning action after that day of horrible introspection. Bush looked at him closely with his deep-set eyes.

“You’ve been busy, sir, since you came to sea again.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower.

The last few days and nights had been a turmoil; even after the recapture of the Flame the business of reorganisation, the sessions with Lebrun, the writing of the despatches had all been exhausting.

“Too busy, if you’ll pardon me, sir,” went on Bush. “It was too soon for you to resume duty.”

“Nonsense,” protested Hornblower. “I had almost a year’s leave.”

“Sick leave, sir. After typhus. And since then—”

“Since then,” interjected Howard, a handsome, dark, young-looking man, “a cutting-out action. A battle. Three prizes taken. Two vessels sunk. An invasion planned. A midnight council of war.”

Hornblower felt suddenly irritated.

“Are you gentlemen trying to tell me,” he demanded, glowering round at them, “that I’m unfit for service?”

They quailed before his anger.

“No, sir,” said Bush.

“Then be so good as to keep your opinions to yourselves.”

It was hard luck on Bush, who, after all, was only making a kindly inquiry about his friend’s health. Hornblower knew it, and be knew how desperately unfair it was to make Bush pay for the miseries Hornblower had suffered that day. Yet he could not resist the temptation for the moment. He swept his glance round them again, forcing them to drop their gaze to the deck, and he had no sooner done it, no sooner obtained for himself this pitiful bit of self-gratification, than he regretted it and sought to make amends.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I spoke in haste. We must all have the most complete confidence in each other when we go into action tomorrow. Will you forgive me?”

They mumbled back at him, Bush profoundly embarrassed at receiving an apology from a man who, in his opinion, was free to say what he liked to anyone.

“You all understand what I want done tomorrow—if tomorrow is the day?” Hornblower went on.

They nodded, turning their eyes to the chart spread out in front of them.

“No questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I know this is only the sketchiest plan. There will be contingencies, emergencies. No one can possibly foresee what will happen. But of one thing I am certain, and that is that the ships of this squadron will be commanded in a way that will bring credit to the service. Captain Bush and Mr. Freeman have acted with bravery and decision under my own eyes too often, and I know Captain Howard too well by reputation for me to have any doubt about that. When we attack Havre, gentlemen, we shall be turning a page, we shall be writing the end of a chapter in the history of tyranny.”

They were pleased with what he said, and they could have no doubt regarding his sincerity, because he spoke from his heart. They smiled as he met their eyes. Maria, when she was alive, had sometimes made use of a strange expression about polite phrases uttered in order to get the recipient into a good humour. She referred to them as ‘a little bit of sugar for the bird’. That was what this final speech of his had been, a little bit of sugar for the bird—and yet he had meant every word of it. No, not quite—he was still almost ignorant of Howard’s achievements. To that extent the speech was formal. But it had served its purpose.

“Then we have finished with business, gentlemen. What can I offer you by way of entertainment? Captain Bush can remember games of whist played on the nights before going into action. But he is by no means an enthusiastic whist player.”

That was understating the case—Bush was the most reluctant whist player in the world, and he grinned sheepishly in acknowledgment of Hornblower’s gentle gibe; but it was pathetic to see him pleased at Hornblower’s remembering this about him.

“You should have a night’s rest, sir,” he said, speaking, as the senior, for the other two, who looked to him for guidance.

“I should get back to my ship, sir,” echoed Howard.

“So should I, sir,” said Freeman.

“I don’t want to see you go,” protested Hornblower.

Freeman caught sight of the playing-cards on the shelf against the bulkhead.

“I’ll tell your fortunes before we leave,” he volunteered. “Perhaps I can remember what my gipsy grandmother taught me, sir.”

So there really was gipsy blood in Freeman’s veins; Hornblower had often wondered about it, noticing his swarthy skin and dark eyes. Hornblower was a little surprised at the carelessness with which Freeman admitted it.

“Tell Sir Horatio’s,” said Bush.

Freeman was shuffling the pack with expert fingers; he laid it on the table, and took Hornblower’s hand and placed it on the pack.

“Cut three times, sir.”

Hornblower went through the mumbo-jumbo tolerantly, cutting and cutting again as Freeman shuffled. Finally Freeman caught up the pack and began to deal it face upward on the table.

“On this side is the past,” he announced, scanning the complicated pattern, “on that side is the future. Here in the past there is much to read. I see money, gold. I see danger. Danger, danger, danger. I see prison—prison twice, sir. I see a dark woman. And a fair woman. You have journeyed over sea.”

He poured out his patter professionally enough, reeling it off without stopping to take breath. He made a neat résumé of Hornblower’s career, and Hornblower listened with some amusement and a good deal of admiration for Freeman’s glibness. What Freeman was saying could be said by anyone with an ordinary knowledge of Hornblower’s past. Hornblower’s eyebrows came together in momentary irritation at the brief allusion to the dead Maria, but he smiled again when Freeman passed rapidly on, telling of Hornblower’s experiences in the Baltic, translating the phrases of ordinary speech into the gipsy clichés with a deftness that could not but amuse.

“And there’s an illness, sir,” he concluded, “a very serious illness, ending only a short time back.”

“Amazing!” said Hornblower, in mock admiration. The glow of anticipated action always brought out his best qualities; he was cordial and human towards this junior officer in a way that would be impossible to him at any other time.

“Amazing’s the word, sir,” said Bush.

Hornblower was astonished to see that Bush was actually impressed; the fact that he was taken in by Freeman’s adroit use of his knowledge of the past would go far towards explaining the success of the charlatans of this world.

“What about the future, Freeman?” asked Howard. It was a relief to see that Howard was only tolerantly interested.

“The future,” said Freeman, drumming with his fingers on the table as he turned to the other half of the arrangement. “The future is always more mysterious. I see a crown. A golden crown.”

He rearranged the pattern.

“A crown it is, sir, try it any way you will.”

“Horatio the First, King of the Cannibal Isles,” laughed Hornblower. The clearest proof of his present mellowness was this joke about his name—a sore subject usually with him.

“And here there is more danger. Danger and a fair woman. The two go together. Danger because of a fair woman—danger with a fair woman. There’s all kinds of danger here, sir. I’d advise you to beware of fair women.”

“No need to read cards to give that advice,” said Hornblower.

“Sometimes the cards speak truth,” replied Freeman, looking up at him with a peculiar intensity in his glittering eyes.

“A crown, a fair woman, danger,” repeated Hornblower. “What else?”

“That’s all that I can read, sir,” said Freeman, sweeping the cards together.

Howard was looking at the big silver watch that he pulled from his pocket.

“If Freeman could have told us whether or no we will see a white flag over the citadel tomorrow,” he said, “it might help us to decide to prolong this pleasant evening. As it is, sir, I have my orders to give.”

Hornblower was genuinely sorry to see them go. He stood on the deck of the Flame and watched their gigs creep away in the black winter night, while the pipe of the bo’sun’s mate was calling the hands for the middle watch. It was piercing cold, especially after the warm stuffiness of the cabin, and he felt suddenly even more lonely than usual, maybe as a result. Here in the Flame he had only two watch-keeping officers, borrowed from the Porta Coeli; tomorrow he would borrow another from the Nonsuch or the Camilla. Tomorrow? That was today. And today perhaps Lebrun’s attempt to gain control of Le Havre might be successful. Today he might be dead.