The Commodore

Chapter Seventeen

The Northern Continental summer had come speedily, as ever. Last week at Pillau there had still been a decided touch of winter in the air. To-day, with Riga just over the horizon, it was full summer. This blazing heat would have done credit to the doldrums were it not for an invigorating quality which the tropics never knew. A brassy sun shone down from a cloudless sky, although there was just enough mist to leave the distant horizon undefined. There was a gentle two-knot breeze blowing from the south-west, just enough wind to give Nonsuch bare steerage-way with all her canvas set, studding-sails on both sides to the royals. The squadron was making the best speed it could, with Lotus hull-down on the starboard bow, Raven close astern, and the two bomb-ketches trailing far behind; even the clumsy Nonsuch could outsail them in the prevailing conditions.

Everything was very peaceful. Forward a party of seamen under the sailmaker’s supervision were overhauling a mainsail for repair. In the waist another party was dragging a ‘bear’ up and down the deck—a huge coir mat weighted down with sand which could scrub the planking more effectively than holystones could do. On the quarter-deck the sailing-master was holding a class in navigation, his mates and the midshipmen standing round him in a semicircle, their sextants in their hands. Hornblower walked near enough to hear one of the midshipmen, a mere child whose voice had not broken, piping up a reply to the question just shot at him.

“The parallax of an object is measured by an arc of a vertical circle intercepted between a line extended from the centre of the earth and a line—and a line—a line—”

The midshipman suddenly became conscious of the awful proximity of the Commodore. His voice quavered and died away. So far he had been quoting Node’s Epitome of Navigation with word-perfect exactitude. It was young Gerard, nephew of the second lieutenant of the Sutherland, whom Bush had taken into his ship for the sake of his uncle, still languishing in a French prison. The sailing-master’s brows drew together in a frown.

“Come, come, Mr. Gerard,” he said.

Hornblower had a sudden mental picture of young Gerard bent over the breech of a gun while a lithe cane taught him at least the necessity of knowing Norie’s Epitome by heart. He intervened in hurried pity.

“’Between a line extended from the centre of the earth’,” he said, over Gerard’s shoulder, “’and a line extended from the eye of the observer, through the centre of the object.’ Is that correct, Mr. Tooth?”

“Quite correct, sir,” said the sailing-master.

“I think Mr. Gerard knew it all the time. Didn’t you, youngster?”

“Y—yes, sir.”

“I thought so. I was just your age when I learned that same passage.”

Hornblower resumed his walk, hoping that he had saved Gerard’s skinny posterior from punishment. A sudden scurrying by the midshipman of the watch to grab slate and pencil told him that one of the squadron was making a signal, and two minutes later the midshipman saluted him, message in hand.

“Lotus to Commodore. Land in sight bearing South.”

That would be Pitraga Cape, the southern headland of the entrance to the Gulf of Riga.

“Reply ‘Heave to and await Commodore’,” said Hornblower.

If the weather were not so thick the island of Oesel ought to be just in sight to the northward from the masthead. They were just passing the threshold of a new adventure. Some seventy miles ahead, at the bottom of the gulf, lay Riga, presumably even now being assailed by the armies of Bonaparte. With this mere pretence of a wind it would be a couple of days before he reached there. The fact that they were entering Russian waters again was making not the least ripple on the placid surface of the ship’s life. Everything was progressing as before, yet Hornblower felt in his bones that many of the men now entering the Gulf of Riga would never come out from it, even if any should. Even with this hot sun blazing down upon him, under this radiant sky, Hornblower felt a sudden chill of foreboding which it was hard to throw off. He himself—it was curious to think that his dead body might be buried in Russia, of all places.

Someone—the Russians, or the Swedes, or the Finns—had buoyed effectively the channel that wound its way through the treacherous shallows of the Gulf of Finland. Even though the squadron had to anchor for the night a slight freshening and veering of the wind enabled them to ascend the whole gulf by the evening of the next day. They picked up a pilot at noon, a bearded individual who wore sea-boots and a heavy jacket even on this blazing day. He proved to be an Englishman, Carker by name, who had not set eyes on his native land for twenty-four years. He blinked at Hornblower like an owl when the latter began to fire questions at him regarding the progress of the war. Yes, some cavalry patrols of French and Prussians had shown themselves advancing towards Riga. The last news of the main campaign was of desperate fighting round Smolensk, and everyone was expecting Bonaparte to be beaten there. The town was preparing itself for a siege, he believed—at least, there were plenty of soldiers there, when he had left in his cutter yesterday, and there had been proclamations calling on the people to fight to the last, but no one could imagine the French making a serious attack on the place.

Hornblower turned away from him impatiently in the end, as a typical example of the uninformed civilian, with no real knowledge of affairs or appreciation of the seriousness of the situation. Livonia, having been for centuries the cockpit of northern Europe, had not seen an enemy during the last three generations, and had forgotten even the traditions of invasion. Hornblower had no intention at all of taking his squadron into the Dwina River (queer names these Russians used!) if there was a chance of his retreat being cut off, and he stared out through his glass at the low green shore when it came in sight at last from the deck. Almost right astern of the squadron the sun was lying on the horizon in a fiery bed of cloud, but there were two hours more of daylight left, and Nonsuch crept steadily closer to Riga. Bush came up to him and touched his hat.

“Pardon, sir, but do you hear anything? Gunfire, maybe?”

Hornblower strained his attention.

“Yes, gunfire, by God,” he said.

It was the lowest, faintest muttering, coming upwind from the distant shore.

“The Frogs have got there before us, sir,” said Bush.

“Be ready to anchor,” said Hornblower. Nonsuch crept steadily on, gliding at three or four knots towards the land; the water around her was greyish yellow with the mud borne down by a great river. The mouth of the Dwina was only a mile or two ahead, and with the spring rains and the melting of the snows the river must be in full flood. The buoys of a middle-ground shoal enabled Hornblower to make sure of his position; he was coming within long cannon-shot of those flat green shores. As though standing in the yellow water there was a church visible on the starboard bow, with an onion-shaped dome surmounted by a cross which reflected back to him, even at that distance, the red glare of the sunset. That must be the village of Daugavgriva, on the left bank; if it were in French hands entrance to the river would be dangerous, perhaps impossible, as soon as they had big guns mounted there. Maybe they already had.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “I’d be obliged if you would anchor.”

The cable roared out through the hawsehole, and Nonsuch swung round to the wind as the hands, pouring aloft, took in the sails. The rest of the squadron came up and prepared to anchor just when Hornblower was beginning to feel he had been too precipitate, or at least when he was regretting bitterly that night had come upon him before he could open communication with the shore.

“Call away my barge,” he ordered. “Captain Bush, I am shifting to Harvey. You will assume command of the squadron during my absence.”

Mound was at the side to welcome him as he swung himself up over Harvey’s low freeboard.

“Square away, Mr. Mound. We’ll close the shore in the direction of that church. Set a good hand at work with the lead.”

The bomb-ketch, with anchor catted and ready to go, stole forward over the still water. There was still plenty of light from the sky, for here in 57° North, within a few days of the solstice, the sun was not very far below the horizon.

“Moon rises in an hour’s time, sir,” said Mound, “three-quarters full.”

It was a marvellous evening, cool and invigorating. There was only the tiniest whisper of water round the bows of the ketch as she glided over the silvery surface; Hornblower felt that they only needed a few pretty women on board and someone strumming a guitar to make a yachting expedition of it. Something on shore attracted his attention, and he whipped his glass to his eye at the very moment when Mound beside him did the same.

“Lights on shore,” said Mound.

“Those are bivouac fires,” said Hornblower.

He had seen bivouac fires before—the fires of el Supremo’s army in Central America, the fires of the landing force at Rosas. They sparkled ruddily in the twilight, in roughly regular lines. Traversing his glass round, Hornblower picked up further groups of lights; there was a dark space between one mass and the other, which Hornblower pointed out to Mound.

“That’s no-man’s-land between the two forces, I fancy,” he said. “The Russians must be holding the village as an outwork on the left bank of the river.”

“Couldn’t all those fires be French fires, sir?” asked Mound. “Or Russian fires?”

“No,” said Hornblower. “Soldiers don’t bivouac if they can billet in villages with roofs over their heads. If two armies weren’t in presence they’d all be comfortably asleep in the cottagers’ beds and barns.”

There was a long pause while Mound digested this.

“Two fathoms, sir,” he said, at length. “I’d like to bear up, if I may.”

“Very good. Carry on. Keep as close inshore as you think proper.”

The Harvey came round with the wind abeam, half a dozen hands hauling lustily on the mainsheet. There was the moon, rising round and red over the land; the dome of the church was silhouetted against it. A sharp cry came from the forward lookout.

“Boat ahead! Fine on the port bow, sir. Pulling oars.”

“Catch that boat if you can, Mr. Mound,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, sir. Starboard two points! Clear away the gig. Boat’s crew stand by!”

They could see the dim shape of the boat not far ahead; they could even see the splashes of the oars. It occurred to Hornblower that the rowers could not be men of much skill, and whoever was in charge was not very quick in the uptake if he wanted to avoid capture; he should have headed instantly for shoal water if he wanted to avoid capture, while as it was he tried to pit oars against sails—a hopeless endeavour even with that light breeze blowing. It was several minutes before they turned for the shore, and during that time their lead was greatly reduced.

“Hard-a-lee,” roared Mound. “Away, gig!”

Harvey came into the wind, and as she lost her way the gig dropped into the water with the boat’s crew falling into it.

“I want prisoners!” roared Hornblower at the departing boat.

“Aye aye, sir,” came the reply as the oars tore the water.

Under the impulse of the skilled oarsmen the gig rapidly was overtaking the strange boat; they could see the distance narrowing as the two boats disappeared in the faint light. Then they saw the orange-red flashes of half a dozen pistol-shots, and the faint reports reached them over the water directly after.

“Let’s hope they’re not Russans, sir,” said Mound.

The possibility had occurred to Hornblower as well, and he was nervous and uncomfortable, but he spoke bluffly—

“Russians wouldn’t run away. They wouldn’t expect to find Frenchmen at sea.”

Soon the two boats, rowing slowly, emerged from the gloom.

“We’ve got ‘em all, sir,” said a voice in reply to Mound’s hail.

Five prisoners were thrust up onto the deck of the Harvey, one of them groaning with a pistol bullet through his arm. Someone produced a lantern and shone it on them, and Hornblower heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that the star which glittered on the breast of the leader was the Legion of Honour.

“I would like to know monsieur’s name and rank,” he said, politely, in French.

“Jussey, chef de bataillon du corps de Génie des armées de l’Empéreur.”

A major of engineers; quite an important capture. Hornblower bowed and presented himself, his mind working rapidly on the problem of how to induce the major to say all he knew.

“I regret very much the necessity of taking M. le chef de bataillon prisoner,” he said. “Especially at the beginning of such a promising campaign. But good fortune may allow me the opportunity of arranging a cartel of exchange at an early date. I presume M. le chef de bataillon has friends in the French Army whom he would like informed of what has happened to him? I will take the opportunity of the first flag of truce to do so.”

“The Marshal Duke of Tarentum would be glad to hear,” said Jussey, brightening a little. “I am on his staff.”

The Marshal Duke of Tarentum was Macdonald, the local French commander-in-chief—son of a Scottish exile who had fled after the Young Pretender’s rebellion—so that it seemed likely that Jussey was the chief engineer, a bigger catch than Hornblower had hoped for.

“It was extremely bad fortune for you to fall into our hands,” said Hornblower. “You had no reason to suspect the presence of a British squadron operating in the bay.”

“Indeed I had none. Our information was to the contrary. These Livonians—”

So the French staff was obtaining information from Livonian traitors; Hornblower might have guessed it, but it was as well to be sure.

“Of course they are useless, like all Russians,” said Hornblower, soothingly, “I suppose your Emperor has met with little opposition?”

“Smolensk is ours, and the Emperor marches on Moscow. It is our mission to occupy St. Petersburg.”

“But perhaps passing the Dwina will be difficult?”

Jussey shrugged in the lamplight.

“I do not expect so. A bold push across the mouth of the river and the Russians will retreat the moment their flank is turned.”

So that was what Jussey was doing; reconnoitring for a suitable place to land a French force on the Russian side of the river mouth.

“A daring move, sir, worthy of all the great traditions of the French Army. But no doubt you have ample craft to transport your force?”

“Some dozens of barges. We seized them at Mitau before the Russians could destroy them.”

Jussey checked himself abruptly, clearly disturbed at realizing how much he had said.

“Russians are always incompetent,” said Hornblower, in a tone of complete agreement. “A prompt attack on your part, giving them no chance of steadying themselves, is of course your best plan of operations. But will you pardon me, sir, while I attend to my duties?”

There was no chance of wheedling anything more out of Jussey at the moment. But he had at least yielded up the vital information that the French had laid hands on a fleet of barges which the Russians had neglected, or been unable, to destroy, and that they planned a direct attack across the river mouth. By feigning entire indifference Hornblower felt that Jussey might be inveigled later into talking freely again. Jussey bowed, and Hornblower turned to Mound.

“We’ll return to the squadron,” he said.

Mound gave the orders which laid the Harvey close-hauled on the starboard tack—the French prisoners ducked hastily as the big mainsail boom swung over their heads, and the seamen bumped into them as they ran to the sheet. While Jussey and Hornblower had been talking two of the prisoners had cut off the sleeve of the wounded man and bandaged his arm; now they all squatted in the scuppers out of the way, while the Harvey crept back to where the Nonsuch lay at anchor.