The Commodore

Chapter Nine

Hornblower swung himself up over the side of the Harvey, where Lieutenant Mound stood at attention to welcome him with his two boatswain’s mates twittering their pipes. The bang of a gun, coming unexpectedly and not a yard from him, made him jump. As the Commodore was shifting his broad pendant from one ship to another (there it was breaking out at the lofty mast-head of the Harvey) it was the correct moment for another salute, which they were firing off with one of the four six-pounders which Harvey carried aft.

“Belay that nonsense,” said Hornblower.

Then he felt suddenly guilty. He had publicly described the Navy’s beloved ceremonial as nonsense—just as extraordinary he had applied the term to a compliment which ought to have delighted him as it was only the second time he had received it. But discipline had not apparently suffered, although young Mound was grinning broadly as he gave the order to cease firing.

“Square away and let’s get going, Mr. Mound,” said Hornblower.

As the Harvey filled her sails and headed diagonally for the shore with Moth close astern, Hornblower looked round him. This was a new experience for him; in twenty years of service he had never seen action in a bomb-vessel. Above him towered the enormous mainmast (they had made a good job of replacing the spar shot away in the Sound) which had to make up in the amount of canvas it carried for the absence of a foremast. The mizzenmast, stepped far aft, was better proportioned to the diminutive vessel. The prodigious forestay necessary for the security of the mainmast was an iron chain, curiously incongruous amid the hempen rigging. The waist of the ketch was forward—that was the absurd but only way of describing her design—and there, on either side of her midline, were the two huge mortars which accounted for her quaint build. Hornblower knew that they were bedded upon a solid mass of oak against her kelson; under the direction of a gunner’s mate four hands were laying out the immense thirteen-inch shells which the mortars fired. The bos’un’s mate with another party had passed a cable out from a starboard gun-port, and, having carried it forward, were securing it to the anchor hanging at the cathead. That was the ‘spring’; Hornblower had often attached a spring to his cable as a practice evolution, but had never used one in action before. Close beside him in the port-side main-chains a hand was heaving the lead; Hornblower thought to himself that nine-tenths of the time he had spent in the Baltic the lead had been going, and presumably that would be the case for the rest of this commission.

“And a half three!” called the leadsman. These bomb-ketches drew less than nine feet.

Over there Raven was preparing to kedge off the shoal on which she was aground. Hornblower could see the cable, black against the water. She had already cleared away the raffle of her wrecked foretopmast. Clam was creeping out beyond her; Hornblower wondered if her gipsy-looking captain had fully grasped the complex instructions given him.

Mound was standing beside him, conning his ship. He was the only commissioned officer; a midshipman and two master’s mates kept watches, and the two latter were standing wide-legged aft measuring with sextants the vertical angle subtended by Blanchefleur’s spars. Hornblower could sense through the vessel an atmosphere of light-heartedness, only to be expected when the captain was only twenty years old. Discipline was bound to be easier in these small craft—Hornblower had often heard crabbed captains of vast seniority bewailing the fact.

“Quarter less three!” called the leadsman.

Seventeen feet of water.

“We are within range now, sir,” said Mound.

“Those mortars of yours are more accurate when firing at less than extreme range, though, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. And I would prefer to have a little to spare, too, in case they can shift anchorage.”

“Leave yourself plenty of room to swing, though. We know nothing of these shoals.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Mound swung round for a final glance at the tactical situation; at the spars of the Blanchefleur above the dunes where she was anchored far up the lagoon, the battery at the end of the spit, Clam taking up a position where she could see up the lagoon from a point just out of range of the battery, and lotus waiting beyond the entrance to cut off escape in case by any miracle the Blanchefleur should be able to claw her way out to windward and make a fresh attempt to reach Stralsund. Mound kept on reaching for his trouser pockets and then hastily refraining from putting his hands in, when he remembered the Commodore was beside him—an odd gesture, and he did it every few seconds.

“For God’s sake, man,” said Hornblower, “put your hands in your pockets and leave off fidgeting.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Mound, a little startled. He plunged his hands in gratefully, and hunched his shoulders into a comfortable slouch, pleasantly relaxed. He took one more look round before calling to the midshipman standing by the cathead forward.

“Mr. Jones. Let go!”

The anchor cable roared out briefly as the crew of the ketch raced aloft to get in the canvas.

The Harvey swung slowly round until she rode bows upwind, pointing nearly straight at the invisible Blanchefleur. The Moth, Hornblower saw, anchored nearly abreast of her sister ship.

Mound moved with a deceptive appearance of leisureliness about the business of opening fire. He took a series of bearings to make sure that the anchor was holding. At a word from him a seaman tied a white rag to the ‘spring’ where it lay on the deck as it passed forward to the capstan, and Mound fished in his pocket, brought out a piece of chalk, and marked a scale on the deck beside the rag.

“Mr. Jones,” he said, “take a turn on the capstan.”

Four men at the capstan turned it easily. The white rag crept along the deck as the spring was wound in. The spring passed out through an after gun-port and was attached to the anchor far forward; pulling on it pulled the stern of the vessel round so that she lay at an angle to the wind, and the amount of the angle was roughly indicated by the movement of the white rag against the scale chalked on the deck.

“Carry on, Mr. Jones,” said Mound, taking a rough bearing of the Blanchefleur’s spars. The capstan clanked as the men at the bars spun it round.

“Steady!” called Mound, and they stopped.

“One more pawl!” said Mound, sighting very carefully now for Blanchefleur’s mainmast.

Clank! went the capstan as the men momentarily threw their weight on the bars.

“One more!”

Clank!

“I think that’s right, sir,” said Mound. The Harvey’s centre line was pointing straight at Blanchefleur. “Of course the cables stretch and the anchor may drag a little, but it’s easy enough to maintain a constant bearing by paying out or taking in on the spring.”

“So I understand,” said Hornblower.

He was familiar with the theory of the bomb-vessel; actually he was intensely interested in and excited at the prospect of the approaching demonstration. Ever since, at a desperate moment, he had tried to hit a small boat at long range with a six-pounder-shot from the Witch of Endor, Hornblower had been conscious that naval gunnery was an art which should be improved if it were possible. At present it was chancey, literally hit-or-miss. Mortar-fire from a bomb-vessel was the uttermost refinement of naval gunnery, brought to a high degree of perfection, although it was only a bastard offshoot. The high trajectory and the low muzzle velocity of the projectile, and the avoidance of the disturbing factor of irregularities in the bore of the gun, made it possible to drop the shell with amazing accuracy.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” said Mound, “I’ll go forrard. I like to cut my fuses myself.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower.

The two mortars were like big cauldrons in the eyes of the bomb-ketch.

“Eleven hundred yards,” said Mound. “We’ll try a pound and three-quarters of powder, Mr. Jones.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The powder was made up in cartridges of a pound, half a pound, and a quarter of a pound. The midshipman tore open one of each size, and poured the contents into the starboard-side mortar, and pressed it home with an enormous wad of felt, Mound had a measuring rule in his hand, and was looking up at the sky in a calculating way. Then he bent over one of the big shells, and with a pair of scissors he cut the fuse with profound care.

“One and eleven sixteenths, sir,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t know why I decided on that. The fuse burns at different speeds according to the weather, and that seems right for now. Of course we don’t want the shell to burst in the air, but if you have too long a fuse some Frog may get to it and put it out before it bursts.”

“Naturally,” said Hornblower.

The big shell was lifted up and placed in the muzzle of the mortar; a few inches down, the bore narrowed abruptly, leaving a distinct step inside, on which the bold belt round the shell rested with reassuring solidity. The curve of the thirteen-inch shell, with the fuse protruding, was just level with the rim of the muzzle.

“Hoist the red swallowtail,” called Mound, raising his voice to reach the ears of the master’s mate aft.

Hornblower turned and looked through his glass at Clam, anchored in the shallows a couple of miles away. It was under his personal supervision that this code of signals had been arranged, and he felt a keen anxiety that it should function correctly. Signals might easily be misunderstood. A red swallowtail mounted to the Clam’s peak.

“Signal acknowledged, sir,” called the master’s mate.

Mound took hold of the smouldering linstock, and applied it to the fuse of the shell. After a moment the fuse took fire, spluttering feebly.

“One, two, three, four, five,” counted Mound, slowly, while the fuse still spluttered. Apparently he left himself a five-second margin in case the fuse burnt unsatisfactorily and had to be relit.

Then he pressed the linstock into the touch-hole of the mortar, and it went off with a roar. Standing immediately behind the mortar, Hornblower could see the shell rise, its course marked by the spark of the burning fuse. Up and up it went, higher and higher, and then it disappeared as it began its downward flight at right angles now to the line of sight. They waited, and they waited, and nothing more happened.

“Miss,” said Mound. “Haul down the red swallowtail.”

“White pendant from Clam, sir,” called the master’s mate.

“That means ‘range too great’,” said Mound. “A pound and a half of powder this time, please, Mr. Jones.”

Moth had two red swallowtails hoisted, and two were hoisted in reply by Clam. Hornblower had foreseen the possibility of confusion, and had settled that signals to do with Moth should always be doubled. Then there would be no chance of Harvey making corrections for Moth’s mistakes, or vice versa. Moth’s mortar roared out, its report echoing over the water. From the Harvey they could see nothing of the flight of the shell.

“Double yellow flag from Clam, sir.”

“That means Moth’s shell dropped short,” said Mound. “Hoist our red swallowtail.”

Again he fired the mortar, again the spark of the fuse soared towards the sky and disappeared, and again nothing more happened.

“White pendant from Clam, sir.”

“Too long again?” said Mound, a little puzzled. “I hope they’re not cross-eyed over there.”

Moth fired again, and was rewarded by a double white pendant from Clam. This shell had passed over, when her preceding one had fallen short. It should be easy for Moth to find the target now. Mound was checking the bearing of the target.

“Still pointing straight at her,” he grumbled. “Mr. Jones, take one half a quarter-pound from that pound and a half.”

Hornblower was trying to imagine what the captain of the Blanchefleur was doing at that moment on his own side of the sandspit. Probably until the very moment when the bomb-ketches opened fire he had felt secure, imagining that nothing except a direct assault on the battery could imperil him. But now shells must be dropping quite close to him, and he was unable to reply or defend himself in any active way. It would be hard for him to get under way; he had anchored his ship at the far end of the long narrow lagoon. The exit near him was shoal water too shallow even for a skiff—as the breakers showed—and with the wind as it was at present it was impossible for him to try to beat up the channel again closer to the battery. He must be regretting having dropped so far to leeward before anchoring: presumably he had done so to secure himself the better from the claws of a cutting-out attack. With boats or by kedging he might be able to haul his ship slowly up to the battery, near enough for its guns to be able to keep the bomb-ketches out of mortar-range.

“Red swallowtail at the dip, sir!” reported the master’s mate excitedly.

That meant that the shell had fallen short but close.

“Put in two pinches more, Mr. Jones,” said Mound.

Moth’s mortar roared out again, but this time they saw the shell burst, apparently directly above the Blanchefleur’s mastheads. They saw the big ball of smoke, and the sound of the explosion came faintly back to them on the wind. Mound shook his head gravely; either Duncan over there had not cut his fuse correctly or it had burnt away more rapidly than usual. Two blue flags at Clam’s peak indicated that the fall of Moth’s shot had been unobserved—the signalling system was still functioning correctly. Then Mound bent his gangling body over and applied the linstock to fuse and touch-hole. The mortar roared; some freak of ballistics sent a fragment of blazing wad close over Hornblower’s head, making him duck while the smoke billowed round him, but as he looked up again he just caught sight of the spark of the fuse high up against the sky, poised at the top of its trajectory, before it disappeared from sight in its swift downward swoop. Hornblower, Mound, Jones, the whole mortar’s crew stood waiting tensely for the shell to end its flight. Then over the rim of the sand-dune they saw a hint of white smoke, and the sound of the bursting shell came back to them directly afterwards.

“I think we’ve hit her, sir,” said Mound, with elaborate carelessness.

“Black ball at Clam’s masthead, sir!” shouted the master’s mate.

That meant a hit. A thirteen-inch shell, soaring that immense distance into the air, had come plunging down onto Blanchefleur’s decks and had exploded. Hornblower could not imagine what destruction it might cause.

“Both mortars together, now,” snapped Mound, throwing aside all lackadaisical pose. “Jump to it, you men.”

Two white pendants at the dip from Clam meant that Moth’s next shot had fallen close but too far. Then both of Harvey’s mortars roared—the little ketch dipped and plunged as the violence of the recoil forced her bows down. Up went the black ball to Clam’s masthead.

“Another hit!” exulted Mound.

Blanchefleur’s topmasts, seen over the dunes, suddenly began to separate. She was turning round—her desperate crew was trying to tow her or kedge her back up the channel.

“Please God we wreck her before she gets away!” said Mound. “Why in hell doesn’t Moth fire?”

Hornblower watched him closely; the temptation to fire his mortars the moment they were loaded, without waiting for Moth to take her turn, was powerful indeed, but to yield to it meant confusion for the observer over in Clam and eventual losing of all control. Moth fired, and two black balls at Clam’s masthead showed that she, too, had scored a hit. But Blanchefleur had turned now; Hornblower could see the tiniest, smallest movement of her topmast against the upper edge of the dunes, only a yard or two at most. Mound fired his two mortars, and even while the shells were in the air his men leaped to the capstan and flung themselves on the bars. Clank—clank! Twice the pawl slipped over the ratchet as they hauled in on the spring and swung the ketch round to keep her mortars trained on the target. At that instant Blanchefleur’s fore-topmast fell from view. Only main and mizzen were in sight now.

“Another hit, by God!” shouted Hornblower, the words forced from him like a cork from a popgun. He was as excited as a schoolboy; he found he was jumping up and down on the deck. The foremast gone; he tried to picture the frightful destruction those shells must be causing, crashing down on the frail wooden decks. And there was smoke visible over the crest of the dunes too, more than could be accounted for by the bursting of the shells, and blacker, too. Probably she was on fire. Mizzenmast and mainmast came into line again—Blanchefleur was swinging across the channel. She must be out of control. Perhaps a shell had hit the cable out to the kedge or wrecked the towing boats.

Moth fired again; and two red swallowtails at the dip showed that her shells had fallen close and short—Blanchefleur must have swerved appreciably across the channel. Mound had noticed it, and was increasing the propelling charge in his mortars. That was smoke; undoubtedly it was smoke eddying from Blanchefleur. She must be on fire. And from the way she lay, stationary again—Hornblower could see that her topmasts made no movement at all to the sand-dunes—she must have gone aground. Mound fired again, and they waited. There went the mizzen-topmast, leaning over slowly, and the maintopmast disappeared as well. There was nothing to see now, except the smoke rising ever more thickly. Mound looked at Hornblower for orders.

“Better keep on firing,” said Hornblower, thickly. Even if the crew were roasting alive in her it was his duty to see that Blanchefleur was utterly destroyed. The mortars roared out again, and the shells made their steep ascent, climbing upwards for ten full seconds before swooping down again. Clam signalled ‘close and over’. Moth fired again, and Clam signalled a hit for, her; Hornblower’s inner eye was seeing mental pictures of the shells plunging from the sky in among the crew of the Blanchefleur as they laboured amid the flames to save their ship, burning, dismasted, and aground. It took only the briefest interval of time for those pictures to form, for the moment the signal was seen in Clam Mound bent to fire the mortars, and yet the fuses had not taken fire when the sound of a violent explosion checked him. Hornblower whipped his glass to his eye; an immense gust of smoke showed over the sand-dunes, and in the smoke Hornblower thought he could make out flying specks—corpses or fragments of the ship, blown into the air by the explosion. The fire, or one of Moth’s last shells, had reached Blanchefleur’s magazines.

“Signal to Clam, Mr. Mound,” said Hornblower “’What do you see of the enemy?’”

They waited for the answer.

“’Enemy—totally—destroyed’, sir,” read off the master’s mate, and the crew gave a ragged cheer.

“Very good, Mr. Mound. I think we can leave these shallows now before daylight goes. Hang out the recall, if you please, with Clam’s number and Lotus’s number.”

This watery northern sunshine was deceptive. It shone upon one but it gave one no heat at all. Hornblower shivered violently for a moment—he had been standing inactive, he told himself, upon the Harvey’s deck for some hours, and he should have worn a greatcoat. Yet that was not the real explanation of the shudder, and he knew it. The excitement and interest had died away, leaving him gloomy and deflated. It had been a brutal and cold-blooded business, destroying a ship that had no chance of firing back at him. It would read well in a report, and brother officers would tell each other of Hornblower’s new achievement, destroying a big French privateer in the teeth of the Swedes and the French amid shoals innumerable. Only he would know of this feeling of inglorious anticlimax.