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Title: Hornblower and the Atropos
Author: Forester, C. S. [Cecil Scott]
   [Smith, Cecil Louis Troughton] (1899-1966]
Date of first publication: 1953
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Michael Joseph, 1953
   [first U.K. edition]
Date first posted: 26 August 2017
Date last updated: 26 August 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1463

This ebook was produced by Iona Vaughan, Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






HORNBLOWER AND THE ATROPOS

by C. S. Forester





CHAPTER I


Having climbed up through the locks, the canal boat was now winding over
the pleasant Cotswold country. Hornblower was bubbling with good
spirits, on his way to take up a new command, seeing new sights,
travelling in an entirely new way, at a moment when the entirely
unpredictable English weather had decided to stage a clear sunny day in
the middle of December. This was a delightful way of travelling, despite
the cold.

'Your pardon for a moment, ma'am,' said Hornblower.

Maria, with the sleeping little Horatio in her arms, gave a sigh at her
husband's restlessness and shifted her knees to allow him passage, and
he rose under the restricted height of the first-class cabin and stepped
out through the forward door into the open bow of the passage-boat. Here
he could stand on his sea chest and look round him. It was a queer
craft, fully seventy feet long and, judging by eye as he looked aft, he
would think hardly five feet in beam--the same proportions as had the
crazy dugout canoes he had seen in use in the West Indies. Her draught
must be less than a foot; that was clear as she tore along behind the
cantering horses at a speed that must certainly be all of eight
knots--nine miles an hour he told himself, hurriedly, for that was the
way they measured speeds here inland.

The passage-boat was making her way from Gloucester to London along the
Thames and Severn Canal; going far more smoothly than the stage coach,
it was very nearly as fast and decidedly cheaper, at a penny a mile,
even in the first class. He and Maria, with the child, were the only
first-class passengers, and the boatman, when Hornblower had paid the
fares, had cocked an eye at Maria's condition and had said that by
rights they ought to pay two children's fares instead of one. Maria had
snorted with disdain at such vulgarity, while the onlookers chuckled.

Standing on his sea chest, Hornblower could look over the canal banks,
at the grey stone boundary walls and the grey stone farms. The rhythmic
sound of the hoofs of the cantering tow horses accentuated the
smoothness of the travel; the boat itself made hardly a sound as it slid
along over the surface of the water--Hornblower noticed that the boatmen
had the trick of lifting the bows, by a sudden acceleration, on to the
crest of the bow wave raised by her passage, and retaining them there.
This reduced turbulence in the canal to a minimum; it was only when he
looked aft that he could see, far back, the reeds at the banks bowing
and straightening again long after they had gone by. It was this trick
that made the fantastic speed possible. The cantering horses maintained
their nine miles an hour, being changed every half hour. There were two
towlines, attached to timber heads at bow and stern; one boatman rode as
postillion on the rear horse, controlling the lead horse with shouts and
the cracking of his whip. In the stern sat the other boatman, surly and
with one hand missing and replaced by a hook; with the other he held the
tiller and steered the boat round the curves with a skill that
Hornblower admired.

A sudden ringing of the horses' hoofs on stone warned Hornblower just in
time. The horses were dashing, without any slackening of pace, under a
low bridge, where the towpath, cramped between the water and the arch,
gave them barely room to pass. The mounted boatman buried his face in
his horse's mane to pass under; Hornblower had just time to leap down
from his sea chest and seat himself as the bridge hurried over him.
Hornblower heard the helmsman's loud laugh at his momentary
discomfiture.

'You learn to move fast in a canal boat, Captain,' the steersman called
to him from his place by the tiller. 'Two dozen for the last man off the
yard! None o' that here on Cotswold, Captain, but a broken head for
_you_ if you don't look lively.'

'Don't let that fellow be so rude to you, Horatio,' said Maria from the
cabin. 'Can't you stop him?'

'Not so easy, dear,' replied Hornblower. 'It's he who's captain of this
craft, and I'm only a passenger.'

'Well, if you can't stop him, come in here where he can't be rude to
you.'

'Yes, my dear, in a minute.'

Hornblower chose to risk the jeers of the boatman rather than miss
looking round him; this was the best opportunity he had had of watching
the working of the canals which in the last thirty years had changed the
economic face of England. And not far ahead was Sapperton Tunnel, the
engineering marvel of the age, the greatest achievement of the new
science. He certainly wanted to see that. Let the steersman laugh his
head off if he wanted to. He must be an old sailor, discharged as
disabled by the loss of his hand. It must be a wonderful experience for
him to have a naval captain under his command.

The grey stone tower of a lock-house showed ahead, with the minute
figure of the lock-keeper opening the gates. A yell from the
postillion-boatman checked the speed of the horses; the boat glided on,
its speed diminishing greatly as the bows slid off the bow wave. As the
boat entered the lock the one-handed steersman leaped ashore with a line
which he flipped dexterously round a bollard; a smart tug or two took
most of the way off the boat, and the boatman, running forward, secured
the line to another bollard.

'Heave us that line, Captain,' he cried, and Hornblower obediently threw
up the bow-line for him to secure forward. The law of the sea applied
equally in inland waters--the ship first and personal dignity a long way
second.

Already the lock-keeper was closing the gates behind them and the
lock-keeper's wife was opening the paddles of the upper gate, the water
swirling in. The lower gates closed with a crash with the mounting
pressure, and the boat rose with the gurgling water. The horses were
changed in a twinkling; the postillion scrambled into his saddle, and
proceeded to tilt a black bottle against his lips during the remaining
few seconds while the lock filled. The steersman was casting off the
lines--Hornblower took the bow-line from him--and the lock-keeper's wife
was thrusting at one upper gate while the lock-keeper, running up from
the lower gate, thrust at the other. The postillion yelled and cracked
his whip, the boat sprang forward while the helmsman leaped to his place
astern, and they were off again with not a second wasted. Assuredly this
canal traffic was a miracle of modernity, and it was gratifying to be on
board the very fastest of the canal boats, the _Queen Charlotte_, that
took priority over all other traffic. On her bow she carried a
glittering scythe-blade as the proud symbol of her superior importance.
It would sever the towline of any approaching boat which did not drop
her line quickly enough to let her through. The two score of farmers'
wives and wenches who sat aft in the second-class with their chickens
and ducks and eggs and butter were all of them travelling as much as
twenty miles to market, in the confident expectation of returning the
same day. Quite astonishing.

Here, as they climbed to the summit level, lock succeeded lock at
frequent intervals, and at each the postillion held his black bottle to
his lips, and his yells to his horses became more raucous and his
whip-cracking more continuous. Hornblower obediently handed the bow-line
at each lock, despite Maria's urgings to the contrary.

'My dear,' said Hornblower, 'we save time if I do.'

'But it isn't right,' said Maria. 'He knows you're a captain in the
Navy.'

'He knows it too well,' said Hornblower with a lopsided smile. 'And
after all I have a command to take up.'

'As if it couldn't wait,' snorted Maria.

It was hard to make Maria understand that to a captain his command was
all in all, that he wished to lose not an hour, not a minute, in his
journey to assume command of his sloop of war in London River; he was
yearning to see what _Atropos_ was like, with the mingled hope and
apprehension that might be expected of an Oriental bridegroom affianced
to a veiled bride--that was not a simile that it would be wise to
mention to Maria, though.

Now they were gliding down the summit level of the canal; the cutting
was growing deeper and deeper, so that the echo of the sound of the
horses' hoofs came ringing from the rocky banks. Round the shallow curve
must surely be Sapperton Tunnel.

'Hold hard, Charlie!' suddenly yelled the steersman. A moment later he
sprang to the after towline and tried to cast it off from the timber
head, and there was wild confusion. Shouts and yells on the towpath,
horses whinnying, hoofs clattering. Hornblower caught a glimpse of the
lead horse leaping frantically up the steep slope of the cutting--just
ahead of them was the castellated but gloomy mouth of the tunnel and
there was no other way for the horse to turn. The _Queen Charlotte_
lurched hideously against the bank to the accompaniment of screams from
the second-class cabin; for a moment Hornblower was sure she would
capsize. She righted herself and came to a stop as the towlines
slackened; the frantic struggles of the second horse, entangled in two
towlines, ended as it kicked itself free. The steersman had scrambled on
to the towpath and had dropped the after line over a bollard.

'A pretty kettle o' fish,' he said.

Another man had shown up, running down the bank from the top whence
spare horses looked down at them, whinnying. He held the heads of the
_Queen Charlotte's_ horses, and near his feet lay Charlie, the
boatman-postillion, his face a mask of blood.

'Get ye back in there!' bellowed the steersman to the women who were all
scrambling out of the second-class cabin. 'All's well. Get ye back! Once
let them loose on the country'--he added to Hornblower--'and they'd be
harder to catch than their own chickens.'

'What is it, Horatio?' asked Maria, standing at the door of the
first-class cabin with the baby in her arms.

'Nothing to alarm yourself about, my dear,' said Hornblower. 'Compose
yourself. This is no time for agitation.'

He turned and looked at the one-handed steersman, who bent down to
examine Charlie; taking a hold of the breast of his coat with his steel
hook he hauled up, but Charlie's head only hung back helplessly, the
blood running over his cheeks.

'Not much use out of Charlie,' said the steersman, letting him drop with
a thump. As Hornblower stooped to look he could catch the reek of gin
three feet from the bleeding mouth. Half stunned and half drunk--more
than half of both for that matter.

'We've the tunnel to leg through,' said the steersman. 'Who's up at the
Tunnel House?'

'Ne'er a soul,' replied the man with the horses. 'The trade all went
through in the early morning.'

The steersman whistled.

'You'll have to come wi' us,' he said.

'Not I,' said the horseholder. 'I've sixteen horses--eighteen with these
two. I can't leave 'em.'

The steersman swore a couple of astonishing oaths--astonishing even to
Hornblower, who had heard many in his time.

'What d'you mean by "legging" through the tunnel?' Hornblower asked.

The steersman pointed with his hook at the black, forbidding tunnel
mouth in the castellated entrance.

'No towpath through the tunnel, o' course, Captain,' he said. 'So we
leaves our horses here an' we legs through. We puts a pair o' "wings" on
the bows--sort o' catheads, in a way. Charlie lies on one an' I lies on
the other, wi' our heads inboard an' our feet agin the tunnel wall. Then
we sort o' walks, and we gets the boat along that way, and we picks up
another pair o' horses at the south end.'

'I see,' said Hornblower.

'I'll souse this sot wi' a couple o' buckets o' water,' said the
steersman. 'Mebbe it'll bring him round.'

'Maybe,' said Hornblower.

But buckets of water made no difference to the unconscious Charlie, who
was clearly concussed. The slow blood flowed again after his battered
face had been washed clean. The steersman produced another couple of
oaths.

'The other trade'll be coming up arter you,' said the horseholder.
''Nother couple o' hours, mebbe.'

All he received in reply was a further series of oaths.

'We have to have daylight to run the Thames staunches,' said the
steersman. 'Two hours? We'll only just get there by daylight if we go
now.'

He looked round him, at the silent canal cut and tunnel mouth, at the
chattering women in the boat and the few doddering old gaffers along
with them.

'Twelve hours late, we'll be,' he concluded, morosely.

A day late in taking up his command, thought Hornblower.

'Damn it,' he said, 'I'll help you leg through.'

'Good on ye, sir,' said the steersman, significantly dropping the
equalitarian 'captain' for the 'sir' he had carefully eschewed so far.
'D'ye think you can?'

'Likely enough,' said Hornblower.

'Let's fit those wings,' said the steersman, with sudden decision.

They were small platforms, projecting out from either bow.

'Horatio,' asked Maria, 'whatever are you doing?'

That was just what Maria _would_ ask. Hornblower was tempted to make use
of the rejoinder he had heard used once in the _Renown_, to the effect
that he was getting milk from a male ostrich, but he checked himself.

'Just helping the boatman, dear,' he said patiently.

'You don't think enough of your position,' said Maria.

Hornblower was by now a sufficiently experienced married man to realize
the advantages of allowing his wife to say what she liked as long as he
could continue to do as he liked. With the wings fitted he and the
steersman on board, and the horseholder on the bank, took their places
along the side of the _Queen Charlotte_. A strong united shove sent the
boat gliding into the cut, heading for the tunnel.

'Keep 'er goin', sir,' said the steersman, scrambling forward to the
port side wing. It was obvious that it would be far easier to maintain
gentle way on the boat than to progress in fits and starts of alternate
stopping and moving. Hornblower hurried to the starboard side wing and
laid himself down on it as the bows of the boat crept into the dark
tunnel. Lying on his right side, with his head inboard, he felt his feet
come into contact with the brick lining of the tunnel. He pressed with
his feet, and then by a simple backwards walking motion he urged the
boat along.

'Hold hard, sir,' said the steersman--his head was just beside
Hornblower's--'there's two miles an' more to go.'

A tunnel two miles long, driven through the solid rock of the Cotswolds!
No wonder it was the marvel of the age. The Romans with all their
aqueducts had achieved nothing to compare with this. Farther and farther
into the tunnel they went, into darkness that increased in intensity,
until it was frightfully, astonishingly dark, with the eye recording
nothing at all, strain as it might. At their entrance into the tunnel
the women had chattered and laughed, and had shouted to hear the echoes
in the tunnel.

'Silly lot o' hens,' muttered the steersman.

Now they fell silent, oppressed by the darkness, all except Maria.

'I trust you remember you have your good clothes on, Horatio,' she said.

'Yes, dear,' said Hornblower, happy in the knowledge that she could not
possibly see him.

It was not a very dignified thing he was doing, and not at all
comfortable. After a few minutes he was acutely aware of the hardness of
the platform on which he was lying; nor was it long before his legs
began to protest against the effort demanded of them. He tried to shift
his position a little, to bring other muscles into play and other areas
of himself into contact with the platform, but he learned fast enough
that it had to be done with tact and timing, so as not to disturb the
smooth rhythm of the propulsion of the boat--the steersman beside him
grunted a brief protest as Hornblower missed a thrust with his right leg
and the boat baulked a little.

'Keep 'er goin', sir,' he repeated.

So they went on through the darkness, in the strangest sort of mesmeric
nightmare, suspended in utter blackness, utterly silent, for their speed
was not sufficient to raise a ripple round the _Queen Charlotte's_ bows.
Hornblower went on thrusting with his feet, urging his aching legs into
further efforts; he could tell by the sensations conveyed through the
soles of his shoes that the tunnel was no longer brick-lined--his feet
pressed against naked rock, rough and irregular as the tunnellers' picks
and gunpowder had left it. That made his present employment more
difficult.

He became aware of a slight noise in the distance--a low muttering
sound, at first so feeble that when he first took note of it he realized
that he had been hearing it already for some time. It gradually
increased in volume as the boat crept along, until it was a loud
roaring; he had no idea what it could be, but as the steersman beside
him seemed unconcerned he decided not to ask about it.

'Easy a minute, sir,' said the steersman, and Hornblower, wondering,
rested his aching legs, while the steersman, still recumbent, fumbled
and tugged beside him. Next moment he had dragged a tarpaulin completely
over both of them, except for their feet protruding from under the
edges. It was no darker under the tarpaulin than outside it, but it was
considerably stuffier.

'Carry on, sir,' said the steersman, and Hornblower recommenced pushing
with his feet against the wall, the roaring he had heard before somewhat
muffled by the tarpaulin. A trickle of water volleyed loudly on the
tarpaulin, and then another, and he suddenly understood what the roaring
was.

'Here it comes,' said the steersman under the tarpaulin.

An underground spring here broke through the roof of the tunnel and
tumbled roaring into the canal. The water fell down on them in deafening
cataracts. It thundered upon the roofs of the cabins, quite drowning the
cries of the women within. The weight of its impact pressed the
tarpaulin upon him. Then the torrent eased, fell away to trickles, and
then they were past it.

'Only one more o' those,' said the steersman in the stuffy darkness
beside him. 'It's better arter a dry summer.'

'Are you wet, Horatio?' asked Maria's voice.

'No, dear,' said Hornblower, the simple negative having the desired
cushioning effect and smothering further expostulation.

Actually his feet were wet, but after eleven years at sea that was not a
new experience; he was much more concerned with the weariness of his
legs. It seemed an age before the next trickling of water and the
steersman's 'Here it comes' heralded the next deluge. They crawled on
beyond it, and the steersman, with a grunt of relief, dragged the
tarpaulin from off them. And with its removal Hornblower, twisting his
neck, suddenly saw something far ahead. His eyes were by now accustomed
to the darkness, and in that massive darkness, incredibly far away,
there was something to be seen, a minute something, the size apparently
of a grain of sand. It was the farther mouth of the tunnel. He worked
away with his legs with renewed vitality. The tunnel opening grew in
size, from a grain of sand to a pea; it assumed the crescentic shape to
be expected of it; it grew larger still, and with its growth the light
increased in the tunnel by infinitesimal gradations, until Hornblower
could see the dark surface of the water, the irregularities of the
tunnel roof. Now the tunnel was brick-lined again, and progress was
easier--and seemed easier still.

'Easy all,' said the steersman with a final thrust.

It seemed unbelievable to Hornblower that he did not have to work his
legs any more, that he was emerging into daylight, that no more
underground springs would cascade upon him as he lay suffocating under a
tarpaulin. The boat slowly slid out of the tunnel's mouth, and despite
its slow progress, and despite the fact that outside the sun shone with
only wintry brilliance, he was quite blinded for a while. The chatter of
the passengers rose into a roar almost comparable with the sound of the
underground spring upon the tarpaulin. Hornblower sat up and blinked
round him. There was a horseholder on the towpath with a pair of horses;
he caught the line the steersman tossed to him and between them they
drew the boat to the bank. Many of the passengers were leaving at this
point, and they began to swarm out at once with their packages and their
chickens. Others were waiting to board.

'Horatio,' said Maria, coming out of the first-class cabin; little
Horatio was awake now and was whimpering a little.

'Yes, my dear?'

Hornblower was conscious of Maria's eyes taking in the disorder of his
clothes. He knew that Maria would scold him, brush him down, treat him
with the same maternal possessiveness as she treated his son, and he
knew that at the moment he did not want to be possessed.

'One moment, dear, if you will pardon me,' he said, and stepped nimbly
out on to the towpath, joining himself to the conversation of the
steersman and the horseholder.

'Ne'er a man here,' said the latter. 'An' you won't find one before
Oxford, that I'll warrant you.'

In reply the steersman said much the same things as he had said to the
other horseholder.

'That's how it is, an' all,' said the horseholder philosophically,
'you'll have to wait for the trade.'

'No spare men here?' asked Hornblower.

'None, sir,' said the steersman, and then, after a moment's hesitation,
'I suppose, sir, you wouldn't care to drive a pair o' horses?'

'Not I,' answered Hornblower hastily--he was taken sufficiently by
surprise by the question to make no attempt to disguise his dismay at
the thought of driving two horses in the manner of the injured Charlie;
then he saw how to recover his dignity and keep himself safe from
Maria's ministrations, and he added: 'But I'll take the tiller.'

'O' course you could, sir,' answered the steersman. 'Not the first time
you've handled a tiller. Not by a long chalk. An' I'll drive the nags,
me an' my jury fist an' all.'

He glanced down at the steel hook that replaced his missing hand.

'Very well,' said Hornblower.

'I'm grateful to you, sir, that I am,' said the steersman, and to
emphasize his sincerity he swore a couple more oaths. 'I've a contract
on this here v'yage--that's two chests o' tea for'rard there, first o'
the China crop for Lunnon delivery. You'll save me pounds, sir, an' my
good name as well. Grateful I am, by ----'

He emphasized his sincerity again.

'That's all right,' said Hornblower. 'The sooner we start the sooner we
arrive. What's your name?'

'Jenkins, sir.' Tom Jenkins, the steersman--now to be the
postillion--tugged at his forelock, 'main topman in the old _Superb_,
Cap'n Keates, sir.'

'Very well, Jenkins. Let's start.'

The horseholder tended to the business of attaching the horses'
towlines, and while Jenkins cast off the bow-line, Hornblower cast off
the stern one and stood by with a single turn round the bollard; Jenkins
climbed nimbly into the saddle and draped the reins about his hook.

'But, Horatio,' said Maria, 'whatever are you thinking about?'

'About arriving in London, my dear,' said Hornblower, and at that moment
the whip cracked and the towlines tightened.

Hornblower had to spring for the stern-sheets, line in hand, and he had
to grab for the tiller. Maybe Maria was still expostulating, but if she
were, Hornblower was already far too busy to hear anything she said. It
was impressive how quickly the _Queen Charlotte_ picked up speed as the
horses, suddenly breaking into a trot, pulled her bows up on to her bow
wave. From a trot they changed to a canter, and the speed seemed
fantastic--far faster, to Hornblower's heated imagination, now that he
was at the helm instead of being a mere irresponsible passenger. The
banks were flying by; fortunately in this deep cut of the summit level
the channel was straight at first, for the steering was not perfectly
simple. The two towlines, one at the bow and one at the stern, held the
boat parallel to the bank with the smallest use of the rudder--an
economic employment of force that appealed to Hornblower's mathematical
mind, but which made the feel of the boat a little unnatural as he
tentatively tried the tiller.

He looked forward at the approaching bend with some apprehension, and as
they neared it he darted his eyes from bank to bank to make sure he was
holding in mid-channel. And round the bend, almost upon them, was a
bridge--another of these infernal canal bridges, built for economy, with
the towpath bulging out under the arch, so that it was hard to sight for
the centre of the greatly narrowed channel. Maria was certainly saying
something to him, and little Horatio was undoubtedly yelling like a
fury, but this was no moment to spare them either a glance or a thought.
He steadied the boat round the bend. The hoofs of the lead horse were
already ringing on the cobbles under the bridge. God! He was over too
far. He tugged the tiller across. Too far the other way! He pushed the
tiller back, straightening the boat on her course even as her bows
entered the narrows. She turned, very nearly fast enough--her starboard
quarter, just where he stood, hit with a solid thump against the elbow
of the brick-faced canal side, but she had a thick rope rubbing strake
there--presumably to meet situations of this sort--which cushioned the
shock; it was not violent enough to throw the passengers off their
benches in the cabin, although it nearly threw Hornblower, crouching low
under the arch, on to his face. No time to think, not even though little
Horatio had apparently been bumped by the shock and was now screaming
even more wildly in the bows; the canal was curving back again and he
had to guide the _Queen Charlotte_ round the bend.

Crack-crack-crack-crack--that was Jenkins with his whip--was not the
speed already great enough for him? Round the bend, coming towards them,
there was another canal boat, creeping peacefully along towed by a
single horse. Hornblower realized that Jenkins' four whip cracks were a
signal, demanding a clear passage. He hoped most sincerely and fervently
that one would be granted, as the canal boat hastened down upon the
barge.

The bargee at the tow horse's head brought the beast to a standstill,
edging him over into the hedge beside the towpath; the bargee's wife put
her tiller over and the barge swerved majestically, with her residual
way, towards the reeds that lined the opposite bank; so between horse
and barge the tow-rope sank to the ground on the towpath, and into the
water in a deep bight. Over the tow-rope cantered Jenkins' horses, and
Hornblower headed the passage boat for the narrow space between the
barge and the towpath. He could guess that the water beside the path was
shallow; it was necessary to steer the passage boat to shave the barge
as closely as possible, and in any case the bargee's wife, accustomed to
encountering skilled steersmen, had only left him the minimum of room.
Hornblower was in a fair way towards panic as the passage boat dashed
forward.

Starboard--meet her. Port--meet her. He was giving these orders to
himself, as he might to his coxswain; like a streak of lightning through
the dark confusion of his mind flashed the thought that although he
might give the orders he could not trust his clumsy limbs to execute
them with the precision of a skilled helmsman. Into the gap now; the
stern was still swinging and at the last moment he got the tiller over
to check her. The barge seemed to flash by; out of the tail of his eye
he was dimly aware of the bargee's wife's greeting, changing to surprise
as she noted that the _Queen Charlotte_ was being steered by a man quite
unknown to her. Faintly to his ear came the sound of what she said, but
he could distinguish no word--he had no attention to spare for
compliments.

They were through, in that flash, and he could breathe again, he could
smile, he could grin; all was well in a marvellous world, steering a
passage boat at nine miles an hour along the Thames and Severn Canal.
But that was another yell from Jenkins; he was checking his horses, and
there was the grey tower of a lock-house ahead. The gates were open, the
lock-keeper standing by them. Hornblower steered for them, greatly
helped by the _Queen Charlotte's_ abrupt reduction in speed as her bow
wave passed ahead of her. Hornblower grabbed for the stern rope, leaped
for the bank, and miraculously kept his footing. The bollard was ten
feet ahead; he ran forward and dropped a loop over it and took the
strain. The ideal method was to take nearly all the way off the boat,
let her creep into the lock, and stop her fully at the next bollard, but
it was too much to hope that he could at his first attempt execute all
this exactly. He let the line slip through his hands, watching the
boat's progress, and then took too sudden a pull at it. Line and bollard
creaked; the _Queen Charlotte_ swung her bows across the lock to bump
them against the further side, and she lay there half in and half out,
helpless, so that the lock-keeper's wife had to run along from the
farther gates, lean over, shove the bows clear while seizing the
bow-line, and, with the line over her sturdy shoulder, haul the boat the
final dozen yards into the lock--a clear waste of a couple of minutes.
Nor was this all, for, as they had now passed the summit level, this was
a downward lock, and Hornblower had not readied his mind for this
transition. He was taken by surprise when the _Queen Charlotte_ subsided
abruptly, with the opening of the gate paddles, along with the emptying
water, and he had only just time to slack away the stern-line, or else
the boat might have been left hanging on it.

'Ee, man, you know little about boats,' said the lock-keeper's wife, and
Hornblower's ears burned with embarrassment. He thought of the
examination he had passed in navigation and seamanship; he thought of
how often he had tacked a monstrous ship of the line in heavy weather.
That experience was not of much use to him here in inland
Gloucestershire--or perhaps it was Oxfordshire by now--and in any case
the lock was empty, the gates opening, the towlines tightening, and he
had to leap down six feet or more in a hurry into the already moving
stern, remembering to take the stern-line down with him. He managed it,
clumsily as ever, and he heard the lock-keeper's wife's hearty laugh as
he glided on below her; and she said something more, too, but he could
pay no attention to it, as he had to grab for the tiller and steer the
hurrying boat out under the bridge. And when he had first paid for their
passages he had pictured to himself the leisurely life of the canal
boatman!

And, heavens and earth! Here was Maria beside him having made her way
aft through the second-class cabin.

'How can you let these people be so insolent to you, dear?' she was
asking. 'Why don't you tell them who you are?'

'My dear----' began Hornblower, and then stopped.

If Maria could not see the incongruity of a naval captain mishandling a
canal boat it was hopeless to argue. Besides, he had no attention to
spare for her, not with those cantering horses whisking the _Queen
Charlotte_ along like this.

'And this all seems very unnecessary, dear,' went on Maria. 'Why should
you demean yourself like this? Is there all this need for haste?'

Hornblower took the boat round a bend--he congratulated himself that he
was getting the feel of the tiller now.

'Why don't you answer me?' went on Maria. 'And I have our dinner waiting
for us, and little Horatio----'

She was like the voice of conscience--for that matter that was exactly
what she was.

'Maria,' snapped Hornblower. 'Get for'rard! Get for'rard, I say. Go back
to the cabin.'

'But, my dear----'

'Get for'rard!'

Hornblower roared this out--here was another barge approaching and he
could spare no time for the niceties of married life.

'You are very heartless,' said Maria, 'and in my condition, too.'

Heartless, maybe, but certainly preoccupied. Hornblower pulled the
tiller over, and Maria put her handkerchief to her eyes and flounced--as
much of a flounce as was possible to her as she was--back into the
second-class cabin again. The _Queen Charlotte_ shot neatly down the gap
between the barge and the towpath, and Hornblower could actually spare
enough attention to acknowledge with a wave of his hand the greeting of
the bargee's wife. He had time, too, now, for a prick of conscience
about his treatment of Maria, but only a momentary one. He still had to
steer the boat.




CHAPTER II


There was still plenty of daylight when they came out into the Thames
valley and Hornblower, looking down to starboard, could see the infant
river--not such an infant at its winter level--running below. Every turn
and every lock brought the canal nearer to the stream, and at last they
reached Inglesham, with Lechlade church steeple in view ahead, and the
junction with the river. At Inglesham lock Jenkins left his horses and
came back to speak to Hornblower.

'There's three staunches on the river next that we have to run, sir,' he
said.

Hornblower had no idea what a staunch was, and he very much wanted to
know before he had to 'run' them, but at the same time he did not want
to admit ignorance. Jenkins may have been tactful enough to sense his
difficulty; at least he gave an explanation.

'They're dams across the river, sir,' he told Hornblower. 'At this time
o' year, with plenty of water, some o' the paddles are kept out for
good, at the towpath end o' the staunch. There's a fall o' five or six
feet.'

'Five or six feet?' repeated Hornblower, startled.

'Yes, sir. 'Bout that much. But it isn't a real fall, if you know what I
mean, sir. Steep, but no more.'

'And we have to run down it?'

'Yes, sir. It's easy enough, sir--at the top, leastways.'

'And at the bottom?'

'There's an eddy there, sir, like as you'd expect. But if you hold her
straight, sir, the nags'll take you through.'

'I'll hold her straight,' said Hornblower.

'O' course you will, sir.'

'But what the devil do they have these staunches on the river for?'

'They keeps back the water for the mills--an' the navigation, sir.'

'But why don't they have locks?'

Jenkins spread his hand and his hook in a gesture of ignorance.

'Dunno, sir. There's locks from Oxford down. These 'ere staunches are a
plague. Takes six horses to get the old _Queen Charlotte_ up 'em,
sometimes.'

Hornblower's thinking about the subject had not yet progressed as far as
thinking about how the staunches were passed up-river; and he was a
little annoyed with himself at not having raised the point. But he
managed to nod sagely at the information.

'I daresay,' he said. 'Well, it doesn't concern us this voyage.'

'No, sir,' said Jenkins. He pointed down the canal. 'The first 'un is
half a mile below Lechlade Bridge, there. It's well over on the port
side. You can't miss it, sir.'

Hornblower hoped he was right about that. He took his place in the stern
and seized the tiller with a bold attempt to conceal his misgivings, and
he waved to the lock-keeper as the boat moved rapidly out of the
lock--he was adept enough by now to be able to spare attention for that
even with a gate to negotiate. They shot out on to the surface of the
young river; there was plenty of current running in their
direction--Hornblower noted the eddy at the point--but the speed of the
horses gave them plenty of steerage way.

Lechlade Bridge just ahead of them--the staunch was half a mile beyond,
Jenkins said. Although the air was distinctly cold now Hornblower was
conscious that his palms, as they rested on the tiller, were distinctly
damp. To him now it appeared a wildly reckless thing to do, to attempt
to shoot the staunch inexperienced as he was. He would
prefer--infinitely prefer--not to try. But he had to steer through the
arch of the bridge--the horses splashed fetlock deep there--and then it
was too late to do anything about his change of mind. There was the line
of the staunch across the stream, the gap in it plainly visible on the
port side. Beyond the staunch the surface of the river was not visible
because of the drop, but above the gap the water headed down in a steep,
sleek slope, higher at the sides than in the middle; the fragments which
floated on the surface were all hurrying towards it, like people in a
public hall all pressing towards a single exit. Hornblower steered for
the centre of the gap, choking a little with excitement; he could feel
the altered trim of the boat as her bows sank and her stern rose on the
slope. Now they were flying down, down. Below, the smooth slope narrowed
down to a point, beyond which and on each side was the turbulent water
of the eddy. He still had steerage way enough to steer down the point;
as he felt the boat answer the helm he was momentarily tempted to follow
up the mathematical line of thought presented by that situation, but he
had neither time nor really the inclination. The bows hit the turbulent
water with a jar and a splash; the boat lurched in the eddy, but next
moment the towlines plucked them forward again. Two seconds' careful
steering and they were through the eddy and they were gliding over a
smooth surface once more, foam-streaked but smooth, and Hornblower was
laughing out loud. It had been simple, but so exhilarating that it did
not occur to him to condemn himself for his earlier misgivings. Jenkins
looked back, turning in his saddle, and waved his whip, and Hornblower
waved back.

'Horatio, you _must_ come and have your dinner,' said Maria. 'And you
have left me alone all day.'

'Not long before we reach Oxford now, dear,' said Hornblower--he was
just able to conceal the fact that he had temporarily, until then,
forgotten the existence of his wife and child.

'Horatio----'

'In a little while, dear,' said Hornblower.

The winter evening was closing round them, the light mellowing while it
faded over ploughland and meadow, over the pollard willows knee-deep in
the stream, over the farmhouses and cottages. It was all very lovely;
Hornblower had the feeling that he did not want this moment ever to end.
This was happiness, as his earlier feelings of well-being changed to
something more peaceful, just as the surface of the river had changed
below the eddy. Soon he would be back in another life again, plunged
once more into a world of cruelty and war--the world he had left behind
in the tidewater of the Severn and would meet again in the tidewater of
the Thames. It was symbolic that it should be here in the centre of
England, at the midpoint of his journey, that he should reach this
momentary summit of happiness. The cattle in the fields, the rooks in
the trees--were they part of this happiness? Possibly, but not
certainly. The happiness came from within him, and depended on even more
transitory factors than those. Hornblower breathed the evening air as
though it were divine poetry, and then he noticed Jenkins waving to him
from his saddle and pointing with his whip, and the moment was over,
lost for ever.

That was the next staunch at which Jenkins was pointing. Hornblower
steered boldly for it, without a moment of nervousness; he steadied the
boat on her course above it, felt the heave and sudden acceleration as
she topped the slope, and grinned with delight as she shot down it, hit
the eddy below, and emerged as before after a brief period of
indecision. Onward, down the river, through the gathering night.
Bridges; another staunch--Hornblower was glad it was the last; there had
been much point to what Jenkins had said about needing daylight in which
to run them--villages, churches. Now it was quite dark, and he was cold
and weary. The next time Maria came aft to him he could address her
sympathetically, and even share her indignation that Oxford was so far
away. Jenkins had lighted candle-lanterns; one hung on the collar of the
lead horse and the other from the cantle of the saddle of the horse he
rode. Hornblower, in the stern-sheets of the _Queen Charlotte_, saw the
specks of light dancing on the towpath--they gave him an indication of
the turns the river was making, and just enabled him to steer a safe
course, although twice his heart was in his mouth as the side of the
boat brushed against the reeds at the river bank. It was quite dark when
Hornblower felt the boat slow up suddenly with the easing of the
towlines, and in response to Jenkins' quiet hail he steered the boat
towards a lantern-lit landing-stage; ready hands took the lines and
moored the boat, and the passengers began to swarm out.

'Captain--sir?' said Jenkins.

That was not the way he had used the word 'captain' at their first
acquaintance. Then it had been with an equalitarian gibe; now he was
using the formula and the intonation that would be used by any member of
a ship's company addressing his captain.

'Yes?' said Hornblower.

'This is Oxford, sir, and the relief is here.'

In the wavering lantern light Hornblower could see the two men
indicated.

'So now I can have my dinner?' he asked, with gentle irony.

'That you can, sir, an' it's sorry I am that you have had to wait for
it. Sir, I'm your debtor. Sir----'

'Oh, that's all right, Jenkins,' said Hornblower testily. 'I had my own
reasons for wishing to get to London.'

'Thank'ee, sir, and----'

'How far to London now?'

'A hundred miles to Brentford, sir, by the river. You'll be there at the
first light. How'll the tide be then, Jem?'

'Just at the flood,' said the member of the relief crew holding the
whip. 'You can take water there, sir, an' be at Whitehall Steps in an
hour.'

'Thank you,' said Hornblower. 'I'll say good-bye to you, then, Jenkins.'

'Good-bye, sir, and thank'ee agen for a true gennelman.'

Maria was standing by the bows of the boat, and even in the dim light
Hornblower thought he could detect reproach in her attitude. But it was
not immediately apparent in her words.

'I've found you a hot supper, Horatio,' was what she said.

'By Jingo!' said Hornblower.

Standing on the quay were a few boys and young women come to sell food
to the river travellers. The one who caught Hornblower's eye was a
sturdy lad with a keg, clearly containing beer, on a barrow, and
Hornblower realized that he was consumed with thirst even more acutely
than with hunger.

'That's what I want,' he said. 'Give me a quart.'

'On'y pints, sir,' said the boy.

'Two pints then, you lubber.'

He emptied the first wooden piggin without an effort, without even
taking breath, and started on the second, before he remembered his
manners. He had honestly been so consumed with thirst that he had
forgotten them completely.

'How about you, dear?' he asked Maria.

'I think I'd like half a pint,' said Maria--Hornblower could have
guessed at her reply beforehand; Maria would think it was a sign of a
lady to drink beer only by the half pint.

'On'y pints, sir,' said the boy again.

'Well, give the lady a pint and I'll finish it,' said Hornblower, his
second piggin two-thirds empty.

'All aboard!' called the new steersman. 'All aboard!'

'That'll be a shilling, sir,' said the boy.

'Fourpence a pint for this beer!' marvelled Maria.

'Cheap at the price,' said Hornblower. 'Here, boy.'

Out of sheer lightness of heart he gave the boy a florin, and the boy
spun it in the air delightedly before putting it in his pocket.
Hornblower took the piggin from Maria's hand and drained it and tossed
it to the boy.

'All aboard!'

Hornblower stepped down into the boat and elaborately handed Maria down
too. He was taken a little aback to find that the _Queen Charlotte_ had
acquired some more first-class passengers either here or farther back
along their route. There were two or three men and half a dozen women
sitting in the cabin lit by the light of a lamp; little Horatio was
asleep in one corner. Maria was fluttered; she wanted to speak about
domestic subjects, but was self-conscious about it in the presence of
strangers. She whispered what she had to say, while her hands now and
then gesticulated towards the stony-faced strangers to indicate how much
more she would have said if there were no fellow passengers.

'That was two shillings you gave the boy, dear,' she said. 'Why did you
do it?'

'Just lunacy, my dear, lunacy,' said Hornblower, speaking lightheartedly
but not so far from the truth.

Maria sighed as she looked at this unpredictable husband of hers who
could throw away a shilling, and talk about lunacy in the hearing of
strangers without dropping his voice.

'And here's the supper I bought,' said Maria, 'while you were talking to
the men. I hope it's still hot. You've not had a bite all day, and by
now the bread and meat I brought for dinner will be stale.'

'I'll eat whatever there is, and more,' said Hornblower, with more than
a quart of beer inside his otherwise empty stomach.

Maria indicated the two wooden platters awaiting them on the bench
beside little Horatio.

'I got out our spoons and forks,' explained Maria. 'We leave the
platters on board here.'

'Excellent,' said Hornblower.

There were two sausages on each platter, embedded in masses of pease
pudding, still steaming. Hornblower sat down with his platter on his lap
and began to eat. Those were beef sausages, naturally, if they were not
mutton or possibly goat or horse, and they apparently were made from the
purest gristle. The skins were as tough as their contents. Hornblower
stole a sideways glance at Maria, eating with apparent contentment. He
had hurt her feelings several times to-day and he could not bear to do
it again; otherwise he would have pitched those sausages over the side
into the river where possibly the fish could deal with them. But as it
was he made a valiant effort to eat them. By the time he had started the
second he decided it was beyond him. He made his handkerchief ready in
his left hand.

'We'll be at the first lock any moment,' he said to Maria, with a
gesture of his right hand calling her attention to the dark window.
Maria tried to peer out, and Hornblower flipped the second sausage into
his handkerchief and stuffed it into his side pocket. He caught the eye
of the elderly man sitting nearly opposite him across the narrow cabin.
This individual had been sitting muffled up in great coat and scarf, his
hat pressed down low on his forehead, grouchily keeping watch from under
his eyebrows at every movement the Hornblowers had made. Hornblower gave
him an elaborate wink in reply to the astonishment which replaced the
grouchy old gentleman's bad-tempered curiosity. It was not a
conspiratorial wink, nor did Hornblower attempt the hopeless task of
trying to pretend that he stuffed hot greasy sausages into his pocket
every day of his life; the wink simply dared the old gentleman to
comment on or even think about the remarkable act. He applied himself to
finishing off the pease pudding.

'You eat so fast, dear,' said Maria. 'It cannot be good for your
stomach.'

She herself was struggling desperately with her own sausages.

'I'm hungry enough to eat a horse,' said Hornblower. 'Now I'll start on
our dinner, stale or not.'

'I am delighted,' said Maria. 'Let me----'

'No, dear. Sit still. I'll look after myself.'

Hornblower took the food parcel and opened it.

'Quite excellent,' he said, with his mouth full of bread and meat.

At every moment he was making amends to Maria for his cavalier treatment
of her during the day. The larger the meals he ate, the more appetite he
evinced, the better Maria was pleased. A little gesture like helping
himself to his own dinner gratified her absurdly. He could give her so
much happiness; he could hurt her so easily.

'I regret having seen so little of you during the day, dear,' he said.
'It was my loss. But if I had not helped with the working of the boat we
should still be at Sapperton Tunnel.'

'Yes, dear,' said Maria.

'I would have liked to point out the scenery to you as we passed it,'
went on Hornblower, battling with the self-contempt that his hypocrisy
was arousing. 'I trust you enjoyed it even so?'

'Not nearly as much as if you had been with me, dear,' said Maria, but
gratified beyond all measure. She darted glances at the other women in
the cabin to detect the envy they must feel on account of her having
such a wonderful husband.

'The boy was good?' asked Hornblower. 'He ate his pap?'

'Every bit of it,' answered Maria proudly, looking down at the sleeping
child. 'He was inclined to whimper at times, but now he is sleeping
happily.'

'If it had been two years from now that we made this journey,' said
Hornblower, 'how interested he would have been! He would have helped
with the lines, and I could have taught him to hold the tiller.'

Now he was not being hypocritical at all.

'He showed a lively interest even now,' said Maria.

'And what about his little sister?' asked Hornblower. 'Did she behave
well?'

'Horatio!' said Maria, a little scandalized.

'I hope not badly, dear,' said Hornblower, smiling away her
embarrassment.

'No, excellently,' admitted Maria.

They were gliding into a lock; Hornblower heard the rattle of the
paddles being let down behind them.

'You made very little progress with your sausages, dear,' he said. 'Let
me dispose of them while you tackle some of this bread and meat, which
is really delicious.'

'But, dear----'

'I insist.'

He took Maria's platter and his own, and stepped out into the bows of
the boat in the darkness. It was the work of a moment to give the
platters a quick rinse overside; the work of another moment to drop
overside the sausage from his pocket, and he returned with the dripping
platters to a Maria both scandalized and delighted at the condescension
of her husband in thus doing menial work.

'Too dark to enjoy any scenery,' he said--already the boat was moving
out of the lock--'Maria, my dear, when you have completed your supper I
will endeavour to make you as comfortable as is possible for the night.'

He bent over the sleeping child while Maria repacked the remains of the
supper.

'Now, my dear.'

'Horatio, really you should not. Horatio, please, I beg of you----'

'No need for a hat at this time of night. Let's have it off. Now there's
plenty of room for you on the bench. Put your feet up here. No need for
shoes either. Not a word, now. Now a pillow for your head. The bag will
make a good foundation. Comfortable like that? Now, the coat over you to
keep you warm. There, now sleep well, my dear.'

Maria was carried away by his masterful attentions so that she could not
protest. She had lain still for a full two minutes before she opened her
eyes again to ask what he was doing for his own comfort.

'I shall be supremely comfortable, my dear. I'm an old campaigner. Now
close those eyes again, and sleep in peace, my dear.'

Hornblower was by no means supremely comfortable, although he had often
spent worse nights, in open boats, for instance. With Maria and the
child lying on the thinly-cushioned bench he had necessarily to sit
upright, as the other passengers were doing. What with the lamp and the
breathing of all those people in the cramped little cabin the air was
stuffy; his legs were cramped, the small of his back ached, and the part
on which he sat protested against bearing his weight unrelieved. But it
was only one night to live through, after all. He crammed his hands into
his pockets and settled himself again, while the boat went on down the
river through the darkness, stopping at intervals at the locks, bumping
gently against the walls, gliding forward again. He knew nothing,
naturally, of the river between Oxford and London, so he could not guess
where they were at any time. But they were heading downstream and
towards his new command.

Lucky he was to have a command, he told himself. Not a frigate, but a
sloop so big--twenty-two guns--as to justify having a captain and not a
commander. It was the best that could be hoped for, for the man who a
month ago was the six hundred and first captain out of the six hundred
and two on the list. Apparently Caldecott, the previous captain of the
_Atropos_, had broken down in health while fitting her out at Deptford,
which accounted for his unexpected summons thither to replace him. And
the orders had no sooner reached him than the news of Nelson's victory
at Trafalgar had arrived in England. Since that time no one had had a
thought save for Nelson and Trafalgar. The country was wild with delight
at the destruction of Villeneuve's fleet, and in the depths of sorrow at
Nelson's death. Nelson--Trafalgar--Nelson--Trafalgar--no column in a
newspaper, no momentary gossip with a stranger, but contained those
names. The country had been lavish with its rewards. A state funeral was
promised for Nelson; for the Navy there were peerages and knighthoods
and promotions. With the re-creation of the rank of Admiral of the Red
twenty new admirals had been promoted from the top of the captains'
list; two captains had fallen at Trafalgar, and two more had died; so
that Hornblower was now the five hundred and seventy-seventh captain in
seniority. But at the same time promotion had been lavish among the
commanders and lieutenants. There were forty-one new captains on the
list--there was something gratifying in the thought that now he was
senior to forty-two captains. But it meant that now there were six
hundred and nineteen captains seeking employment, and even in the vast
Royal Navy there were not enough vacancies for all those. A hundred at
least--more likely a hundred and fifty--would be on half-pay awaiting
employment. That was as it should be, one might think. That proportion
not only made allowance for sickness and old age among the captains, but
also made it unnecessary to employ those who had been proved to be
inefficient.

Unless the inefficient had friends in high places; then it would be the
friendless and the unfortunate who languished on half-pay. Hornblower
knew himself to be friendless, and even though he had just been
congratulating himself on his good fortune he always thought himself
ultimately doomed to misfortune. He was on his way to take over a ship
that someone else had fitted out, with officers and men he knew nothing
of; those facts were sufficient basis on which his gloomy pessimism
could build itself.

Maria sighed and turned herself on the bench; Hornblower crept down to
her to rearrange the heavy coat over her body.




CHAPTER III


At Brentford, in the early light of the winter's morning, it was cold
and damp and gloomy. Little Horatio whimpered ceaselessly; Maria was
uncomfortable and weary, as she stood beside Hornblower while her trunk
and Hornblower's two sea chests were being hoisted out of the boat.

'Is it far to Deptford, my dear?' she asked.

'Far enough,' said Hornblower; between Brentford and Deptford lay the
whole extent of London and much more besides, while the river on which
they were to travel wound sinuously in wide curves, backwards and
forwards. And they had arrived late, and the tide would barely serve.

The wherrymen were soliciting for his custom.

'Boat, sir? Sculls, sir? Oars, sir?'

'Oars,' said Hornblower.

It cost twice as much for a wherry rowed by two oarsmen as for one rowed
by a single man with sculls, but with the ebbing tide it was worth it.
Hornblower helped Maria and the baby down into the stern-sheets and
looked on while the baggage was handed down.

'Right, Bill. Give way,' said stroke-oar, and the wherry shot away from
the slip out on to the grey river.

'Ooh,' said Maria, a little afraid.

The oars ground in the rowlocks, the boat danced on the choppy water.

'They say the old King's fair mazed, sir, at Lord Nelson's death,' said
stroke, with a jerk of his hand towards Kew, across the river. 'That's
where he lives, sir. In the Palace there.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower; in no mood to discuss the King or Lord Nelson or
anyone else.

The wind was brisk and westerly; had it been easterly the river would
have been far more choppy, and their progress would be delayed, so there
was something at least to be said in favour of this grey world.

'Easy, 'Arry,' said bow, and the wherry began to round the bend.

'Hush, baby. Don't you like the nasty boat?' said Maria to little
Horatio, who was making it plain that Maria had guessed at the truth of
the matter.

'Nipper's cold, likely,' volunteered stroke.

'I think he is,' agreed Maria.

The boatman and Maria fell into conversation, to Hornblower's relief; he
could immerse himself in his thoughts then, in his hopes and his
apprehensions--the latter predominating--about his ship that awaited him
down river. It would only be an hour or two before he would go on board.
Ship, officers and crew were all unknown to him.

'The Dook lives there, ma'am,' said the boatman, through little
Horatio's yells, 'an' you can see the Bishop's Palace through the
trees.'

This was Maria's first visit to London; it was convenient that they
should have a loquacious boatman.

'See the pretty houses,' said Maria, dancing the baby in her arms. 'Look
at the pretty boats.'

The houses were getting thicker and thicker; they shot bridge after
bridge, and the boat traffic on the river was growing dense, and
suddenly Hornblower became aware they were at London's edge.

'Westminster, ma'am,' said the boatman. 'I used to ply on the ferry here
until they built the bridge. A ha'penny toll took the bread out of the
mouths of many an honest boatman then.'

'I should think so, indeed,' said Maria, sympathetically. By now she had
forgotten the dignity of her position as a captain's wife.

'White'all Steps, ma'am, and that 'ere's the Strand.'

Hornblower had taken boat to Whitehall Steps often, during those bitter
days of half-pay when he was soliciting employment from the Admiralty.

'St Paul's, ma'am.'

Now they were really within the City of London. Hornblower could smell
the smoke of the coal fires.

'Easy, 'Arry,' said bow again, looking back over his shoulder. Boats,
lighters, and barges covered the surface of the river, and there was
London Bridge ahead of them.

'Give way, 'ard,' said bow, and the two oarsmen pulled desperately
through a gap in the traffic above the bridge. Through the narrow arches
the tide ran fast; the river was piled up above the constriction of the
bridge. They shot down through the narrow opening.

'Goodness!' said Maria.

And here was the greatest port in the world; ships at anchor, ships
discharging cargo, with only the narrowest channel down the centre.
North country collier brigs, Ramsgate trawlers, coasters, grain ships,
with the grey Tower looking down on them.

'The Pool's always a rare sight, ma'am,' said stroke. 'Even wi' the war
an' all.'

All this busy shipping was the best proof that Bonaparte across the
water was losing his war against England. England could never be
conquered while the Navy dominated the sea, strangling the continental
powers while allowing free passage to British commerce.

Below the Pool lay a ship of war, idly at anchor, topmasts sent down,
hands at work on stages overside painting. At her bows was a crude
figurehead of a draped female painted in red and white; in her clumsily
carved hands she carried a large pair of gilded shears, and it was those
which told Hornblower what the ship was, before he could count the
eleven gun ports aside, before they passed under her stern and he could
read her name, _Atropos_. He choked down his excitement as he stared at
her, taking note of her trim and her lines, of the petty officer of the
anchor watch--of everything that in that piercing moment he could
possibly observe.

'_Atropos, twenty-two_,' said stroke-oar, noting Hornblower's interest.

'My husband is captain of her,' said Maria proudly.

'Indeed, sir?' answered stroke, with a new respect that must have been
gratifying to Maria.

Already the boat was swinging round; there was Deptford Creek and
Deptford Hard.

'Easy!' said bow. 'Give way again. Easy!'

The boat rasped against the shore, and the journey from Gloucester was
over. No, not over, decided Hornblower preparing to disembark. There was
now all the tedious business before them of getting a lodging, taking
their baggage there, and settling Maria in before he could get to his
ship. Life was a succession of pills that had to be swallowed. He paid
the boatman under Maria's watchful eye; fortunately a riverside lounger
came to solicit custom, and produced a barrow on which he piled the
luggage. Hornblower took Maria's arm and helped her up the slippery Hard
as she carried the baby.

'Glad I'll be,' said Maria, 'to take these shoes off. And the sooner
little Horatio is changed the better. There, there, darling.'

Only the briefest walk, luckily, took them to the 'George.' A plump
landlady received them, running a sympathetic eye over Maria's
condition. She took them up to a room while a maid under her vigorous
urgings sped to get hot water and towels.

'There, my poppet,' said the landlady to little Horatio.

'Ooh,' said Maria, sitting down on the bed and already beginning to take
off her shoes.

Hornblower was standing by the door waiting for his sea chests to be
brought up.

'When are you expecting, ma'am?' asked the landlady.

It seemed not a moment before she and Maria were discussing midwives and
the rising cost of living--the latter subject introduced by Maria's
determination to chaffer over the price of the room. The potman and the
riverside lounger carried the baggage up and put it down on the floor of
the room, interrupting the discussion. Hornblower took out his keys and
knelt eagerly at his chest.

'Horatio, dear,' said Maria, 'we're speaking to you.'

'Eh--what?' asked Hornblower absently over his shoulder.

'Something hot, sir, while breakfast is preparing?' asked the landlady.
'Rum punch? A dish o' tea?'

'Not for me, thank you,' said Hornblower.

He had his chest open by now and was unpacking it feverishly.

'Cannot that wait until we've had breakfast, dear?' asked Maria. 'Then I
could do it for you.'

'I fear not, ma'am,' said Hornblower, still on his knees.

'Your best shirts! You're crumpling them,' protested Maria.

Hornblower was dragging out his uniform coat from beneath them. He laid
the coat on the other chest and searched for his epaulette.

'You're going to your ship!' exclaimed Maria.

'Of course, my dear,' said Hornblower.

The landlady was out of the room and conversation could run more freely.

'But you must have your breakfast first,' expostulated Maria.

Hornblower made himself see reason.

'Five minutes for breakfast, then, after I've shaved,' he said.

He laid out his coat on the bed, with a frown at its creases, and he
unlatched the japanned box which held his cocked hat. He threw off the
coat he was wearing and undid, feverishly, his neckcloth and stock.
Little Horatio decided at that moment to protest again against a
heartless world, and Hornblower unrolled his housewife and took out his
razor and addressed himself to shaving while Maria attended to the baby.

'I'll take Horatio down for his bread and milk, dear,' said Maria.

'Yes, dear,' said Hornblower through the lather.

The mirror caught Maria's reflection, and he forced himself back into
the world again. She was standing pathetically looking at him, and he
put down his razor, and took up the towel and wiped the lather from his
mouth.

'Not a kiss since yesterday!' he said. 'Maria, darling, don't you think
you've been neglecting me?'

She came to his outheld arms; her eyes were wet, but the gentleness of
his voice and the lightness of his tone brought a smile to her lips
despite her tears.

'I thought I was the neglected one,' she whispered.

She kissed him eagerly, possessively, her hands at his shoulders,
holding him to her swollen body.

'I have been thinking about my duty,' he said to her, 'to the exclusion
of the other things I should have thought about. Can you forgive me,
dearest?'

'Forgive!' the smile and the tears were both more evident as she spoke.
'Don't say that, darling. Do what you will--I'm yours, I'm yours.'

Hornblower felt a wave of real tenderness rise within him as he kissed
her again; the happiness, the whole life, of a human creature depended
on his patience and his tact. His wiping off of the lather had not been
very effective; there were smears of it on Maria's face.

'Sweetness,' he said, 'that makes you my very dearest possession.'

And while he kissed her he thought of _Atropos_ riding to her anchor out
there in the river, and despised himself as a hypocritical unfaithful
lover. But his concealment of his impatience brought its reward, for
when little Horatio began to wail again it was Maria who drew back
first.

'The poor lamb!' she said, and quitted Hornblower's arms to go and
attend to him. She looked up at her husband from where she bent over the
child, and smiled at him. 'I must see that both of these men of mine are
fed.'

There was something Hornblower had to say, but it called for tact, and
he fumbled in his mind before he found the right way to say it.

'Dearest,' he said. 'I do not mind if the whole world knows I have just
kissed you, but I fear lest you would be ashamed.'

'Goodness!' said Maria, grasping his meaning and hurrying to the mirror
to wipe off the smears of lather. Then she snatched up the baby. 'I'll
see that your breakfast is ready when you come down.'

She smiled at him with so much happiness in her face, and she blew him a
kiss before she left the room. Hornblower turned again to renew the
lather and prepare himself for going on board. His mind was full of his
ship, his wife, his child, and the child to be. The fleeting happiness
of yesterday was forgotten; perhaps, not being aware that he was unhappy
now, he could be deemed happy to-day as well, but he was not a man with
a gift for happiness.

With breakfast finished at last he took boat again at the Hard to go the
short distance to his ship; as he sat in the stern-sheets he settled his
cocked hat with its gold loop and button, and he let his cloak hang
loose to reveal the epaulette on his right shoulder that marked him as a
captain of less than three years' seniority. He momentarily tapped his
pocket to make sure that his orders were in it, and then sat upright in
the boat with all the dignity he could muster. He could imagine what was
happening in _Atropos_--the master's mate of the watch catching sight of
the cocked hat and the epaulette, the messenger scurrying to tell the
first lieutenant, the call for sideboys and bos'n's mates, the wave of
nervousness and curiosity that would pass over the ship at the news that
the new captain was about to come on board. The thought of it made him
smile despite his own nervousness and curiosity.

'Boat ahoy!' came the hail from the ship.

The boatman gave an inquiring glance at Hornblower, received a nod in
return, and turned to hail back with a pair of lungs of leather.

'_Atropos!_'

That was positive assurance to the ship that this was her captain
approaching.

'Lay her alongside,' said Hornblower.

_Atropos_ sat low in the water, flush-decked; the mizzen chains were
within easy reach of Hornblower where he stood. The boatman coughed
decorously.

'Did you remember my fare, sir?' he asked, and Hornblower had to find
coppers to pay him.

Then he went up the ship's side, refusing, as far as his self-control
would allow, to let the incident fluster him. He tried to conceal his
excitement as he reached the deck amid the twittering of the pipes, with
his hand to his hat brim in salute, but he was not capable of seeing
with clarity the faces that awaited him there.

'John Jones, First Lieutenant,' said a voice. 'Welcome aboard, sir.'

Then there were other names, other faces as vague as the names.
Hornblower checked himself from swallowing in his excitement for fear
lest it should be noticed. He went to some pains to speak in a tone of
exactly the right pitch.

'Call the ship's company, Mr Jones, if you please.'

'All hands! All hands!'

The cry went through the ship while the pipes twittered and squealed
again. There was a rush of feet, a bustling and a subdued murmur. Now
there was a sea of faces before him in the waist, but he was still too
excited to observe them in detail.

'Ship's company assembled, sir.'

Hornblower touched his hat in reply--he had to assume that Jones had
touched his hat to him, for he was not aware of it--and took out his
orders and began to read.

'Orders from the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High
Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, addressed to Captain Horatio
Hornblower of His Majesty's Navy.

'You are hereby required----'

He read them through to the end, folded them, and returned them to his
pocket. Now he was legally captain of the _Atropos_, holding a position
of which only a court martial--or an Act of Parliament--or the loss of
the ship--could deprive him. And from this moment his half-pay ceased
and he would begin to draw the pay of a captain of a sixth-rate. Was it
significant that it was from this moment the mists began to clear from
before his eyes? Jones was a lantern-jawed man, his close-shaven beard
showing blue through his tan. Hornblower met his eyes.

'Dismiss the ship's company, Mr Jones.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

This might have been the moment for a speech, Hornblower knew. It was
even customary to make one. But he had prepared nothing to say; and he
told himself it was better to say nothing. He had it in mind that he
would give a first impression of someone cold and hard and efficient and
unsentimental. He turned to the waiting group of lieutenants; now he
could distinguish their features, recognize that they were distinct
individuals, these men whom he would have to trust and use for years in
the future; but their names had escaped him completely. He had really
heard nothing of them in those excited seconds after arriving on the
quarter-deck.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said to them. 'We shall know each other
better soon, I do not doubt.'

There was a touching of hats and a general turning away of them all
except Jones.

'There's an Admiralty letter waiting for you, sir,' said the latter.

An Admiralty letter! Orders! The key to the future, which would reveal
what was to be their fate--the words which might despatch him and the
_Atropos_ to China or Greenland or Brazil. Hornblower felt his
excitement surge up again--it had hardly subsided in any case. Once more
he checked himself from swallowing.

'Thank you, Mr Jones. I'll read it as soon as I have leisure.'

'Would you care to come below, sir?'

'Thank you.'

The captain's quarters in the _Atropos_ were as minute as Hornblower had
expected; the smallest possible day-cabin and night-cabin. They were so
small that they were not bulkheaded off from one another; a curtain was
supposed to be hung between them, but there was no curtain. There was
nothing at all--no cot, no desk, no chair, nothing. Apparently Caldecott
had made a clean sweep of all his belongings when he left the ship.
There was nothing surprising about that, but it was inconvenient. The
cabin was dark and stuffy, but as the ship was newly out of dry dock she
had not yet acquired all the manifold smells which would impregnate her
later.

'Where are these orders?' demanded Hornblower, brusque with his
suppressed excitement.

'In my desk, sir. I'll fetch 'em at once.'

It could not be too quickly for Hornblower, who stood under the little
skylight awaiting Jones' return. He took the sealed package into his
hand and stood holding it for a moment. This was an instant of
transition. The journey of the last twenty-four hours had been a longer
period, but of the same kind--an interval between one kind of activity
and another. The next few seconds would eventually transform the
_Atropos_ from an idle ship in the Thames to an active ship at sea,
lookouts at the mastheads, guns ready for action, peril and adventure
and death only just over the horizon if not alongside. Hornblower broke
the seal--the foul anchor of the Admiralty, the most inappropriate
emblem conceivable for a nation that ruled the sea. Looking up, he met
Jones' eyes, as the first lieutenant waited anxiously to hear what their
fate was to be. Hornblower knew now that he should have sent Jones away
before breaking the seal, but it was too late now. Hornblower read the
opening lines--he could have announced beforehand what would be the
first six words, or even the first twelve.

    You are hereby requested and required, immediately upon receipt
    of these orders----

This was the moment; Hornblower savoured it for one half of one second.

    ----to wait upon Henry Pallender, Esq., Blue Mantle Pursuivant
    at Arms, at the College of Heralds----

'God bless my soul,' said Hornblower.

'What is it, sir?' asked Jones.

'I don't know yet,' answered Hornblower.

    ----there to consult with him upon the arrangements to be made
    for the funeral Procession by water of the late Vice-Admiral
    Lord Viscount Nelson----

'So that's it,' said Hornblower.

'It's _what_, sir?' asked Jones, but Hornblower could not spare the time
at present to enlighten him.

    ----You will take upon yourself, by the authority of these
    orders, the command of all officers, seamen, and Royal Marines
    to be engaged in the Procession aforesaid, likewise of all
    vessels, boats and barges belonging to the Cities of London and
    Westminster and to the City Companies. You will issue all the
    orders necessary for the Procession to be conducted in a
    seaman-like manner. You will, by your consultations with Henry
    Pallender, Esq., aforesaid, ascertain the requirements of
    Ceremonial and Precedence, but you are hereby charged, upon your
    peril, to pay strict attention to conditions of Tide and Weather
    so that not only may Ceremonial be observed, but also that no
    Danger or Damage may be incurred by the boats, barges, and
    vessels aforesaid, nor by their Crews and Passengers.

'Please, sir. _Please_, sir,' said Jones.

His thoughts came back into the little cabin.

'These are orders for me personally,' he said. 'Oh--very well, you can
read them if you wish to.'

Jones read them with moving lips and finally looked up at Hornblower
with a bewildered expression.

'So the ship stays here, sir?' he asked.

'She certainly does. She is from this moment the flagship of the funeral
procession,' said Hornblower. 'I shall need a boat and boat's crew at
once. Oh yes, pen and paper to send a message to my wife.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'See there's a good petty officer in the boat. She'll be waiting a good
deal ashore.'

'Aye aye, sir. We're having men run every day.'

Of course desertion could be a very serious problem in a ship anchored
here in the river, within swimming distance of shore and innumerable
boats plying about, with the whole City of London close at hand into
which a deserter might disappear. And there could be the question of
liquor being surreptitiously sold on board from shore boats. And
Hornblower had been on board for a full ten minutes and he was no wiser
about the things he most wanted to know--about how _Atropos_ was manned
and officered, what she lacked, what was her material condition--than he
had been yesterday. But all the problems with which he was so anxious to
deal must for the moment be shelved, to be dealt with at intervals when
this new strange duty permitted. The mere question of the furnishing of
his cabin might demand more attention than he could spare at present.
Hornblower knew from the newspaper he had read yesterday that Nelson's
body was at the Nore, awaiting a fair wind before being brought up to
Greenwich. Time was pressing, and there were orders in hundreds to be
written, he did not doubt.

And so the moment of transition was over. If he had been allowed a
thousand guesses as to what his orders would contain, he would never
have thought of this particular duty. He could laugh about it if it were
not so serious. He could laugh in any case, and he did. After a moment's
glance of surprise Mr Jones decided that he should laugh too, and did
so, obsequiously.




CHAPTER IV


'Black breeches?' asked Hornblower, startled.

'Of course. Black breeches and stockings, and mourning bands,' said Mr
Pallender solemnly.

He was an aged man, and although the top of his head was bald he wore
the remainder of his white hair long, clubbed at the nape of his neck in
a thick short queue tied with black ribbon. He had pale blue eyes,
rheumy with age, and a thin pointed nose which in the chill of the room
bore a small drop at its reddish tip--perhaps always bore one.

Hornblower made a note on the sheet of paper before him regarding the
black breeches and stockings and mourning bands. He also made a mental
note that he would have to obtain these things for himself as well, and
he wondered where the money was coming from to do it.

'It would be best,' went on Mr Pallender, 'if the procession were to
pass through the City at midday. Then the populace will have plenty of
time to assemble, and the apprentices can do a morning's work.'

'I can't promise that,' said Hornblower. 'It depends on the tide.'

'The tide, Captain Hornblower? You must realize that this is a
ceremonial in which the Court--His Majesty himself--is deeply
interested.'

'But it has to depend on the tide all the same,' said Hornblower. 'And
even on the winds too.'

'Indeed? His Majesty will be most provoked if his ideas are scouted.'

'I see,' said Hornblower.

He thought of remarking that although His Majesty ruled the waves he had
no more control over the tides than had his illustrious predecessor King
Canute, but he thought better of it. Mr Pallender was not the type to
appreciate jokes about the limitations of the royal power. Instead
Hornblower decided to imitate Mr Pallender's solemnity.

'Since the actual day of the ceremonial hasn't yet been decided upon,'
he said, 'it might be possible to choose such a day as the tide serves
best.'

'I suppose so,' conceded Mr Pallender.

Hornblower made a note of the necessity of immediately consulting the
tide-tables.

'The Lord Mayor,' said Mr Pallender, 'will not be present in person, but
his representative will.'

'I understand.'

There would be some small relief in not being responsible for the person
of the Lord Mayor, but not much, seeing that the eight most senior
admirals in the Navy were going to be present, and were going to be his
responsibility.

'Are you sure you won't try a little of this brandy?' asked Mr
Pallender, giving the decanter a little push.

'No, thank you.'

Hornblower had no desire at all to drink brandy at this time of day; but
now he knew what gave Mr Pallender's nose that reddish tip. Mr Pallender
sipped appreciatively before going on.

'Now as regards the minute guns----'

Along the processional route apparently there were fifteen points at
which minute guns were to be fired, and His Majesty would be listening
to see that they were properly timed. Hornblower covered more paper with
notes. There would be thirty-eight boats and barges in the procession,
to be assembled in the tricky tideway at Greenwich, marshalled in order,
brought up to Whitehall Steps, and dispersed again after delivering over
the body to a naval guard of honour assembled there which would escort
it to the Admiralty to lie there for the night before the final
procession to St Paul's.

'Can you tell me, sir,' asked Hornblower, 'what kind of vessel these
ceremonial barges are?'

He regretted the question as soon as he asked it; Mr Pallender showed
surprise that any man should not be familiar with ceremonial barges, but
as for knowing how handy they were in choppy water, or even how many
oars aside they rowed, that was of course more than could be expected of
Mr Pallender. Hornblower realized that the sooner he took one over, and
rowed it over the course of the procession in the appropriate tidal
conditions, timing every stage, the better. He went on adding to his
pages of notes while Mr Pallender went on with what to him was most
important--the order of precedence of the boats; how the whole College
of Heralds would be present, including Norroy King of Arms and himself,
Blue Mantle Pursuivant; the Royal Dukes and the Admirals; the
formalities to be observed at the embarkation and the landing; the Chief
Mourner and the train-bearer, the pall-bearers and the Family of the
Deceased.

'Thank you, sir,' said Hornblower at last, gathering up his notes. 'I
will begin these preparations at once.'

'Greatly obliged, I'm sure, sir,' said Mr Pallender, as Hornblower took
his leave.

This was an operation as elaborate as Abercrombie's landing on the
Egyptian coast--and in the Mediterranean there were no tides to
complicate arrangements. Thirty-eight boats with their crews and
oarsmen; guards of honour; mourners and officials; there would be a
thousand officers and men at least under Hornblower's command. And
Hornblower's heart sank a little when he was able to take one of the
barges from the hands of the workmen who were attaching the insignia to
it in Deptford Yard, and conduct his own trials with it. It was a vast
clumsy vessel, not much smaller and no more manageable than a cargo
lighter. Forward in the open bows she pulled twelve oars; from midships
aft she was covered with a vast canopy of solid construction, exposing
an enormous area to the wind. The barge allotted to the conveyance of
the Body (Mr Pallender had made that capital letter quite obvious in
their discussion) was being so covered with plumes that she would catch
the wind like a frigate's mainsail. There must be lusty oarsmen detailed
to the task of rowing that barge along--and it would be best to have as
nearly as complete a relief available as possible, hidden away under the
canopy. But as she would head the procession, with the other boats
taking station upon her, he must be careful not to overdo that. He must
time everything exactly--up with the flood tide, arriving at Whitehall
Steps precisely at slack water so that the complicated manoeuvres there
could be carried out with the minimum of risk, and then back with the
ebb, dispersing barges and crews along the route as convenient.

'My dear,' said Maria to him, in their bedroom at the 'George,' 'I fear
I have little of your attention at present.'

'Your pardon, dear?' said Hornblower, looking round from the table at
which he was writing. He was deep in plans for issuing a solid breakfast
to a thousand men who would have small chance of eating again all day.

'I was telling you that I spoke to the midwife to-day. She seems a
worthy woman. She will hold herself free from to-morrow. As she lives
only in the next street there is no need for her to take up residence
here until the time comes, which is fortunate--you know how little money
we have, Horatio.'

'Yes, dear,' said Hornblower. 'Have those black breeches of mine been
delivered yet?'

It was a perfectly natural step from Maria's approaching confinement to
Hornblower's black breeches, _via_ the question of money, but Maria
resented her husband's apparent heartlessness.

'Do you care more for your breeches than for your child?' she asked,
'--or for me?'

'Dearest,' answered Hornblower. He had to put down his pen and rise from
his chair to comfort her. 'I have much on my mind. I can't tell you how
much I regret it at this moment.'

This was the very devil. The eyes not only of London but of all England
would be on that procession. He would never be forgiven if there was any
blunder. But he had to take Maria's hands in his and reassure her.

'You, my dear,' he said, smiling into her eyes, 'are my all in all.
There is nothing in my world as important as you are.'

'I wish I could be sure,' said Maria.

He kissed the hands he held.

'What can I say to make you sure?' he asked. 'That I love you?'

'That would be pleasant enough,' said Maria.

'I love you, dear,' he said, but he had not had now a smile from her as
yet, and he went on, 'I love you more dearly even than my new black
breeches.'

'Oh!' said Maria.

He had to labour the point to make sure that she understood he was both
joking and tender.

'More dearly than a thousand pair of black breeches,' he said. 'Could
any man say more?'

She was smiling now, and she took her hands from his and laid them on
his shoulders.

'Is that a compliment for me to treasure always?' she asked.

'It will always be true, my dear,' he said.

'You are the kindest of husbands,' she said, and the break in her voice
showed that she meant it.

'With the sweetest of wives,' he answered. 'And now may I go on with my
work?'

'Of course, darling. Of course. I fear I am selfish. But--but--darling,
I love you so. I love you so!'

'There, there,' said Hornblower patting her shoulder. Perhaps he felt as
strongly over this business as Maria did, but he had much else to feel
strongly about. And if he mismanaged these ceremonial arrangements the
child to come might go on short commons with him on half-pay for life.
And Nelson's body was at this very moment lying in state at Greenwich,
and the day after to-morrow was the date fixed for the procession, with
the tide beginning to flood at eleven, and there was still much to be
done. He was glad to get back to the writing of his orders. He was glad
to go back on board _Atropos_ and plunge into business there.

'Mr Jones, I'd be glad if you'd call the midshipmen and master's mates.
I need half a dozen who can write a fair round hand.'

The cabin of the _Atropos_ took on the appearance of a schoolroom, with
the midshipmen sitting on mess stools at improvised tables, with
inkwells and pens, copying out Hornblower's drafts of the orders, and
Hornblower going from one to another, like a squirrel in a cage,
answering questions.

'Please, sir, I can't read this word.'

'Please, sir, do I start a new paragraph here?'

It was one way of finding out something of the junior officers, of
distinguishing them as individuals out of what had been so far a
formless mass of officers; there were the ones who appealed for help at
every turn, and the ones who could make deductions from the context;
there were the stupid ones who wrote orders that made nonsense.

'Damn it, man,' said Hornblower. 'Would anyone out of Bedlam say a thing
like that--far less write it?'

'That's what it looked like, sir,' said the midshipman stubbornly.

'God help us all,' said Hornblower in despair.

But that was the man who wrote a very clear hand; Hornblower put him on
to the task of writing the beginnings of each letter.

    H.M.S. _Atropos_ at Deptford
    Jan 6th 1806
    Sir

    By virtue of the powers entrusted to me by the Lords
    Commissioners of the Admiralty----

Other men could carry on from there, with a saving of time. The ninety
different written orders with their duplicates were written at last, and
distributed by midnight; crews and petty officers had been found from
various sources for every boat that was to take part in the procession,
rations allotted to them, their place in the line clearly stated--'You
will take the seventeenth position, immediately after the barge of the
Commander-in-Chief at the Nore and immediately preceding that of the
Worshipful Company of Fishmongers.'

The final arrangements were made with Mr Pallender at two in the morning
of the day of the procession, and Hornblower, yawning, could think of
nothing else to be done. Yes, there was a final change to be made.

'Mr Horrocks, you will come with me with the Body in the first barge. Mr
Smiley, you'll command the second with the Chief Mourner.'

Horrocks was the stupidest of the midshipmen and Smiley the
brightest--it had been natural to reserve the latter for himself, but
now he realized how stupid Horrocks was, and how necessary it was to
keep him under his own eye.

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower fancied Smiley looked pleased at thus escaping from the
direct supervision of his captain, and he pricked that bubble.

'You'll have nine admirals and four captains as passengers, Smiley,' he
said. 'Including Admiral of the Fleet Sir Peter Parker and Lord St
Vincent.'

Smiley did not look nearly as pleased at that.

'Mr Jones, have the longboat with the hands at Greenwich Pier at six
o'clock, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'And call away the gig for me now.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'I'll be at the "George" until five. Send any messages there.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

He still had a personal life; Maria was very near her time now.

On deck there was a brisk westerly wind harping in the rigging, gusty,
Hornblower noted. The barges would call for careful handling unless it
dropped considerably. He stepped down into the gig.

'Make for Deptford Hard,' he ordered the coxswain, and clasped his coat
close tightly round him, for the cabin of the _Atropos_ had been hot
with lamps and candles and many people. He walked up the Hard and
knocked at the door of the 'George'; from the window at the side there
was a faint light showing and the window of their room above was
illuminated. The door opened to reveal the landlady.

'Oh, it's you, sir. I thought it was the midwife. I've just sent Davie
for her. Your good lady----'

'Let me by,' said Hornblower.

Maria was walking about the bedroom in her dressing-gown; two candles
illuminated the room, and the shadows of the bed-tester and the other
furniture moved in sinister fashion as Hornblower opened the door.

'Darling!' said Maria.

Hornblower came towards her, his hands held out.

'I hope all is well with you, dear,' he said.

'I think so. I--I hope so. It has only just begun,' said Maria.

They kissed.

'Darling,' said Maria. 'How good of you to come here. I--I was hoping I
should see you again before--before--my time came.'

'Not good of me,' said Hornblower. 'I came because I wanted to come. I
wanted to see you.'

'But you are so busy. To-day is the day of the procession, is it not?'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

'And our child will be born to-day. A little girl, dear? Or another
little boy?'

'We'll know soon,' said Hornblower. He knew which Maria wanted.
'Whichever it is we'll love her--or him.'

'That we shall,' said Maria.

The last syllable was jerked out of her more forcibly than necessary,
and Maria's face took on an expression of preoccupation.

'How is it, dearest?' asked Hornblower, concerned.

'Only a pain,' said Maria, smiling--forcing a smile, as Hornblower well
knew. 'They are not coming close together yet.'

'I wish I could help,' said Hornblower, in the manner of uncounted
millions of fathers.

'You have helped by coming to me, my darling,' said Maria.

A bustle outside the door and a knock heralded the entrance of the
midwife and the landlady.

'Well, well,' said the midwife. 'So it has began, has it?'

Hornblower looked her over carefully. She was not neat--no none could be
expected to be in those conditions--but she was at least sober, and her
gap-toothed smile was kindly.

'I'll have a look at you, ma'am,' said the midwife, and then, with a
sidelong glance, 'Gentlemen will retire.'

Maria looked at him. She was trying so hard to appear unconcerned.

'I'll see you again, dear,' said Hornblower, trying equally hard.

Outside the bedroom the landlady was cordial in her offers of
hospitality.

'How about a go of brandy, sir? Or a glass o' rum, hot?'

'No, thank you,' said Hornblower.

'The young gennelman's sleeping in with one o' the maids now,' explained
the landlady. 'He didn't cry, no, not a sound, when we carried him in. A
fine little fellow he is, sir.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower. He could smile at the thought of his little son.

'You'd better come into the coffee-room, sir,' said the landlady.
'There's still what's left of the fire there.'

'Thank you,' said Hornblower, with a glance at his watch. God, how time
was passing!

'Your good lady will be all right,' said the landlady maternally. 'It'll
be a boy, as sure as fate. I can tell by the way she was carrying.'

'Perhaps you'll be right,' said Hornblower, and he looked at his watch
again. He really must start preparations for the day.

'Now see here, please,' he said, and then he paused, as he made his mind
clear itself of its preoccupation with Maria, and of its deadly fatigue.
He began to list the things he needed from the bedroom upstairs, ticking
them off on his fingers as he told them to the landlady. The black
breeches and stockings, the epaulette and the best cocked hat, the sword
and the mourning band.

'I'll get 'em, sir. You can dress in here--no one won't disturb you, not
at this time o' night.'

She came back later with her arms full of the things Hornblower had
asked for.

'A marvel that I should forget this was the day of the Funeral, sir,'
she said. 'No one hasn't talked o' nothing else along the river not for
the last week. There's your things, sir.'

She looked closely at Hornblower in the candlelight.

'You'd better shave, sir,' she went on. 'You can use my husband's razor
if yours is in the ship.'

One mention of maternity, it seemed, turned all women into mothers.

'Very well,' said Hornblower.

Later he was dressed and looking at his watch again.

'I must leave now,' he said. 'Will you find out if I can see my wife?'

'I'll tell you now you can't, sir,' said the landlady. 'Not if you can
hear what I can hear.'

Much of what Hornblower felt must have shown in his expression, for the
landlady went on----

'It'll all be over in a hower, sir: whyn't you wait a bit?'

'Wait?' repeated Hornblower, looking at his watch again. 'No, I can't do
that. I'll have to go.'

The landlady lighted the candle of his lantern at that on the
coffee-room mantel.

'Lord a mercy,' she said. 'You look just the picture. But it's cold
out.'

She fastened the button of his coat close at his neck.

'Can't have you catching cold. There! Don't you worry, now.'

Good advice, thought Hornblower, walking down the slope towards the
river again, but as difficult to act upon as most good advice. He saw
the light of the gig at the water's edge, and a sudden movement of
shadowy figures there. The gig's crew must have appointed one of its
members to keep watch for his lantern, while the others snatched what
sleep they could in the exceedingly uncomfortable spaces of the gig. But
however uncomfortable they were, they were better off than he was. He
felt he could sleep on the bobstay of the _Atropos_ if only he had the
chance. He got into the gig.

'Down river,' he ordered the coxswain.

At Greenwich Pier it was still dark, no sign as yet of the late January
dawn. And the wind was blowing steadily from the west, downstream. It
would probably freshen as the day went on. A loud challenge halted him
as he walked down the pier.

'Friend,' said Hornblower, opening his cloak for his lantern to show his
uniform.

'Advance and give the countersign!'

'The Immortal Memory,' said Hornblower--he had chosen that countersign
himself; one detail out of a thousand details of the day before.

'Pass, friend. All's well,' said the sentry.

He was a private in the Blackheath Militia; during the time the Body had
been lying in state at Greenwich there had had to be guards posted at
all points to prevent the public from straying into areas where they
were not wanted. The Hospital was lighted up; there was already bustle
and excitement there.

'The Governor's dressing now, sir,' said a wooden-legged lieutenant.
'We're expecting the quality at eight.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower. 'I know.'

It was he who had drawn up the time-table; the national, naval, and
civic dignitaries were to come by road from London, to accompany the
Body back by water. And here was the Body, in its coffin, the trestles
on which it lay concealed by flags and trophies and heraldic insignia.
And here came the Governor, limping with his rheumatism, his bald head
shining in the lamplight.

'Morning, Hornblower.'

'Good morning, sir.'

'Everything settled?'

'Yes, sir. But the wind's blowing very fresh from the west. It'll hold
back the flood.'

'I feared as much.'

'It will delay the boats, too, of course, sir.'

'Of course.'

'In that case, sir, I'd be obliged if you would do all you can to see
that the Mourners leave in time. There'll be little to spare, sir.'

'I'll do my best, Hornblower. But you can't hurry an Admiral of the
Fleet. You can't hurry Lord St Vincent. You can't hurry a Lord
Mayor--not even his representative.'

'It will be difficult, I know, sir.'

'I'll do my best, Hornblower. But they have to have their bite of
breakfast.'

The Governor gestured towards the next room where, under the supervision
of the wooden-legged lieutenant, seamen with black scarves round their
necks were laying out a meal. There were cold pies, there were hams,
there were cold roasts of beef being assembled on the buffet; silver was
being set out on the dazzling white cloth. At the smaller buffet a
trusted petty officer was setting out decanters and bottles.

'A bite and a glass of something?' asked the Governor.

Hornblower looked as always at his watch.

'Thank you, sir. I've three minutes to spare.'

It was gratifying to have a meal when he expected to have none; it was
gratifying to gulp down slices of ham which otherwise would have gone
down the throat of an Admiral of the Fleet. He washed the ham down with
a glass of water, to the ill-concealed amazement of the petty officer at
the wine buffet.

'Thank you, sir,' he said to the Governor. 'I must take my leave now.'

'Good-bye, Hornblower. Good luck.'

At the pier now it was almost dawn--light enough to satisfy the
Mohammedan definition of being able to distinguish a black thread from a
white. And the river was alive now with boats. From upstream the wind
carried down the sound of the splash of oars and sharp naval commands.
Here was the _Atropos'_ longboat, with Smiley and Horrocks in the stern;
here were the boats from the guardship and the receiving ship; measured
tread on the pier heralded the arrival of another contingent of seamen.
The day was beginning in earnest.

Really in earnest. The thirty-eight boats had to be manned and arranged
in their correct order, stretching a mile downstream. There were the
fools who had mislaid their orders, and the fools who could not
understand theirs. Hornblower dashed up and down the line in the gig,
that watch of his continually in and out of his pocket. To complicate
matters, the grog sellers, anticipating a good day's business, were
already out and rowing along the line, and they obviously had effected
some surreptitious sales. There were red faces and foolish grins to be
seen. The ebb was still running strongly, with the wind behind it.
Horrocks, in the state barge that was to carry the Body, completely
misjudged his distances as he tried to come alongside. The clumsy great
boat, swept round by the wind and borne by the tide, hit the pier on her
starboard quarter with a resounding crash. Hornblower on the pier opened
his mouth to swear, and then shut it again. If he were to swear at every
mishap he would be voiceless soon. It was enough to dart a glance at the
unhappy Horrocks. The big raw-boned lout wilted under it; and then
turned to rave at the oarsmen.

These ceremonial barges were heartbreaking boats to manage, admittedly.
Their twelve oars hardly sufficed to control their more than forty feet
of length, and the windage of the huge cabin aft was enormous.
Hornblower left Horrocks struggling to get into his station, and stepped
down into his gig again. They flew downstream; they toiled up.
Everything seemed to be in order. Hornblower, looking over the side from
the pier when he landed again, thought he could detect a slacking of the
ebb. Late, but good enough. High and clear from the Hospital came the
notes of a trumpet. Tone-deaf as he was, the notes meant nothing to him.
But the sound itself was sufficient. The militia were forming up along
the road from the Hospital to the pier, and here came the dignitaries in
solemn procession, walking two by two, the least important leading. The
boats came to the pier to receive them, in inverted order of
numbers--how hard that had been for Hornblower to impress upon the petty
officers commanding--and dropped back again downstream to wait,
reversing their order. Even now there was a boat or two out of correct
order, but this was not a moment for trifles. The dignitaries on the
pier were hustled into even inappropriate boats without a chance of
protesting. More and more important were the dignitaries advancing on to
the pier--here were the Heralds and Pursuivants, Mr Pallender among
them. And here at last was the Chief Mourner, Admiral of the Fleet Sir
Peter Parker, with Blackwood bearing his train, and eight other admirals
with--as the drill-book stated--melancholy aspects; perhaps their
aspects would be melancholy even without the drill-book. Hornblower saw
them down into their boat, all of them. The tide had turned, and already
the flow was apparent. Minutes would be precious now.

The shattering boom of a gun from not far away made Hornblower start,
and he hoped nobody would notice it. That was the first of the minute
guns, that would boom on from now until the Body reached its next
temporary resting-place at the Admiralty. For Hornblower it was the
signal that the Body had started from the Hospital. He handed Sir Peter
Parker into the barge. A loud order from the militia colonel, and the
troops reversed their arms and rested on them. Hornblower had seen them
doing that drill every available minute during the last two days. He
reversed his own sword with as much military precision as he could
manage--a couple of days ago Maria, coming into the bedroom at the
'George,' had caught him practising the drill, and had laughed
immoderately. The mourners' barge had shoved off, and Horrocks was
gingerly bringing his up to the pier. Hornblower watched from under his
eyebrows, but now that the wind was against the tide it was not such a
difficult operation. The band approached; all tunes were dreary to
Hornblower, but he gathered that the one they were playing was drearier
than most. They wheeled to the right at the base of the pier, and the
seamen drawing the gun-carriage, stepping short, with bowed heads, came
into view behind them. Hornblower thought of the long line of boats
struggling to keep position all down the reach, and wished they would
step out, although he knew such a wish was nonsense. The monotonous
booming of the minute gun marked the passage of valuable time. Up to the
pier's end came the carriage. It was a tricky business to transfer the
coffin from the gun-carriage to the top of the state barge; Hornblower
caught some of the words whispered, savagely, by the petty officer
supervising the operation, and tried not to smile at their incongruity.
But the coffin was put safely in place, and quickly lashed into
position, and while the wreaths and flags were being arranged to conceal
the lashings Hornblower advanced to the barge. He had to make himself
step short, with his back bowed and the melancholy aspect on his face,
his reversed sword under his right arm, and he strove to maintain the
attitude while making the wide stride from the pier on to the stern of
the barge behind the canopy.

'Shove off!' he ordered, out of the side of his mouth. The minute guns
bellowed a farewell to them as the barge left the pier, the oar-blades
dragging through the water before she gathered way. Horrocks beside him
put the tiller over, and they headed out for midstream. Before they
straightened on their course Hornblower, his head still bowed, was able
to steal a sideways glance downstream at the waiting procession. All
seemed to be well; the boats were bunched in places, crowded in others,
with the effort of maintaining station in difficult weather conditions,
but once everyone was under way it would be easier.

'Slow at first,' he growled to Horrocks, and Horrocks translated the
order to the rowers; it was necessary to give the boats time to take up
station.

Hornblower wanted to look at his watch. Moreover, he realized that he
would have to keep his eye continually on his watch, and he certainly
could not be pulling it out of his pocket every minute. The foot of the
coffin was there by his face. With a quick movement he hauled out both
watch and chain, and hung them on the end handle, the watch dangling
conveniently before his nose. All was well; they were four minutes late,
but they still had a full eleven minutes in reserve.

'Lengthen the stroke,' he growled to Horrocks.

Now they were rounding the bend. The shipping here was crowded with
spectators, so was the shore, even as far from London as this. The
_Atropos_ had her yards manned by the remnant of her crew, as Hornblower
had ordered. He could see that out of the tail of his eye; and as they
approached the clear sharp bang of her aftermost nine-pounder took up
the tale of minute guns from the one at Greenwich. All well, still. Of
all the ungrateful duties a naval officer ever had to perform, this one
must be the worst. However perfect the performance, would he receive any
credit? Of course not. Nobody--not even the Admiralty--would stop and
think how much thought and labour were necessary to arrange the greatest
water procession London had ever seen, on one of the trickiest possible
tideways. And if anything went wrong there were hundreds of thousands of
pairs of eyes ready to observe it, and hundreds of thousands of pairs of
lips ready to open in condemnation.

'Sir! Sir!'

The curtains at the after end of the cabin had parted; an anxious
seaman's face was peering out, from where the reserve rowers lay
concealed; so anxious was the speaker that he put out his hand to twitch
at Hornblower's black breeches to call attention to himself.

'What is it?'

'Sir! We've sprung a leak!'

My God! The news chimed in with his thoughts with perfectly devilish
accuracy of timing.

'How bad?'

'Dunno, sir. But it's up over the floorboards. That's 'ow we know. Must
be making pretty fast, sir.'

That must have been when Horrocks allowed the barge to crash against the
pier. A plank started. Up over the floorboards already? They would never
get to Whitehall Steps in time, then. God, if they were to sink here in
the middle of the river! Never, never, _never_, would England forgive
the man who allowed Nelson's coffin to sink, unceremoniously, in Thames
mud beside the Isle of Dogs. Get in to shore and effect repairs? With
the whole procession behind them--God, what confusion there would be!
And without any doubt at all they would miss the tide, and disappoint
the waiting thousands, to say nothing of His Majesty. And to-morrow was
the final ceremony, when the Body would be carried from the Admiralty to
St Paul's--dukes, peers, the royal family, thousands of troops, hundreds
of thousands of people were to take part in or to watch the ceremonies.
To sink would be disaster. To stop would be disaster. No; he could get
into shore and effect repairs, causing to-day's ceremony to be
abandoned. But then they could get the Body up to the Admiralty
to-night, enabling to-morrow's funeral to be carried out. It would ruin
him professionally, but it was the safest half-measure. No, no, no! To
hell with half-measures.

'Mr Horrocks!'

'Sir!'

'I'll take the tiller. Get down in there. Wait, you fool, and listen to
me. Get those floorboards up and deal with that leak. Keep bailing--use
hats or anything else. Find that leak and stop it if you can--use one of
the men's shirts. Wait. Don't let all the world see you bailing. Pitch
the water out here, past my legs. Understand?'

'Er--yes, sir.'

'Give me the tiller, then. Get below. And if you fail I'll have the hide
off you, if it's the last thing I do on earth. Get below.'

Horrocks dived down through the curtains, while Hornblower took the
tiller and shifted his position so as to see forward past the coffin. He
had to let his sword drop, and of course had had to abandon his
melancholy aspect, but that was no hardship. The westerly wind was
blowing half a gale now, right in their teeth; against the tide it was
raising a decided chop on the water--spray was flying from the bows and
now and then the oar-blades raised fountains. Perhaps it was a fitting
homecoming for the dead hero whose corpse lay just before him. As they
came to the bend a fresher gust set them sagging off to leeward, the
wind acting powerfully on all the top hamper in the stern.

'Put your backs into it!' shouted Hornblower to the rowers, throwing
much of his dignity to the wind, although he was the leading figure in
the procession.

The rowers clenched their teeth, snarling with the effort as they tugged
at the oars, dragging the obstinate barge by main force forward. Here
the wind, acting directly against the tide, was raising some quite
respectable rollers, and the barge plunged over them, bows up, bows
down, stagger, and heave, like a fishing smack in a gale at sea,
lurching and plunging; it was hard to stand upright in her, harder to
hold her on her course. And surely--surely--Hornblower was conscious of
the water on board cascading forward and back as she plunged. With the
ponderous coffin stowed so high up he was nervous about the stability of
the absurd craft. Inch by inch they struggled round the bend, and once
round it the massed shipping on the north side gave them a lee.

'Haven't you got those floorboards up, Mr Horrocks?' said Hornblower,
trying to hurl the words down into the cabin without stooping in the
sight of the crowds.

He heard a splintering crash at that moment, and Horrocks' face emerged
between the curtains.

'They were all nailed down tight here,' he said. 'I had to prise 'em up.
We're down by the stern an' we'd have to bail from here, anyways.'

What with the coffin and the auxiliary rowers they would, of course, be
down by the stern.

'How much water?'

'Nigh on a foot, I should say, sir.'

'Bail like hell!'

Horrocks' nose had hardly been withdrawn from between the curtains when
a hatful of water shot out past Hornblower's legs, and was followed by
another and another and another. A good deal of it soused Hornblower's
new black breeches. He cursed but he could not complain. That was
Bermondsey on the Surrey shore; Hornblower glanced at his watch dangling
from the coffin. They were dropping very slightly behind time, thanks to
this wind. Not dangerously, though. They were not nearly in as much
danger of missing the tide as they were of sinking in mid-river.
Hornblower shifted position miserably in his soaking breeches and
glanced back. The procession was keeping station well enough; he could
see about half of it, for the centre of it was just now fighting round
the bend he had already negotiated. Ahead lay another bend, this time to
starboard. They would have a head-wind there again.

So indeed they had. Once more they plunged and staggered over the
rollers. There was one moment when the barge put her bows down and
shipped a mass of water over them--as much must have come in as Horrocks
had been able by now to bail out. Hornblower cursed again, forgetting
all about the melancholy aspect he should maintain. He could hear and
feel the water rolling about in her as she plunged. But the hatfuls of
water were still flying out from between the curtains, past--and on
to--Hornblower's legs. Hornblower did not worry now about the effect on
the crowd of the sight of the funeral barge bailing out; any seamen
among the crowd, seeing that rough water, would appreciate the necessity
for it without making allowance for a leak. They fought their way round
the bend; for a few desperate moments it seemed as if they were making
no progress at all, with the oar-blades dragging through the water. But
the gust was succeeded by a momentary lull and they went on again.

'Can't you plug that leak, Mr Horrocks?'

''Tain't easy, sir,' said Horrocks, putting his nose out again. 'There's
a whole plank stove in. The tree-nails at the ends are on'y just
holding, sir. If I plug too hard----'

'Oh, very well. Get on with the bailing again.'

Make for the shore? Over there, beside the Tower? That would be a
convenient place. No, damn it. Never. Bail, bail, bail. Steer a course
that gave them the utmost advantage from the flood and from the lee
afforded by the shipping--that calculation was a tricky one, something
to occupy his mind. If he could spare a moment to look round he could
see the thousands of spectators massed along the shores. If he could
spare a moment--God, he had forgotten all about Maria! He had left her
in labour. Perhaps--most likely--the child was born by now.
Perhaps--perhaps--no, that did not bear thinking about.

London Bridge, with its narrow arches and the wicked swirls and eddies
beyond. He knew by the trials he had made two days ago that the oars
were too wide for the arches. Careful timing was necessary; fortunately
the bridge itself broke most of the force of the wind. He brought the
tiller over and steadied the barge as best he could on a course direct
for the arch's centre.

'Now, pull!' he bellowed to the oarsmen; the barge swept forward,
carried by the tide and the renewed efforts of the oarsmen. 'In oars!'

Fortunately they did it smartly. They shot into the arch, and there the
wind was waiting for them, shrieking through the gap, but their way took
them forward. Hornblower measured their progress with his eye. The bows
lurched and began to swing in the eddy beyond, but they were just clear
enough even though he himself was still under the arch.

'Pull!' he yelled--under the bridge he had no fear of being seen
behaving without dignity.

Out came the oars. They groaned in their rowlocks. The eddy was turning
her--the oars were dragging her forward--now the rudder could bite
again. Through--with the eddies left behind.

The water was still cascading out through the curtains, still soaking
his dripping breeches, but despite the rate at which they were bailing
he did not like the feel of the barge at all. She was sluggish, lazy.
The leak must be gaining on them, and they were nearing the danger
point.

'Keep pulling!' he shouted to the rowers; glancing back he saw the
second barge, with the Chief Mourners, emerging from the bridge. Round
the bend to sight the churches in the Strand--never did shipwrecked
mariner sight a sail with more pleasure.

'Water's nearly up to the thwarts, sir,' said Horrocks.

'Bail, damn you!'

Somerset House, and one more bend, a shallow one, to Whitehall Steps.
Hornblower knew what orders he had given for the procession--orders
drawn up in consultation with Mr Pallender. Here the funeral barge was
to draw towards the Surrey bank, allowing the next six barges in turn to
come alongside the Steps and disembark their passengers. When the
passengers had formed up in proper order, and not until then, the
funeral barge was to come alongside for the coffin to be disembarked
with proper ceremony. But not with water up to the thwarts--not with the
barge sinking under his feet. He turned and looked back to where Smiley
was standing in the stern-sheets of the second barge. His head was bowed
as the instructions stated, but fortunately the coxswain at the tiller
noticed, and nudged Smiley to call his attention. Hornblower put up his
hand with a gesture to stop; he accentuated the signal by gesturing as
though pushing back. He had to repeat the signal before Smiley
understood and nodded in reply. Hornblower ported his helm and the barge
came sluggishly round, creeping across the river. Round farther; no;
with that wind, and with the flood slacking off, it would be better to
come alongside bows upstream. Hornblower steadied the tiller, judging
his distances, and the barge crept towards the Steps.

'Easy all!'

Thank God, they were alongside. There was a Herald at Arms, tabard and
all, standing there with the naval officer in command of the escort.

'Sir!' protested the Herald, as vehemently as his melancholy aspect
allowed, 'You're out of your order--you----'

'Shut your mouth!' growled Hornblower, and then, to the naval officer,
'Get this coffin ashore, quick!'

They got it ashore as quickly as dignity would permit; Hornblower,
standing beside them, head bowed, sword reversed again, heaved a genuine
sigh of relief as he saw, from under his lowered brows, the barge rise
perceptibly in the water when freed from the ponderous weight of the
coffin. Still with his head bowed he snapped his orders.

'Mr Horrocks! Take the barge over to the jetty there. Quick. Get a
tarpaulin, put it overside and plug that leak. Get her bailed out. Give
way, now.'

The barge drew away from the Steps; Hornblower could see that Horrocks
had not exaggerated when he said the water was up to the thwarts.
Smiley, intelligently, was now bringing the Mourners' barge up to the
Steps, and Hornblower, remembering to step short, moved out of the way.
One by one they landed, Sir Peter Parker with Blackwood bearing his
train, Cornwallis, St Vincent. St Vincent, labouring on his gouty feet,
his shoulders hunched as well as his head bent, could hardly wait to
growl his complaints, out of the corner of his mouth as he went up the
Steps.

'What the devil, Hornblower?' he demanded. 'Don't you read your own
orders?'

Hornblower took a few steps--stepping slow and short--alongside him.

'We sprung a leak, sir--I mean, my lord,' he said, out of the corner of
his mouth in turn. 'We were nigh on sinking. No time to spare.'

'Ha!' said St Vincent. 'Oh, very well then. Make a report to that
effect.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said Hornblower.

He halted again, head bowed, sword reversed, and allowed the other
mourners to flow on past him. This was extemporized ceremonial, but it
worked. Hornblower tried to stand like a statue, although no statue he
had ever seen was clothed in breeches streaming with wet. He had to
repress a start when he remembered again about Maria. He wished he knew.
And then he had more difficulty in repressing another start. His watch!
That was still dangling on the coffin, now being put into the waiting
hearse. Oh well, he could do nothing about that at the moment. And
nothing about Maria. He went on standing in his icy breeches.




CHAPTER V


The sentry at the Admiralty was worried but adamant.

'Pardon, sir, but them's my orders. No one to pass, not even a Admiral,
sir.'

'Where's the petty officer of the guard?' demanded Hornblower.

The petty officer was a little more inclined to listen to reason.

'It's our orders, sir,' he said, however. 'I daren't, sir. You
understand, sir.'

No naval petty officer gladly said 'no' to a Post Captain, even one of
less than three years' seniority.

Hornblower recognized a cocked-hatted lieutenant passing in the
background.

'Bracegirdle!' he hailed.

Bracegirdle had been a midshipman along with him in the old
_Indefatigable_, and had shared more than one wild adventure with him.
Now he was wearing a lieutenant's uniform with the aiguillettes of a
staff appointment.

'How are you, sir?' he asked, coming forward.

They shook hands and looked each other over, as men will, meeting after
years of war. Hornblower told about his watch, and asked permission to
be allowed in to get it. Bracegirdle whistled sympathetically.

'That's bad,' he said. 'If it was anyone but old Jervie I'd risk it. But
that's his own personal order. I've no desire to beg my bread in the
gutter for the rest of my days.'

Jervie was Admiral Lord St Vincent, recently become First Lord of the
Admiralty again, and once Sir John Jervis whose disciplinary principles
were talked of with bated breath throughout the Navy.

'You're his flag lieutenant?' asked Hornblower.

'That's what I am,' said Bracegirdle. 'There are easier appointments.
I'd exchange for the command of a powder hulk in Hell. But I only have
to wait for that. By the time I've gone through my period of servitude
with Jervie that'll be the only command they'll offer me.'

'Then I can say good-bye to my watch,' said Hornblower.

'Without even a farewell kiss,' said Bracegirdle. 'But in after years
when you visit the crypt of St Paul's you will be able to look at the
hero's tomb with the satisfaction of knowing that your watch is in there
along with him.'

'Your humour is frequently misplaced, Mr Bracegirdle,' replied
Hornblower, quite exasperated, 'and you seem to have forgotten that the
difference in rank between us should invite a more respectful attitude
on the part of a junior officer.'

Hornblower was tired and irritated; even as he said the words he was
annoyed with himself for saying them. He was fond of Bracegirdle, and
there was still the bond of perils shared with him, and the memory of
lighthearted banter in the days when they were both midshipmen. It was
not good manners, so to speak, to make use of his superior rank (which
only good fortune had brought him) to wound Bracegirdle's feelings--as
undoubtedly he had, and merely to soothe his own. Bracegirdle brought
himself stiffly to attention.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' he said. 'I allowed my tongue to run away with
me. I hope you will overlook the offence, sir.'

The two officers eyed each other for a moment before Bracegirdle unbent
again.

'I haven't said yet how sorry I am about your watch, sir,' he said. 'I'm
genuinely sorry on your account. Really sorry, sir.'

Hornblower was about to make a pacific reply, when another figure
appeared behind Bracegirdle, huge and ungainly, still in gold-laced full
dress, and peering from under vast white eyebrows at the two officers.
It was St Vincent; Hornblower touched his hat and the gesture informed
Bracegirdle that his superior was behind him.

'What's the young man so sorry about, Hornblower?' asked St Vincent.

Hornblower explained as briefly as he could, with hardly a stumble this
time over saying 'my Lord.'

'I'm glad to see Mr Bracegirdle was carrying out my orders,' said St
Vincent. 'We'd have the Admiralty chock a block with sightseers in a
moment otherwise. But you have my personal permission, Captain
Hornblower, to pass the sentries.'

'Thank you, my lord. I am most grateful.'

St Vincent was about to hobble on his way when he checked himself and
looked more acutely than ever at Hornblower.

'Have you been presented to His Majesty yet, young Hornblower?'

'No sir--my lord.'

'You should be. Every officer should show his respect to his king. I'll
take you myself.'

Hornblower thought about his wife, about the new baby, about his ship at
Deptford, about his wet uniform which would have to be pressed into
incredible smartness before he could show it at court. He thought about
the rich, and the great, and the powerful, who frequented courts, and
knew he would be out of place there and would be unhappy every minute he
was compelled to appear there. It might be possible to make an excuse.
But--but it would be a new adventure. The distasteful aspects about
which he had been thinking were really so many challenges, which he felt
spurred to meet.

'Thank you, my lord,' he said, searching in his mind for the words
appropriate to the subject, 'I should be most honoured, most deeply
obliged.'

'Settled, then. To-day's Monday, isn't it? Levee's on Wednesday. I'll
take you in my coach. Be here at nine.'

'Aye aye, sir--my lord.'

'Pass Captain Hornblower through, Mr Bracegirdle,' said St Vincent, and
hobbled on his way.

Bracegirdle led Hornblower through to where the coffin stood on its
trestles, and there, sure enough, the watch still hung on the end
handle. Hornblower unhooked it with relief and followed Bracegirdle out
again. There he stood and offered his hand to Bracegirdle in farewell;
as they clasped hands Bracegirdle's expression was one of hesitant
inquiry.

'Two bells in the forenoon watch the day after to-morrow, then, sir,' he
said; there was the faintest accent on the 'forenoon.'

'Yes, I'll see you then,' said Hornblower.

His other responsibilities were crowding in upon him, and he turned and
hurried back to Whitehall Steps. But as he walked, with his mind busily
engaged in planning his activities for the next two days, that slight
stress came back into his mind. Bracegirdle had relieved him of one
small extra worry--by to-morrow at the latest he would have been in
painful doubt as to whether his appointment with St Vincent had been for
the morning or the evening.

At the Steps the ebb was already running full; there were broad strips
of mud visible on either side of the river. Over at the Lambeth jetty
the funeral barge could be seen with Horrocks and his men completing
their task of getting a tarpaulin over the bottom of the boat. The other
boats which had taken part in the procession were clustered here, there,
and everywhere, and it was with pleasure that Hornblower saw his own gig
clinging to the steps below him. He climbed down into it, picked up his
speaking trumpet, and plunged into the business of dispersing the craft
in accordance with the scheme he had laid down in his previous orders.
The wind was blowing as briskly as ever, but now that the tide had
turned the water was more smooth, and the only new difficulty he
encountered was the great number of small craft that now were pulling
about the river, bearing sightseers to a closer inspection of the
ceremonial vessels.

Aldermen and City Companies, Heralds at Arms and Admirals, had all
landed and gone home to their respective dinners, and the January
darkness had hardly closed in before Hornblower dismissed the last of
his charges at Greenwich and, getting back into his gig, was able with
relief to give the order to pull for Deptford Hard. He climbed wearily
up to the 'George,' cold and hungry and fatigued. That busy day seemed
to stretch back in his memory for a week at least--except that he had
left Maria in labour only that morning.

He came walking into the 'George,' and the first face that he caught
sight of was the landlord's--a shadowy figure with whom he was scarcely
acquainted, in this house where the landlady assumed all the
responsibility.

'How's my wife?' demanded Hornblower.

The landlord blinked.

'I don't rightly know, sir,' he said, and Hornblower turned away from
him impatiently and ran up the stairs. He hesitated at the bedroom door,
with his hand on the handle; his heart was beating fast. Then he heard a
murmur of voices within and opened the door. There was Maria in bed,
lying back on the pillows, and the midwife moving about by the window.
The light of a candle faintly illuminated Maria's face.

'Horry!' said Maria; the glad surprise in her voice accounted for her
use of the diminutive.

Hornblower took her hand.

'All well, dearest?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Maria.

She held up her lips to be kissed, but even before the kiss was
completed she was turning her eyes towards the wicker basket which stood
on a small table beside the bed.

'It's a little girl, darling,' she said. 'Our little girl.'

'And a fine little babby too,' added the midwife.

Hornblower walked round the bed and peered into the basket. The blanket
there concealed a diminutive figure--Hornblower, grown accustomed to
playing with little Horatio, had forgotten how tiny a thing was a
new-born baby--and a minute red face, a sort of caricature of humanity,
was visible on the little pillow. He gazed down upon it; the little lips
opened and emitted a squall, faint and high-pitched, so that little
Horatio's remembered cries were lusty bellows by comparison.

'She's beautiful,' said Hornblower, gallantly, while the squalling
continued and two minute clenched fists appeared above the edge of the
blanket.

'Our little Maria,' said Maria, 'I'm sure her hair is going to curl.'

'Now, now,' said the midwife, not in reproof of this extravagant
prophecy but because Maria was trying to lift herself in bed to gaze at
the child.

'She has only to grow up like her mother,' said Hornblower, 'to be the
best daughter I could wish for.'

Maria rewarded him with a smile as she sank back on the pillow again.

'Little Horatio's downstairs,' she said. 'He has seen his sister.'

'And what did he think of her?'

'He cried when she did,' said Maria.

'I had better see how he is,' suggested Hornblower.

'Please do,' said Maria, but she extended her hand to him again, and
Hornblower bent and kissed it.

The room was very warm with a fire burning briskly in the grate, and it
smelt of sickness, oppressive to Hornblower's lungs after the keen
January air that had filled them all day.

'I am happy beyond all measure to see you so well, dear,' said
Hornblower, taking his leave.

Downstairs as he stood hesitating in the hall the landlady popped her
head out from the kitchen.

'The young gennelman's in here, sir,' she said, 'if you don't mind
stepping in.'

Little Horatio was sitting up in a high-chair. His face lit up with a
smile as he caught sight of his father--the most flattering experience
Hornblower had ever known--and he bounced up and down in his chair and
waved the crust he held in his fist.

'There! See him smile 'cause his daddy's come home!' said the landlady;
then she hesitated before she put forward a suggestion which she knew to
verge on the extravagant. 'His bedtime's coming soon, sir. Would you
care to play with him until then, sir?'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

'There, baby!' said the landlady. 'Daddy's going to play with you.
Oops-a-daisy, then. The bar parlour's empty now, sir. This way, sir.
Emily, bring a candle for the captain.'

Little Horatio was in two minds, once he found himself on the parlour
floor, as to which of two methods of progression was most satisfactory
to a man almost a year old. On hands and knees he could make prodigious
speed, and in any direction he chose. But on the other hand he could
pull himself upright by clinging to the leg of a chair, and the radiant
expression on his face when he did so was proof of the satisfaction this
afforded him. Then, having let go of the chair, provided he had already
been successful in the monstrous effort necessary to turn away from it,
he could manage to take a step towards his father; he was then compelled
to stop and sway perilously on widely separated feet before taking
another step, and it was rarely that he could accomplish a step before
sitting down on the floor with something of a bump. And was it possible
that the monosyllable he said so frequently--'Da' it sounded like--was
an attempt to say 'Daddy?'

This was happiness again, fleeting, transient, to have his little son
tottering towards him with a beaming smile.

'Come to Daddy,' said Hornblower, hands outstretched.

Then the smile would turn to a mischievous grin, and down on his hands
and knees went young Horatio, galloping like lightning across the room,
and gurgling with delirious joy when his father came running after him
to seize him and swing him into the air. Simple and delightful pleasure;
and then as Hornblower held the kicking gurgling baby up at arm's length
he had a fleeting recollection of the moment when he himself had hung
suspended in the mizzen rigging on that occasion when the
_Indefatigable's_ mizzen mast fell when he was in command of the top.
This child would know peril and danger--and fear; in later years. He
would not let the thought cloud his happiness. He lowered the baby down
and then held him at arm's length again--a most successful performance,
judging by the gurgles it elicited.

The landlady came in, knocking at the door.

'That's a big man,' she said, and Hornblower forced himself not to feel
self-conscious at being caught enjoying the company of his own child.

'Dunno what come over me, sir,' went on the landlady. 'I clear forgot to
ask if you wanted supper.'

'Supper?' said Hornblower. The last time he had eaten was in the Painted
Hall at Greenwich.

'Ham an' eggs?' asked the landlady. 'A bite o' cold beef?'

'Both, if you please,' said Hornblower.

'Three shakes of a duck's tail an' you'll have 'em,' said the landlady.
'You keep that young feller busy while I get it.'

'I ought to go back to Mrs Hornblower.'

'She'll do for another ten minutes without you,' said the landlady,
briskly.

The smell of bacon and eggs when they came was heavenly. Hornblower
could sit down with appetite while Emily bore little Horatio off to bed.
And after bacon and eggs, cold beef and pickled onions, and a flagon of
beer--another simple pleasure, that of eating his fill and more, the
knowledge that he was eating too much serving as a sauce to him who kept
himself almost invariably within bounds and who looked upon
over-indulgence usually with suspicion and contempt. With his duty
carried out successfully to-day he had for once no care for the morrow,
not even when the day after to-morrow would see him engaged in the
rather frightening experience of attending the King's levee. And Maria
had come safely through her ordeal, and he had a little daughter who
would be as adorable as his little son. Then he sneezed three times
running.




CHAPTER VI


'Whitehall Steps,' said Hornblower, stepping down into his gig at
Deptford Hard.

It was convenient having his gig for use here; it was faster than a
wherryman's boat and it cost him nothing.

'Give way!' said the coxswain.

Of course it was raining. The westerly wind still blew and bore with it
to-day flurries of heavy rain, which hissed down on the surface of the
river, roared on the tarpaulins of the wretched boat's crew, and rattled
loudly on the sou'wester which Hornblower wore on his head while he
sheltered his cocked hat under his boat cloak. He sniffed lamentably. He
had the worst cold he had ever experienced, and he needed to use his
handkerchief. But that meant bringing a hand out from under his cloak,
and he would not do that--with the boat cloak spread round him like a
tent as he sat in the stern-sheets, and with the sou'wester on top, he
could hope to keep himself reasonably dry as far as Whitehall if he did
not disturb the arrangement. He preferred to sniff.

Up the river, through the rain; under London Bridge, round the bends he
had come to know so well during the last few days. He cowered in misery
under his boat cloak, shuddering. He was sure he had never felt so ill
in his life before. He ought to be in bed, with hot bricks at his feet
and hot rum-and-water at his side, but on the day when the First Lord
was going to take him to the Court of St James's he could not possibly
plead illness, not even though the shivers ran up and down his spine and
his legs felt too weak to carry him.

The Steps were slippery where the tide had receded from them; in his
weak state he could hardly keep his footing as he climbed them. At the
top, with the rain still beating down, he put his appearance to rights
as well as he could. He rolled up the sou'wester and put it in the
pocket of his cloak, put on his cocked hat, and hurried, bending forward
into the driving rain, the hundred and fifty yards to the Admiralty.
Even in the short time that took him his stockings were splashed and
wet, and the brim of his cocked hat was filled with water. He was glad
to stand before the fire in the Captain's Room while he waited until
Bracegirdle came in with the announcement that His Lordship was ready
for him.

'Morning, Hornblower,' said St Vincent, standing under the portico.

'Good morning, my lord.'

'No use waiting for a smooth,' growled St Vincent, looking up at the
rain and eyeing the distance between him and his coach. 'Come on.'

He hobbled manfully forward. Hornblower and Bracegirdle advanced with
him. They had no cloaks on--Hornblower had left his at the
Admiralty--and had to wait in the rain while St Vincent walked to the
coach and with infinite slowness hauled himself into it. Hornblower
followed him and Bracegirdle squeezed in after him, perching on the
turn-down seat in front. The coach rumbled forward over the cobbles,
with a vibration from the iron-rimmed wheels that found an echo in the
shudders that were still playing up and down Hornblower's spine.

'All nonsense, of course, having to use a coach to St James's from the
Admiralty,' growled St Vincent. 'I used to walk a full three miles on my
quarter-deck in the old _Orion_.'

Hornblower sniffed again, miserably. He could not even congratulate
himself on the fact that as he felt so ill he knew almost no qualms
about his new experience which was awaiting him, because, stupefied by
his cold, he was unable even to indulge in his habitual self-analysis.

'I read your report last night, Hornblower,' went on St Vincent.
'Satisfactory.'

'Thank you, my lord.' He braced himself into appearing intelligent. 'And
did the funeral at St Paul's go off well yesterday?'

'Well enough.'

The coach rumbled down the Mall.

'Here we are,' said St Vincent. 'You'll come back with me, I suppose,
Hornblower? I don't intend to stay long. Nine in the morning and I
haven't done a third of my day's work yet.'

'Thank you, my lord. I'll take station on you, then.'

The coach door opened, and Bracegirdle nimbly stepped out to help his
chief down the steps. Hornblower followed; now his heart was beating
faster. There were red uniforms, blue and gold uniforms, blue and silver
uniforms, in evidence everywhere; many of the men were in powder. One
powdered wig--the dark eyes below it were in startling
contrast--detached itself and approached St Vincent. The uniform was
black and silver; the polished facets of the silver-hilted sword caught
and reflected the light at a myriad points.

'Good morning, my lord.'

'Morning, Catterick. Here's my protg, Captain Horatio Hornblower.'

Catterick's keen dark eyes took in every detail of Hornblower's
appearance in one sweeping glance, coat, breeches, stockings, sword, but
his expression did not change. One might gather he was used to the
appearance of shabby naval officers at levees.

'His Lordship is presenting you, I understand, Captain. You accompany
him into the Presence Chamber.'

Hornblower nodded; he was wondering how much was implied by that word
'protg.' His hat was in his hand, and he made haste to cram it under
his arm as the others did.

'Follow me, then,' said St Vincent.

Up the stairs; uniformed men on guard on the landings; another black and
silver uniform at the head of the stairs; a further brief exchange of
sentences; powdered footmen massed about the doorway; announcements made
in a superb speaking voice, restrained but penetrating.

'Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent. Captain Horatio
Hornblower. Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.'

The Presence Chamber was a mass of colour. Every possible uniform was
represented there. The scarlet of the infantry; light cavalry in all the
colours of the rainbow, be-frogged and be-furred, cloaks swinging,
sabres trailing; heavy cavalry in jack boots up to the thigh; foreign
uniforms of white and green; St Vincent carried his vast bulk through
them all, like a battleship among yachts. And there was the King, seated
in a throne-like chair with a lofty back; it was an odd surprise to see
him, in his little tie-wig, looking so exactly like his pictures. Behind
him stood a semi-circle of men wearing ribbons and stars, blue ribbons,
red ribbons, green ribbons, over the left shoulder and over the right;
Knights of the Garter, of the Bath, of St Patrick, these must be, the
great men of the land. St Vincent was bending himself in clumsy
obeisance to the King.

'Glad to see you, my lord, glad to see you,' said the latter. 'Haven't
had a moment since Monday. Glad all went well.'

'Thank you, sir. May I present the officer responsible for the naval
ceremonial?'

'You may.'

The King turned his eyes on Hornblower; light blue eyes, prominent, but
kindly.

'Captain Horatio Hornblower,' said St Vincent, and Hornblower did his
best to bow, as his French emigre dancing teacher had tried to teach him
ten years before, left foot forward, hand over his heart. He did not
know how far down to bend; he did not know how long to stay there when
he had bent. But he came up again at last, with something of the
sensation of breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive.

'What ship, sir? What ship?' asked the King.

'_Atropos, twenty-two_, Your Majesty.'

Sleepless during the previous night Hornblower had imagined that
question might be put to him, and so the answer came fast enough.

'Where is she now?'

'Deptford, Your Majesty.'

'But you go to sea soon?'

'I--I----' Hornblower could not answer that question, but St Vincent
spoke up for him.

'Very shortly, sir,' he said.

'I see,' said the King. 'I see.'

He put up his hand and stroked his forehead with a gesture of infinite
weariness before recalling himself to the business in hand.

'My great-nephew,' he said, 'Prince Ernst--did I speak to you about him,
my lord?'

'You did, sir,' answered St Vincent.

'Do you think Captain Hornblower would be a suitable officer for the
duty?'

'Why yes, sir. Quite suitable.'

'Less than three years' seniority,' mused the King, his eyes resting on
Hornblower's epaulette. 'But still. Harmond!'

'Your Majesty.'

A glittering figure with ribbon and star came gliding forward from the
semi-circle.

'Present Captain Hornblower to His Serene Highness.'

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

There was a smile in the pale blue eyes.

'Thank you, Captain,' said the King. 'Do your duty as you have done it,
and your conscience will always be clear.'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' said Hornblower.

St Vincent was bowing again; Hornblower bowed. He was aware of the fact
that he must not turn his back upon the King--that was almost the sum of
his knowledge of court ceremonial--and he found it not so difficult to
withdraw. Already there was a line formed of people waiting their turn
to reach the royal presence, and he sidled away from them in St
Vincent's wake.

'This way, if you please,' said Harmond, directing their course to the
farther side of the room. 'Wait a moment.'

'His Majesty's service makes strange bedfellows sometimes,' said St
Vincent as they waited. 'I hardly expected you would be saddled with
this, Hornblower.'

'I--I have not yet understood,' said Hornblower.

'Oh, the Prince is----'

'This way, if you please,' said Harmond, appearing again.

He led them towards a diminutive figure who awaited them with composure.
A young man--no, only a boy--wearing an outlandish uniform of gold and
green, a short gold-hilted sword at his side, orders on his breast, and
two more hanging from his neck. Behind him towered a burly figure in a
more moderate version of the same uniform, swarthy, with fat pendulous
cheeks. The boy himself was handsome, with fair hair falling in ringlets
about his ears, frank blue eyes and a nose slightly turned upwards. The
burly figure stepped forward, intercepting the approach of the group to
the boy. Harmond and he exchanged glances.

'Presentations should be made to me first,' said the burly figure; he
spoke thickly, in what Hornblower guessed to be a German accent.

'And why, sir?' asked Harmond.

'By the fundamental law of Seitz-Bunau only the High Chamberlain can
make presentations to His Serene Highness.'

'Yes?'

'And I, sir, am the High Chamberlain. As you know.'

'Very well, sir,' said Harmond with resignation. 'Then may I have the
honour to present--Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent; Captain
Horatio Hornblower; Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.'

Hornblower was about to bow, but out of the tail of his eye he caught
sight of St Vincent still holding himself ponderously erect, and he
restrained himself.

'To whom have I the honour of being presented?' asked St Vincent,
coldly. It appeared as if St Vincent entertained some prejudice against
Germans.

'Doctor Eisenbeiss,' said Harmond.

'His Excellency the Baron von Eisenbeiss, High Chamberlain and Secretary
of State to His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau,' said the
burly man, in further explanation. 'It is with much pleasure that I make
your acquaintance.'

He stood meeting St Vincent's eyes for a moment, and then he bowed; St
Vincent bowed only after Eisenbeiss had begun to bow; Hornblower and
Bracegirdle followed his example. All four of them straightened up at
the same moment.

'And now,' said Eisenbeiss, 'I have the honour to present----'

He turned to the Prince and continued his speech in German, apparently
repeating his first words and then mentioning the names in turn. The
little Prince gave a half bow at each name, but as St Vincent bowed
low--nearly as low as he had bowed to the King--Hornblower did likewise.
Then the Prince spoke in German to Eisenbeiss.

'His Serene Highness says,' translated the latter, 'that he is delighted
to make the acquaintance of officers of His Majesty's Navy, because it
is His Highness's will that he should make war against the French tyrant
in their company.'

'Tell His Serene Highness,' said St Vincent, 'that we are all delighted,
too.'

The translation was made, and the Prince produced a smile for each of
them. Then there was an uncomfortable moment as they looked at each
other. Finally Eisenbeiss said something again to the Prince, received a
reply, and then turned to the group.

'His Serene Highness,' he announced, 'says that he will not detain you
longer.'

'Hm'ph,' said St Vincent, but he bent himself once more in the middle,
as did the others, and then they withdrew themselves, backwards and
sideways, from out of His Serene Highness's presence.

'Damned upstart whippersnapper,' mumbled St Vincent to himself, and then
added, 'At any rate, our duty's done. We can leave. Follow me over to
that door.'

Down below loud bawling by a footman in the courtyard brought up the
Earl's coach again, and they climbed in, Hornblower utterly dazed by
reason of his cold, the excitement he had been through, and his
puzzlement about the incident in which he had taken part.

'Well, that's your midshipman, Hornblower,' said St Vincent. His voice
was so like the rumbling of the iron tyres over the cobbles that
Hornblower was not sure that he had heard aright--especially as what St
Vincent had said was so strange.

'I beg your pardon, my lord?'

'I've no doubt you heard me. I said that's your midshipman--the Prince
of Seitz-Bunau.'

'But who is he, my lord?'

'One of those German princes. Boney chased him out of his principality
last year, on his way to Austerlitz. Country's brimful of German princes
chased out by Boney. The point is that this one's the King's
great-nephew, as you heard.'

'And he's to be one of my midshipmen?'

'That is so. He's young enough to learn sense, not like most of 'em.
Most of 'em go in the army. On the staff, God help the staff. But now
the navy's fashionable--first time since the Dutch Wars. We've been
winning battles, and God knows the soldiers haven't. So all the ne'er do
well young lords join the Navy nowadays instead of the Light Dragoons.
It was His Majesty's own idea that this young fellow should do the
same.'

'I understand, my lord.'

'It won't do him any harm. _Atropos_ won't be any palace, of course.'

'That's what I was thinking, my lord. The midshipmen's berth in
_Atropos_----'

'You'll have to put him there, all the same. Not much room in a
flush-decked sloop. If it were a ship of the line he might berth by
himself, but if it's to be _Atropos_ he'll have to take what comes. And
it won't be caviar and venison, either. I'll send you orders on the
subject, of course.'

'Aye aye, my lord.'

The coach was grinding to a stop at the Admiralty; someone opened the
door, and St Vincent began to heave himself out of his seat. Hornblower
followed him in under the portico.

'I'll bid you good-bye, then, Hornblower,' said St Vincent, offering his
hand.

'Good-bye, my lord.'

St Vincent stood looking at him from under his eyebrows.

'The Navy has two duties, Hornblower,' he said. 'We all know what one
is--to fight the French and give Boney what for.'

'Yes, my lord?'

'The other we don't think about so much. We have to see that when we go
we leave behind us a Navy which is as good as the one in which we
served. You've less than three years' seniority now, Hornblower, but
you'll find you'll grow older. It'll seem you've hardly had time to look
round before you'll have forty-three years' seniority, like me. It goes
fast enough, I assure you. Perhaps then you'll be taking another young
officer to present him at the Palace.'

'Er--yes, my lord.'

'Choose carefully, Hornblower, if it ever becomes your duty. One can
make mistakes. But let them be honest mistakes.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'That's all.'

The old man turned away without another word, leaving Hornblower with
Bracegirdle under the portico.

'Jervie's in a melting mood,' said Bracegirdle.

'So it seems.'

'I think he wanted to say he had his eye on you, sir.'

'But he had an anchor out to windward all the same,' said Hornblower,
thinking of what St Vincent had said about the chance of one making
mistakes.

'Jervie never forgives, sir,' said Bracegirdle, seriously.

'Well----'

Twelve years of service in the Navy had gone far to make Hornblower, on
occasions, fatalist enough to be able to shrug off that sort of
peril--at least until it was past.

'I'll take my boat cloak, if you please,' he said, 'and I'll say
good-bye, and thank you.'

'A glass of something? A cup of tea? A mouthful to eat, sir?'

'No, thank you, I'd better shove off.'



Maria was waiting for him at Deptford, longing to hear about his visit
to Court and his presentation to the King. Maria had been wildly excited
when Hornblower had told her what he was going to do. The thought that
he was going to meet face to face the Lord's anointed was almost too
much for her--the midwife had come forward with a warning that all this
excitement might bring on a fever. And he had not merely been presented
to the King, but the King had actually spoken to him, had discussed his
professional career with him. Besides, he was to have a real Prince as a
midshipman on board his ship--a dispossessed prince, admittedly, but to
counter-balance that was the fact that the prince was a great-nephew of
the King, related by blood to the Royal Family. That would delight Maria
as much as his presentation at Court.

She would want to know all about it, who was there (Hornblower found
himself wishing he had been able to identify a single one of the figures
who had stood behind the throne) and what everyone was wearing--that
would be easier, as there had been no women present, of course, at the
levee, and practically everyone had been in uniform. He would have to be
careful in his account, as it was possible to hurt Maria's feelings.
Hornblower himself fought for his country; it might be better said that
he fought for the ideals of liberty and decency against the unprincipled
tyrant who ruled across the Channel; the hackneyed phrase 'for King and
Country' hardly expressed his feelings at all. If he was ready to lay
down his life for his King that really had no reference to the kindly
pop-eyed old gentleman with whom he had been speaking this morning; it
meant that he was ready to die for the system of liberty and order that
the old gentleman represented. But to Maria the King was representative
of something other than liberty and order; he had received the blessing
of the Church; he was somebody to be spoken about with awe. To turn
one's back on the King was to Hornblower a breach of good manners,
something damaging, in some degree, to the conventions which held the
country together in the face of its imminent peril; but to Maria it
would be something very close to sacrilege. He would have to be careful
not to speak too lightly of the old gentleman.

And yet (the gig was carrying him through the Pool now, under the walls
of the Tower) Hornblower had to admit it to himself that Maria's views
about his service in the Navy were not on as lofty a plane as his own.
To Maria it was a gentlemanly trade; it gave her a certain social status
to which she otherwise would not have attained, and it put food into the
mouth of her precious child--children, now that little Maria was born.
But self-sacrifice for a cause; the incurring of danger beyond the
dictates of duty; honour; glory; these were conceptions that Maria cared
little about. She was in fact rather inclined to turn up her nose at
them as purely masculine notions, part of an elaborate game or ritual
devised by men to make them feel superior to and different from women
whose self-respect and sublime certainty of superiority needed no such
puerile bolstering.

It was a surprise to Hornblower to find that the gig was now passing the
_Atropos_ as she lay at the edge of the stream. He should have been all
eyes to see that all was well with her and that the officer of the watch
had been on the alert to detect the gig as she came down the river; as
it was Hornblower merely had time to acknowledge the salute of
Lieutenant Jones as the gig left the ship behind. There was Deptford
Dock, and beside it the enormous activities of the Victualling Yard.
From a sailing barge lying beside the jetty a gang of men were at work
driving a herd of pigs up into the yard, destined for slaughter and
salting down to feed the Navy.

'Eyes in the boat, there!' growled the coxswain.

One of the gig's crew had made a _sotto voce_ joke about those pigs,
evidently. It was hard to believe, even with this evidence before their
eyes, that the unrecognizable, wooden hard chunks of matter that were
issued from the brine barrels to the men at sea, really came from decent
respectable animals like those there. Hornblower's sympathies were with
his men. The coxswain was putting his tiller over to bring the gig up to
Deptford Hard. Hornblower disembarked, to walk up to the 'George,' to
where his family was awaiting him. He would sit by Maria's bed and tell
her about the pageantry of the Court of St James's. He would hold his
little daughter in his arms; he would play with his little son. It might
well be for the very last time; at any moment his orders would come, and
he would take _Atropos_ to sea. Battle, storm, shipwreck, disease--what
were the chances that he would never come back again? And if ever he did
the squalling baby he was leaving behind would be a trim little miss
playing with her dolls; little Horatio would be at least starting with
slate and pencil writing his letters and figures; he might be beginning
to decline mensa and learning the Greek alphabet. And he himself? He
hoped he would be able to say he had done his duty; he hoped that those
weaknesses of which he was so conscious would not prevent him from
achieving something of which his children might be proud.




CHAPTER VII


So it was to be the Mediterranean. Hornblower sat in his canvas chair in
his cabin in _Atropos_, re-reading the orders which had come for him.

    Sir--

    I am commanded by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty----

He was to prepare himself with the utmost diligence ready to proceed to
Gibraltar, and there he was to call for orders which the Vice-Admiral
Commanding in the Mediterranean might send to him there. In the event
that no such orders should be forthcoming, he was to ascertain where the
Vice-Admiral was likely to be found, and to proceed with the same
diligence to put himself under the Vice-Admiral's orders.

That must be Cuthbert Collingwood--Lord Collingwood now that he had
received his peerage after Trafalgar. The fleet that had won the battle
there--or such ships of it as were still seaworthy--had been sent into
the Mediterranean after the battle, he knew. The destruction of the
French and Spanish fleets outside Cadiz had definitely established
British command of the Atlantic, so now the Navy was carrying its
ponderous weight into the Mediterranean to head off there any moves that
Bonaparte might make now that Austerlitz had given him command of
Continental Europe. Austerlitz----Trafalgar. The French army----and the
Royal Navy. The one might be balanced against the other. There was no
corner of Europe whither French troops might not march--as long as there
was land for them to march on; there was no corner of the sea where
British ships might not bring their influence to bear--as long as there
was water in which they could float. In the landlocked Mediterranean
with its peninsulas and islands sea power could best confront land
power. The bloody and seemingly endless conflict between tyranny and
liberty would be fought out there. He would play his part in it. The
Secretary to the Lords Commissioners signed himself 'your obedient
humble servant,' but before he did so he went on to say that Their
Lordships rested assured that _Atropos_ was ready for immediate
departure, so that on receipt of final orders and of the last-minute
despatches which would be entrusted to her she would be able to leave at
once. Hornblower and his ship, in other words, were being put on notice
of instant readiness.

Hornblower felt a slight feeling of apprehension, a sensation of
gooseflesh at the back of his neck. He did not believe that his ship was
prepared in all respects to leave at a moment's notice.

Hornblower lifted up his voice in a call to the sentry outside his door.

'Pass the word for Mr Jones.'

He heard the cry repeated in the 'tween decks like an echo, as he sat on
with the orders in his hands. It was only a few moments before Mr Jones
came in hastily, and it was only when he arrived that Hornblower
realized that he had not prepared himself to give the necessary orders
and make the necessary inquiries. As a result Hornblower found himself
compelled to look Jones over without speaking. His mind was sorting out
his thoughts without reacting at all to the reports his eyes were making
to it, but Hornblower's steady stare discomposed the unfortunate Jones,
who put his hand up nervously to his face. Hornblower saw a dab of dry
lather in front of Jones's right ear, and as the lieutenant's gesture
recalled him to himself he noticed something more; one lantern cheek was
smooth and well shaved, while the other bristled with a fair growth of
black beard.

'Pardon, sir,' said Jones, 'but your call caught me half shaved, and I
judged it best to come at once.'

'Very well, Mr Jones,' said Hornblower; he was not sorry that Jones had
something to explain away while he himself was not ready with the
definite orders that a good officer should be able to issue.

Under that embarrassing stare Jones had to speak again.

'Did you want me, sir?'

'Yes,' said Hornblower. 'We are under orders for the Mediterranean.'

'Indeed, sir?' Mr Jones's remarks did not make any great contribution to
the progress of the conversation.

'I want your report on how soon we can be ready for sea.'

'Oh, sir----'

Jones put his hand up to his face again; perhaps it was as long as it
was because of his habit of pulling at his chin.

'Are stores and water complete?'

'Well, sir, you see----'

'You mean they are not?'

'N--no, sir. Not altogether.'

Hornblower was about to ask for an explanation, but changed his approach
at the last second.

'I won't ask why at present. How short are we?'

'Well, sir----' The wretched Jones entered into a hurried statement.
They were twenty tons of water short. Bread, spirits, meat----

'You mean that with the Victualling Yard only across the river you have
not kept the ship complete with stores?'

'Well, sir----' Jones tried to explain that he had not thought it
necessary to draw supplies from day to day. 'There was plenty of other
work for the hands, sir, fitting out.'

'Watch bills? Station bills?'

These were the lists that allocated the hands to their duties and
quarters in the ship.

'We're twenty topmen short, sir,' said Jones pitifully.

'All the more reason to make the most of what we have.'

'Yes, sir, of course, sir.' Jones sought desperately in his mind for
excuses for himself. 'Some of our beef, sir--it--it isn't fit to eat.'

'Worse than usual?'

'Yes, sir. Must be some of an old batch. Real bad, some of it.'

'In which tier?'

'I'll ask the purser, sir.'

'You mean you don't know?'

'No, sir--yes, sir.'

Hornblower fell into deep thought again, but as once more he did not
take his eyes from Jones's face that did not help the delinquent first
lieutenant to recover his equanimity. Actually Hornblower was condemning
himself. During the few days he had held command of the _Atropos_ he had
been hard at work on the details of Nelson's funeral, and then he had
been preoccupied with his own family affairs, but all that was no
excuse. The captain of a ship should be aware at every moment of the
state of his command. He was savagely angry with himself. He hardly knew
his officers' names; he could not even estimate what sort of fight
_Atropos_ could put up--and yet he would not have to go very far down
the river to find his ship likely to be in action.

'What about the gunner's stores?' he asked. 'Powder? Shot? Wads?
Cartridges?'

'I'll send for the gunner, sir, shall I?' asked Jones. He was desperate
at all this revelation of his own inadequacies.

'I'll see 'em all in a minute,' said Hornblower. 'Purser, gunner, bos'n,
cooper, master's mate.'

These were the subordinate heads of department responsible through the
first lieutenant to the captain for the proper functioning of the ship.

'Aye aye, sir.'

'What the devil's that noise?' asked Hornblower pettishly. For some
minutes now there had been some sort of altercation on the quarter-deck
over their heads. Strange voices were making themselves heard through
the skylight.

'Shall I find out, sir?' asked Jones eagerly, hoping for some
distraction. But as he spoke there was a knock at the cabin door.

'This'll tell us,' said Hornblower. 'Come in!'

Midshipman Horrocks opened the door.

'Mr Still's respects, sir, an' there are some gentlemen come on board
with an Admiralty letter for you, sir.'

'Ask them to come here.'

It could only be trouble of one sort or another, Hornblower decided, as
he waited. One more distraction at a moment when he was about to be
desperately busy. Horrocks ushered in two figures, one large and one
diminutive, wearing glittering uniforms of green and gold--Hornblower
had last seen them only yesterday at the Court of St James's, the German
princeling and his bear-leader. Hornblower rose to his feet, and
Eisenbeiss stepped forward with an elaborate bow, to which Hornblower
replied with a curt nod.

'Well, sir?'

Eisenbeiss ceremoniously handed over a letter; a glance showed
Hornblower that it was addressed to him. He opened it carefully and read
it.

    _You are hereby requested and required to receive into your ship
    His Serene Highness Ernst Prince of Seitz-Bunau, who has been
    rated as midshipman in His Majesty's Navy. You will employ your
    diligence in instructing His Serene Highness in his new
    profession as well as in continuing his education in readiness
    for the day which under Providence may not be far distant, when
    His Serene Highness will again assume the government of his
    hereditary dominions. You will also receive into your ship His
    Excellency the Baron Otto von Eisenbeiss, Chamberlain and First
    Secretary of State to His Serene Highness. His Excellency was
    until recently practising as a surgeon, and he has received from
    the Navy Office a warrant as such in His Majesty's Navy. You
    will make use of His Excellency's services, therefore, as
    Surgeon in your ship while, as far as naval discipline and the
    Articles of War allow, he continues to act as Chamberlain to His
    Serene Highness._

'I see,' he said. He looked at the odd pair in their resplendent
uniforms. 'Welcome aboard, Your Highness.'

The prince nodded and smiled, clearly without understanding.

Hornblower sat down again, and Eisenbeiss began to speak at once, his
thick German accent stressing his grievances.

'I must protest, sir,' he said.

'Well?' said Hornblower, in a tone that might well have conveyed a
warning.

'His Serene Highness is not being treated with proper respect. When we
reached your ship I sent my footman on board to announce us so that His
Highness could be received with royal honours. They were absolutely
refused, sir. The man on the deck there--I presume he is an
officer--said he had no instructions. It was only when I showed him that
letter, sir, that he allowed us to come on board at all.'

'Quite right. He had no instructions.'

'I trust you will make amends, then. And may I remind you that you are
sitting in the presence of royalty?'

'You call me "sir,"' snapped Hornblower. 'And you will address me as my
subordinate should.'

Eisenbeiss jerked himself upright in his indignation, so that his head
came with a shattering crash against the deck beam above; this checked
his flow of words and enabled Hornblower to continue.

'As officers in the King's service you should have worn the King's
uniform. You have your dunnage with you?'

Eisenbeiss was still too stunned to answer, even if he understood the
word, and Horrocks spoke for him.

'Please, sir, it's in the boat alongside. Chests and chests of it.'

'Thank you, Mr Horrocks. Now, doctor, I understand you have the
necessary professional qualifications to act as surgeon in this ship.
That is so?'

Eisenbeiss still strove to retain his dignity.

'As Secretary of State I am addressed as "Your Excellency,"' he said.

'But as surgeon in this ship you are addressed as "doctor." And that is
the last time I shall overlook the omission of the word "sir." Now. Your
qualifications?'

'I am a surgeon--sir.'

The last word came out with a jerk as Hornblower's eyebrows rose.

'You have been in practice recently?'

'Until a few months ago--sir. I was surgeon to the Court of Seitz-Bunau.
But now I am----'

'Now you are surgeon in H.M.S. _Atropos_, and we can leave off the farce
of your being Secretary of State.'

'Sir----'

'Silence, if you please, doctor. Mr Horrocks!'

'Sir!'

'My compliments to Mr Still. I'll have these two gentlemen's baggage
swayed up. They are to make immediate selection of their necessities to
the extent of one sea chest each. You will be able to help them in their
choice. The remainder is to leave the ship within ten minutes by the
boat in which it came. Is that quite clear, Mr Horrocks?'

'Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir, there's a couple of footmen with the
baggage.'

'Footmen?'

'Yes, sir, in uniforms like these,' Horrocks indicated the green and
gold of the Germans.

'That's two more hands, then. Read 'em in and send 'em for'rard.'

The Navy could always use more men, and a couple of fat, well-fed
footmen would make useful hands in time to come.

'But, sir----' said Eisenbeiss.

'Speak when you're spoken to, doctor. Now Mr Horrocks, you will take the
prince and settle him into the midshipmen's berth. I'll introduce you.
Mr Midshipman Horrocks--er, Mr Midshipman Prince.'

Horrocks automatically offered his hand, and the prince as automatically
took it, displaying no immediate change at the contamination of a human
touch. He smiled shyly, without understanding.

'And my compliments to the master's mate, too, Mr Horrocks. Ask him to
be good enough to show the doctor where he berths for'rard.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Now, doctor, in half an hour I wish to see you both in the King's
uniform. You can take up your duties then. There will be a court of
inquiry opened at that time, consisting of the first lieutenant, the
purser, and yourself, to decide whether certain hogsheads of beef are
fit for human consumption. You will be secretary of that court and I
want your written report by noon. Go with Mr Horrocks now.'

Eisenbeiss hesitated a moment under Hornblower's sharp glance before he
turned to leave the cabin, but at the curtain his indignation overcame
him again.

'I shall write to the Prime Minister, sir,' he said. 'He shall hear
about this treatment of His Majesty's Allies.'

'Yes, doctor. If you contravene the Mutiny Act you'll swing at the
yardarm. Now, Mr Jones, with regard to these station and quarter bills.'

As Hornblower turned to Jones to re-enter into the business of getting
_Atropos_ ready for sea he was conscious of feeling some contempt for
himself. He could browbeat a silly German doctor effectively enough; he
could flatter himself that he had dealt adequately with what might have
been a difficult though petty situation. But that was nothing to be
proud of, when he had to realize that with regard to his real duties he
had been found wanting. He had wasted precious hours. During the last
two days he had twice played with his little son; he had sat by his
wife's bedside and held his little daughter in his arms, when really he
should have been on board here looking after his ship. It was no excuse
that it was Jones's duty to have attended to the matters under
consideration; it had been Hornblower's duty to see that Jones had
attended to them. A naval officer should not have a wife or
children--this present situation was the proof of that trite saying.
Hornblower found himself setting his mouth hard as he came to that
conclusion. There were still eight hours of daylight left to-day. He
began an orderly planning of those eight hours. There were the matters
that would call for his own personal activity like appealing to the
superintendent of the dockyard; there were the matters he could safely
leave to his subordinates. There was work that could be done on one side
of the ship, leaving the other side clear; there was work that would
demand the services of skilled seamen, and work that landsmen could do.
There were some jobs that could not be started until other jobs were
finished. If he was not careful some of his officers would have to be in
two places at once, there would be confusion, delay, ridiculous
disorder. But with good planning it could be done.

Purser and gunner, boatswain and cooper, each in turn was summoned to
the after cabin. To each was allotted his tasks; to each was grudgingly
conceded a proportion of the men that each demanded. Soon the pipes were
shrilling through the ship.

'Launch's crew away!'

Soon the launch was pulling across the river, full of the empty barrels
the cooper and his mates had made ready, to begin ferrying over the
twenty tons of water necessary to complete the ship's requirements. A
dozen men went scurrying up the shrouds and out along the yards under
the urging of the boatswain; yardarm tackles and stay tackles had to be
readied for the day's work.

Mr Jones! I am leaving the ship now. Have that report on the beef ready
for me by the time I return from the dockyard.'

Hornblower became aware of two figures on the quarter-deck trying to
attract his attention. They were the prince and the doctor. He ran his
eye over their uniforms, the white collar patches of the midshipman and
the plain coat of the surgeon.

'They'll do,' he said, 'your duties are awaiting you, doctor. Mr
Horrocks! Keep Mr Prince under your lee for to-day. Call away my gig.'

The captain superintendent of the dockyard listened to Hornblower's
request with the indifference acquired during years of listening to
requests from urgent officers.

'I've the men ready to send for the shot, sir. Port side's clear for the
powder hulk to come alongside--slack water in half an hour, sir. I can
send men to man her too if necessary. It's only four tons that I need.
Half an hour with the hulk.'

'You say you're ready now?'

'Yes, sir.'

The captain superintendent looked across at the _Atropos_ lying in the
stream.

'Very well. I hope what you say is quite correct, captain, for your
sake. You can start warping the hulk alongside--I warn you I want her
back at her moorings in an hour.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Back in the _Atropos_ the cry went round the ship.

'Hands to the capstan! Waisters! Sailmakers! Loblolly boys!'

The inmost recesses of the ship were cleared of men to man the capstan
bars--any pairs of arms, any stout backs, would serve for that purpose.
A drum went roaring along the deck.

'All lights out!'

The cook and his mates dumped the gallery fire overside and went
reluctantly to man the yardarm and stay tackles. The powder hulk came
creeping alongside. She had stout sheers and wide hatchways, efficient
equipment for the rapid transfer of explosives. Four tons of powder,
eighty kegs of one hundredweight each, came climbing out of the hulk's
holds to be swayed down the hatchways of the _Atropos_, while down below
the gunner and his mates and a sweating working party toiled in near
darkness--barefooted to avoid all chance of friction or sparks--to range
the kegs about the magazines. Some day _Atropos_ might be fighting for
her life, and her life would depend on the proper arrangement of those
kegs down below so that the demands of the guns on deck might be met.

The members of the court of inquiry, fresh from their investigation of
the defective beef barrels, made their appearance on deck again.

'Mr Jones, show the doctor how to make his report in due form.' Then to
the purser, 'Mr Carslake, I want to be able to sign your indents as soon
as that report is ready.'

One final look round the deck, and Hornblower could dive below, take pen
and ink and paper, and devote himself single-mindedly to composing a
suitable covering letter to the Victualling Yard (worded with the right
urgency and tactfully coaxing the authorities there into agreement
without annoying them by too certain assumption of acquiescence)
beginning: 'Sir, I have the honour to enclose----' and concluding: '--in
the best interests of His Majesty's service, Your Obedient Servant----'

Then he could come on deck again to see how the work was progressing and
fume for a space before Jones and Carslake appeared with the documents
they had been preparing. Amid the confusion and din he had to clear his
head again to read them with care before signing them with a bold 'H.
Hornblower, Captain.'

'Mr Carslake, you can take my gig over to the Victualling Yard. Mr
Jones, I expect the Yard will need hands to man their lighter. See to
that, if you please.'

A moment to spare now to observe the hands at work, to settle his cocked
hat square on his head, to clasp his hands behind him, to walk slowly
forward, doing his best to look quite cool and imperturbable, as if all
this wild activity were the most natural thing in the world.

'Avast heaving there on that stay tackle. Belay!'

The powder keg hung suspended just over the deck. Hornblower forced
himself to speak coldly, without excitement. A stave of the keg had
started a trifle. There was a minute trail of powder grains on the deck;
more were dribbling very slowly out.

'Sway that keg back into the hulk. You, bos'n's mate, get a wet mop and
swill that powder off the deck.'

An accident could have fired that powder easily. The flash would pass in
either direction; four tons of powder in _Atropos_, forty, perhaps in
the hulk--what would have happened to the massed shipping in the Pool in
that event? The men were eyeing him; this would be a suitable moment to
encourage them with their work.

'Greenwich Hospital is over there, men,' said Hornblower, pointing down
river to the graceful outlines of Wren's building. 'Some of us will wind
up there in the end, I expect, but we don't want to be blown straight
there to-day.'

A feeble enough joke, perhaps, but it raised a grin or two all the same.

'Carry on.'

Hornblower continued his stroll forward, the imperturbable captain who
was nevertheless human enough to crack a joke. It was the same sort of
acting that he used towards Maria when she seemed likely to be in a
difficult mood.

Here was the lighter with the shot, coming along the starboard side.
Hornblower looked down into it. Nine-pounder balls for the four long
guns, two forward and two aft; twelve-pounder balls for the eighteen
carronades that constituted the ship's main armament. The twenty tons of
iron made a pathetically small mass lying in the bottom of the lighter,
when regarded with the eye of a man who had served in a ship of the
line; the old _Renown_ would have discharged that weight of shot in a
couple of hours' fighting. But this deadweight was a very considerable
proportion of the load _Atropos_ had to carry. Half of it would be
distributed fairly evenly along the ship in the shot-garlands; where he
decided to stow the other ten tons would make all the difference to
_Atropos_, could add a knot to her speed or reduce it by a knot, could
make her stiff in a breeze or crank, handy or awkward under sail. He
could not reach a decision about that until the rest of the stores were
on board and he had had an opportunity of observing her trim. Hornblower
ran a keen eye over the nets in which the shot were to be swayed up at
the starboard fore-yardarm, and went back through his mind in search of
the data stored away there regarding the breaking strain of Manila
line--this, he could tell, had been several years in service.

'Sixteen rounds to the load,' he called down into the lighter, 'no
more.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

It was typical of Hornblower's mind that it should spend a moment or two
thinking about the effect that would be produced if one of those nets
was to give way; the shot would pour down into the lighter again;
falling from the height of the yardarm they could go clear through the
bottom of the lighter; with all that deadweight on board, the lighter
would sink like a stone, there on the edge of the fairway, to be an
intolerable nuisance to London's shipping until divers had painfully
cleared the sunken wreck of the shot, and camels had lifted the wreck
clear of the channel. The vast shipping of the Port of London could be
seriously impeded as a result of a momentary inattention regarding the
condition of a cargo net.

Jones was hastening across the deck to touch his hat to him.

'The last of the powder's just coming aboard, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Jones. Have the hulk warped back to her moorings. Mr Owen
can send the powder boys here to put the shot in the garlands as they
come on board.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

And the gig was coming back across the river with Carslake sitting in
the stern.

'Well, Mr Carslake, how did the Victualling Yard receive those indents?'

'They've accepted them, sir. They'll have the stores on the quayside
to-morrow morning.'

'To-morrow? Didn't you listen to my orders, Mr Carslake? I don't want to
have to put a black mark against your name. Mr Jones! I'm going over to
the Victualling Yard. Come back with me, Mr Carslake.'

The Victualling Yard was a department of the Navy Office, not of the
Admiralty. The officials there had to be approached differently from
those of the dockyard. One might almost think the two organizations were
rivals, instead of working to a common patriotic end against a deadly
enemy.

'I can bring my own men to do the work,' said Hornblower. 'You needn't
use your own gangs at all.'

'M'm,' said the victualling superintendent.

'I'll move everything to the quayside myself, besides lightering it
over.'

'M'm,' said the victualling superintendent again, a trifle more
receptively.

'I would be most deeply obliged to you,' went on Hornblower. 'You need
only instruct one of your clerks to point out the stores to the officer
in command of my working party. Everything else will be attended to. I
beg of you, sir.'

It was highly gratifying to a Navy Office official to have a captain,
metaphorically, on his knees to him, in this fashion. Equally gratifying
was the thought that the Navy would do all the work, with a great saving
of time-tallies to the Victualling Yard. Hornblower could see the
satisfaction in the fellow's fat face. He wanted to wipe it off with his
fist, but he kept himself humble. It did him no harm, and by this means
he was bending the fellow to his will as surely as if he was using
threats.

'There's the matter of those stores you have condemned,' said the
superintendent.

'My court of inquiry was in due form,' said Hornblower.

'Yes,' said the superintendent thoughtfully.

'Of course I can return you the hogsheads,' suggested Hornblower. 'I was
intending to do so, as soon as I had emptied the beef over into the
tide.'

'No, please do not go to that trouble. Return me the full hogsheads.'

The working of the minds of these government Jacks-in-office was beyond
normal understanding. Hornblower could not believe--although it was just
possible--that the superintendent had any personal financial interest in
the matter of those condemned stores. But the fact that the condemnation
had taken place presumably was a blot on his record, or on the record of
the yard. If the hogsheads were returned to them no mention of the
condemnation need be made officially, and presumably they could be
palmed off again on some other ship--some ship that might go to sea
without the opportunity of sampling the stuff first. Sailors fighting
for their country might starve as long as the Victualling Yard's records
were unsmirched.

'I'll return the full hogsheads gladly, sir,' said Hornblower. 'I'll
send them over to you in the lighter that brings the other stores over.'

'That might do very well,' said the superintendent.

'I am delighted, and, as I said, intensely obliged to you, sir. I'll
have my launch over here with a working party in ten minutes.'

Hornblower bowed with all the unction he could command; this was not the
moment to spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. He bowed himself out
before the discussion could be reopened. But the superintendent's last
words were:

'Remember to return those hogsheads, captain.'

The powder hulk had been warped back to her moorings; the other ordnance
stores that were being taken on board seemed trifling in appearance,
bundles of wads, and bales of empty serge cartridges, a couple of
sheaves of flexible rammers, spare gun trucks, reels of slow match--the
multifarious accessories necessary to keep twenty-two guns in action.
Hornblower sent off Midshipman Smiley with the working party promised to
the Victualling Yard.

'Now I'll have those condemned hogsheads got up on deck, Mr Carslake. I
must keep my promise to return them.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Carslake.

Carslake was a bull-headed, youngish man with expressionless pale blue
eyes. Those eyes were even more expressionless than usual. He had been a
witness of the interview between Hornblower and the superintendent, and
he did not allow his feelings to show. He could not guess whether as a
purser he thoroughly approved of saving the stores to be fobbed off on
another ship or whether as a sailor certain to endure privations at sea
he despised Hornblower's weakness in agreeing to the superintendent's
demands.

'I'll mark 'em before I return 'em,' said Hornblower.

He had thought of paint when he had been so accommodating towards the
superintendent, but was not quite happy in his mind about it, for
turpentine would remove paint fast enough. A better idea occurred to
him, marvellously, at that very moment.

'Have the cook relight the fire in the galley,' he ordered. 'I'll
have--I'll have a couple of iron musket ramrods heated in the fire. Get
them from the armourer, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir, it's long past the hand's
dinner-time.'

'When I've time for my own dinner the hands can have theirs,' said
Hornblower.

He was glad that the deck was crowded so that those words of his could
be overheard, for he had had the question of the men's dinner-time in
his mind for some time although he was quite resolved not to waste a
moment over it.

The first of the condemned hogsheads came creaking and swaying up from
the hold and was lowered to the deck. Hornblower looked round him; there
was Horrocks with the young prince, quite bewildered with all the
continuous bustle, trailing after him.

'You'll do, Mr Horrocks. Come here,' said Hornblower. He took the chalk
from beside the slate at the binnacle; and wrote with it, in large
letters diagonally round the hogshead, the word 'CONDEMNED.' 'There are
two irons heating in the galley fire. You and Mr Prince can spend your
time branding these hogsheads. Trace out those letters on every one.
Understand?'

'Er--yes, sir.'

'Good and deep, so there is no chance of planing it off. Look sharp
about it.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The next lighter for the Dockyard was alongside now, at the port side
recently vacated by the powder hulk. It was full of boatswain's stores,
cordage, canvas, paint; and a weary party of men were at work swaying
the bundles up. There seemed no end to this business of getting
_Atropos_ fully equipped for sea. Hornblower himself felt as leg-weary
as a foundered horse, and he stiffened himself up to conceal his
fatigue. But as he looked across the river he could see the Victualling
Yard's lighter already emerging from the Creek. Smiley had his men at
work on the sweeps, straining to row the ponderous thing across the
ebbing tide. From the quarter-deck he could see the lighter was crammed
with the hogsheads and kegs and biscuit bags. Soon _Atropos_ would be
full-gorged. And the acrid smell of the red-hot irons burning into the
brine-soaked staves of the condemned hogsheads came to his nostrils. No
ship would ever accept those stores. It was a queer duty for a Serene
Highness to be employed upon. How had those orders read? 'You will
employ your diligence in instructing His Serene Highness in his new
profession.' Well, perhaps it was not a bad introduction to the methods
of fighting men and civilian employees.

Later--ever so much later, it seemed--Mr Jones came up and touched his
hat.

'The last of the stores are on board, sir,' he said. 'Mr Smiley's just
returning the Victualling Yard's lighter.'

'Thank you, Mr Jones. Call away my gig, please.'

Hornblower stepped down into the boat conscious of many weary eyes on
him. The winter afternoon was dissolving in a cold and gloomy drizzle as
a small rain was beginning to fall. Hornblower had himself rowed round
his ship at a convenient distance to observe her trim. He looked at her
from ahead, from broadside on, from astern. In his mind's eye he was
visualizing her underwater lines. He looked up at the spread of her
lower yards; the wind would be pressing against the canvas there, and he
worked out the balance of the forces involved, wind against lateral
resistance, rudder versus headsails. He had to consider seaworthiness
and handiness as well as speed. He climbed back on deck to where Jones
was awaiting him.

'I want her more down by the head,' he announced. 'I'll have those beef
casks at the for'rard end of the tier, and the shot for'rard of the
magazine. Get the hands to work, if you please.'

Once more the pipes shrilled through the ship as the hands began to move
the stores ranged upon the deck. It was with anxiety that Hornblower's
return was awaited from his next pull round the ship.

'She'll do for the present,' said Hornblower.

It was not a casual decision, no stage-effect. The moment _Atropos_
should clear the land she would be in danger, she might find herself in
instant action. She was only a little ship; even a well found privateer
might give her a hard battle. To overtake in pursuit; to escape in
flight; to handle quickly when manoeuvring for position in action; to
claw off to windward should she be caught on a lee shore; she must be
capable of all this, and she must be capable of it to-day, for
to-morrow, even to-morrow, might be too late. The lives of his crew, his
own life, his professional reputation, could hang on that decision.

'You can strike everything below now, Mr Jones.'

Slowly the littered decks began to clear, while the rain grew heavier
and the night began to close in round the little ship. The tiers of
great casks, down against the skin of the ship, were squeezed and wedged
into position; the contents of the hold had to be jammed into a solid
mass, for once at sea _Atropos_ would roll and pitch, and nothing must
budge, nothing must shift, lest the fabric of the ship be damaged or
even perhaps the ship might be rolled completely over by the movement of
an avalanche of her cargo. The Navy still thought of Sir Edward Berry as
the officer who, when captain of Nelson's own _Vanguard_, allowed the
masts of his ship to be rolled clear out of her in a moderate gale of
wind off Sardinia.

Hornblower stood aft by the taffrail while the rain streamed down on
him. He had not gone below; this might be part of the penance he was
inflicting on himself for not having sufficiently supervised the
management of his ship.

'The decks are cleared, sir,' said Jones, looming up in the wet darkness
before him.

'Very well, Mr Jones. When everything is swabbed down the men can have
their dinners.'

The little cabin down below was cold and dark and cheerless. Two canvas
chairs and a trestle-table stood in the day cabin; in the night-cabin
there was nothing at all. The oil lamp shone gloomily over the bare
planks of the deck under his feet. Hornblower could call for his gig
again; it would whisk him fast enough half a mile downstream to Deptford
Hard, and there at the 'George' were his wife and his children. There
would be a roaring fire of sea coal, a spluttering beef steak with
cabbage, a feather bed with the sheets made almost too hot to bear by
the application of a warming pan. His chilled body and aching legs
yearned inexpressibly for that care and warmth. But in his present mood
he would have none of them. Instead he dined, shivering, off ship's fare
hastily laid out for him on the trestle-table. He had a hammock slung
for himself in the night cabin, and he climbed into it and wrapped
himself in clammy blankets. He had not lain in a hammock since he was a
midshipman, and his spine had grown unused to the necessary curvature.
He was too numb, both mentally and physically, to feel any glow of
conscious virtue.




CHAPTER VIII


Fog in the Downs, cold, dense, and impenetrable over the surface of the
sea. There was no breath of air to set it stirring; overside the surface
of the sea, just visible when Hornblower looked down at it from the
deck, was black and glassy. Only close against the side could be
detected the faintest of ripples, showing how the tide was coursing
beside the ship as she lay anchored in the Downs. Condensing on the
rigging overhead the fog dripped in melancholy fashion on to the deck
about him, an occasional drop landing with a dull impact on his cocked
hat; the heavy frieze pea-jacket that he wore looked as if it were
frosted with the moisture that hung upon it. Yet it was not freezing
weather, although Hornblower felt chilled through and through inside his
layers of clothing as he turned back from his gloomy contemplation of
the sea.

'Now, Mr Jones,' he said, 'we'll start again. We'll have topmasts and
yards struck--all top hamper down and stowed away. Order "out pipes," if
you please.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Jones.

The hands had already spent half the morning at sail drill; Hornblower
was taking advantage of the fogbound calm to exercise his ship's
company. With so many landsmen on board, with officers unfamiliar with
their divisions, this fog actually could be used to advantage; the ship
could be made more of a working, fighting unit during this interval of
grace before proceeding down Channel. Hornblower put his cold hand
inside his coat and brought out his watch; as if the gesture had called
forth the sound five bells rang out sharply from beside the binnacle,
and from the thick fog surrounding them came the sound of other
bells--there were many ships anchored in the Downs all about them, so
many that it was some minutes before the last sound died away; the
sand-glasses on board the ships were by no means in agreement.

While the bells were still sounding Hornblower took note of the position
of the minute hand of his watch and nodded to Jones. Instantly came a
roar of orders; the men, already called to attention after their brief
stand-easy came pouring aft with their petty officers urging them on.
Watch in hand, Hornblower stood back by the taffrail. From where he
stood only the lower part of the main rigging was visible; the foremast
was completely hidden in fog. The hands went hurrying up the ratlines,
Hornblower watching keenly to see what proportion of them were vague
about their stations and duties. He could have wished that he could see
all that was going on--but then if there had been no fog there would
have been no sail drill, and _Atropos_ would have been making the best
of her way down Channel. Here was the Prince, hurried along by Horrocks
with a hand at his shoulder.

'Come on,' said Horrocks, leaping at the ratlines.

The Prince sprang up beside him. Hornblower could see the bewildered
expression on the boy's face. He had small enough idea of what he was
doing. He would learn, no doubt--he was learning much even from the fact
that the blood-royal, the King's nephew, could be shoved about by the
plebeian hand of a midshipman.

Hornblower got out of the way as the mizzen-topsail came swaying down. A
yelping master's mate came running up with a small pack of waisters at
his heels; they fell upon the ponderous roll and dragged it to the side.
The mizzen mast hands were working faster than the mainmast,
apparently--the main topsail was not lowered yet. Jones, his head drawn
back so that his Adam's apple protruded apparently by inches, was
bellowing the next orders to the masthead. A shout from above answered
him. Down the ratlines came a flood of men again.

'Let go! Haul! Lower away!'

The mizzen-topsail yard turned in a solemn arc and made its slow descent
down the mast. There was an exasperating delay while the mainstay tackle
was applied--organization at this point was exceedingly poor--but at
last the yard was down and lying along the booms beside its fellows. The
complicated and difficult business of striking the topmasts followed.

'An hour and a quarter, Mr Jones. More nearly an hour and twenty
minutes. Far too long. Half an hour--half an hour with five minutes'
grace; that's the longest you should ever take.'

'Yes, sir,' said Jones. There was nothing else he could say.

As Hornblower was eyeing him before giving his next orders a faint dull
thud came to his ears, sounding flatly through the fog. A musket shot? A
pistol shot? That was certainly what it sounded like, but with the fog
changing the quality of all the sounds he could not be sure. Even if it
were a shot, fired in one of the numerous invisible ships round about,
there might be endless innocent explanations of it; and it might not be
a shot. A hatch cover dropped on a deck--a grating being pushed into
place--it could be anything.

The hands were grouped about the deck, looming vaguely in the fog,
awaiting further orders. Hornblower guessed that they were sweating
despite the cold. This was the way to get that London beer out of them,
but he did not want to drive them too hard.

'Five minutes stand-easy,' said Hornblower. 'And, Mr Jones, you had
better station a good petty officer at that mainstay tackle.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower turned away to give Jones an opportunity to arrange his
reorganization. He set himself to walk the deck to bring some life back
into his cold body; his watch was still in his hand through sheer
forgetfulness to replace it in his pocket. He ended his walk at the
ship's side, glancing over into the black water. Now what was that
floating down beside the ship? Something long and black; when Hornblower
first caught sight of it it had bumped one end against the ship's side
under the main chains, and as he watched it swung solemnly round, drawn
by the tide, and came down towards him. It was an oar. Curiosity
overcame him. In a crowded anchorage like this there was nothing very
surprising about a floating oar, but still----

'Here, quartermaster,' said Hornblower. 'Get down into the mizzen chains
with a line to catch that oar.'

It was only an oar; Hornblower looked it over as the quartermaster held
it for his inspection. The leather button was fairly well worn--it was
by no means a new oar. On the other hand, judging by the fact that the
leather was not entirely soaked through, it had not long been in the
water, minutes rather than days, obviously. There was the number '27'
burned into the loom, and it was that which caused Hornblower to look
more sharply. The '7' bore a crossbar. No Englishman ever wrote a '7'
with a crossbar. But everyone on the Continent did; there were Danes and
Swedes and Norwegians, Russians and Prussians, at sea, either neutrals
in the war or allies of England. Yet a Frenchman or a Dutchman, one of
England's enemies, would also write a '7' in that way.

And there had certainly been something that sounded like a shot. A
floating oar and a musket shot made a combination that would be hard to
explain. Now if they had been connected in causation----! Hornblower
still had his watch in his hand. That shot--if it was a shot--had made
itself heard just before he gave the order for stand-easy, seven or
eight minutes ago. The tide was running at a good two knots. If the shot
had caused the oar to be dropped into the water it must have been fired
a quarter of a mile or so--two cables' length--upstream. The
quartermaster still holding the oar was looking at him curiously, and
Jones was waiting, with the men poised for action, for his next orders.
Hornblower was tempted to pay no more attention to the incident.

But he was a King's officer, and it was his duty to make inquiry into
the unexplainable at sea. He hesitated in inward debate; the fog was
horribly thick. If he sent a boat to investigate it would probably lose
itself; Hornblower had had much experience of making his way by boat in
a fog-ridden anchorage. Then he could go himself. Hornblower felt a
qualm at the thought of blundering about trying to find his way in the
fog--he could make a fool of himself so easily in the eyes of his crew.
Yet on the other hand that was not likely to be as exasperating as
fuming on board waiting for a dilatory boat to return.

'Mr Jones,' he said, 'call away my gig.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Jones, the astonishment in his voice hardly
concealed at all.

Hornblower walked to the binnacle and took a careful reading of how the
ship's head lay. It was the most careful reading he could possibly take,
not because his comfort or his safety but because his personal dignity
depended on getting that reading right. North by East half East. As the
ship lay riding to her anchor bows to the tide he could be sure that the
oar had come down from that direction.

'I want a good boat compass in the gig, Mr Jones, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower hesitated before the last final order, which would commit him
to a public admission that he thought there was a chance of something
serious awaiting him in the fog. But not to give the order would be to
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. If that had really been a musket
shot that he had heard there was a possibility of action; there was a
likelihood that at least a show of force would be necessary.

'Pistols and cutlasses for the gig's crew, Mr Jones, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Jones, as if nothing could astonish him again.

Hornblower turned back as he was about to step down into the boat.

'I shall start timing you from this moment, Mr Jones. Try to get those
tops'l yards across in half an hour from now--I'll be back before then.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The ship broke into a roar of activity as Hornblower took his place in
the stern-sheets of the gig.

'I'll take the tiller,' he said to the coxswain. 'Give way.'

He steered the gig along the _Atropos_ from stern to bow. He took one
last look up at her bows, at her bowsprit and bobstay, and then the fog
swallowed them up. The gig was instantly in a world of its own,
constricted about by the walls of mist. The sounds of activity on board
the ship died rapidly away.

'Pull steady!' growled Hornblower to the man at the oars. That little
boat compass would be swinging about chasing its tail in ten seconds if
he allowed the gig to keep anything except an exactly straight course.
North by East half East.

'Seventeen,' said Hornblower to himself. 'Eighteen. Nineteen.'

He was counting the strokes of the oars; it was a rough way of
estimating the progress made. At seven feet to the stroke less than two
hundred strokes meant a quarter of a mile. But there was the speed of
the tide to be allowed for. It would be nearer five hundred strokes--all
very vague, but every possible precaution must be taken on a foolish
expedition like this.

'Seventy-four, seventy-five,' said Hornblower, his eyes glued to the
compass.

Even with the brisk tide running the surface of the sea was a glassy
flat calm; the oar-blades, lifting from the water at the completion of
each stroke, left whirlpools circling on the surface.

'Two hundred,' said Hornblower, suppressing a momentary fear that he had
miscounted and that it was really three hundred.

The oars groaned on monotonously in the rowlocks.

'Keep your eyes ahead,' said Hornblower to the coxswain. 'Tell me the
moment you see anything. Two sixty-four.'

It seemed only yesterday that he had sat in the stern-sheets of the
jolly boat of the _Indefatigable_, rowing up the estuary of the Gironde
to cut out the _Papillon_. But that was more than ten years ago. Three
hundred. Three hundred and fifty.

'Sir,' said the coxswain, tersely.

Hornblower looked forward. Ahead, a trifle on the port bow, there was
the slightest thickening in the fog, the slightest looming of something
solid there.

'Easy all!' said Hornblower, and the boat continued to glide over the
surface; he put the tiller over slightly so as to approach whatever it
was more directly. But the boat's way died away before they were near
enough to distinguish any details, and at Hornblower's command the men
began to row again. Distantly came a low hail out of the fog, apparently
called forth by the renewal of the sound of the oars.

'Boat ahoy!'

At least the hail was in English. By now there was visible the vague
outlines of a large brig; from the heaviness of her spars and fast lines
she looked like one of the West India packets.

'What brig's that?' hailed Hornblower in reply.

'_Amelia Jane_ of London, thirty-seven days out from Barbados.'

That was a direct confirmation of Hornblower's first impression. But
that voice? It did not sound quite English, somehow. There were foreign
captains in the British merchant service, plenty of them, but hardly
likely to be in command of a West India packet.

'Easy,' said Hornblower to the rowers, the gig glided silently on over
the water. He could see no sign of anything wrong.

'Keep your distance,' said the voice from the brig.

There was nothing suspicious about the words. Any ship at anchor hardly
more than twenty miles from the coast of France was fully entitled to be
wary of strangers approaching in a fog. But that word sounded more like
'deestance' all the same. Hornblower put his helm over to pass under the
brig's stern. Several heads were now apparent at the brig's side; they
moved round the stern in time with the gig. There was the brig's name,
sure enough. _Amelia Jane_, London. Then Hornblower caught sight of
something else; it was a large boat lying under the brig's port quarter
from the main chains. There might be a hundred possible explanations of
that, but it was a suspicious circumstance.

'Brig ahoy!' he hailed, 'I'm coming aboard.'

'Keep off!' said the voice in reply.

Some of the heads at the brig's side developed shoulders, and three or
four muskets were pointed at the gig.

'I am a King's officer,' said Hornblower.

He stood up in the stern-sheets and unbuttoned his pea-jacket so that
his uniform was visible. The central figure at the brig's side, the man
who had been speaking, looked for a long moment and then spread his
hands in a gesture of despair.

'Yes,' he said.

Hornblower went up the brig's side as briskly as his chilled limbs would
permit. As he stood on the deck he felt a trifle self-conscious of being
unarmed, for facing him were more than a dozen men, hostility in their
bearing, and some of them with muskets in their hands. But the gig's
crew had followed him on to the deck and closed up behind him, handling
their cutlasses and pistols.

'Cap'n, sir!' It was the voice from overside of one of the two men left
down in the gig. 'Please, sir, there's a dead man in the boat here.'

Hornblower turned away to look over. A dead man certainly lay there,
doubled up in the bottom of the boat. That accounted for the floating
oar, then. And for the shot, of course. The man had been killed by a
bullet from the brig at the moment the boat was laid alongside; the brig
had been taken by boarding. Hornblower looked back towards the group on
the deck.

'Frenchmen?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.'

The fellow was a man of sense. He had not attempted a hopeless
resistance when his coup had been discovered. Although he had fifteen
men at his back and there were only eight altogether in the gig he had
realized that the presence of a King's ship in the immediate vicinity
made his final capture a certainty.

'Where's the crew?' asked Hornblower.

The Frenchman pointed forward, and at a gesture from Hornblower one of
his men ran to release the brig's crew from their confinement in the
forecastle, half a dozen coloured hands and a couple of officers.

'Much obliged to you, mister,' said the captain, coming forward.

'I'm Captain Hornblower of His Majesty's ship _Atropos_,' said
Hornblower.

'I beg your pardon, Captain.' He was an elderly man, his white hair and
blue eyes in marked contrast with his mahogany tan. 'You've saved my
ship.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower, 'you had better disarm those men.'

'Gladly, sir. See to it, Jack.'

The other officer, presumably the mate, walked aft to take muskets and
swords from the unresisting Frenchmen.

'They came out of the fog and laid me alongside before I was aware,
almost, sir,' went on the captain. 'A King's ship took my four best
hands when we was off the Start, or I'd have made a better account of
them. I only got one crack at them as it was.'

'It was that crack that brought me here,' said Hornblower shortly.
'Where did they come from?'

'Now that's just what I was asking myself,' said the captain. 'Not from
France in that boat, they couldn't have come.'

They turned their gaze inquiringly upon the dejected group of Frenchmen.
It was a question of considerable importance. The Frenchmen must have
come from a ship, and that ship must be anchored somewhere amid the
crowded vessels in the Downs. And at that rate she must be disguised as
a British vessel or a neutral, coming in with the others before the wind
dropped and the fog closed down. There had been plenty of similar
incidents during the war. It was an easy way to snap up a prize. But it
meant that somewhere close at hand there was a wolf in sheep's clothing,
a disguised French privateer, probably crammed with men--she might have
made more than one prize. In the bustle and confusion that would ensue
when a breeze should get up, with everyone anxious to up anchor and
away, she could count on being able to make her escape along with her
prizes.

'When the fog closed down,' said the captain, 'the nearest vessel to us
was a Ramsgate trawler. She anchored at the same time as we did. I doubt
if it could be her.'

It was a matter of so much importance that Hornblower could not keep
still. He turned and paced the deck for a space, his mind working
rapidly. Yet his mind was not completely made up when he turned back and
gave his first order in execution of the vague plan. He did not know if
he would have the resolution to go through with it.

'Leadbitter,' he said to the coxswain.

'Sir!'

'Tie those men's hands behind them.'

'Sir?'

'You heard what I said.'

To bind prisoners was almost a violation of the laws of war. When
Leadbitter approached to carry out his orders the Frenchmen showed
evident resentment. A buzz of voices arose.

'You can't do this, sir,' said their spokesman. 'We have----'

'Shut your mouth,' snapped Hornblower.

Even having to give that order put him in a bad temper, and his bad
temper was made worse by his doubts about himself. Now that the
Frenchmen were disarmed they could offer no resistance in face of the
drawn pistols of the British sailors. With loud protests they had to
submit, as Leadbitter went from man to man tying their wrists behind
their backs. Hornblower was hating himself for the part he had to play,
even while his calculating mind told him that he had a fair chance of
success. He had to pose as a bloodthirsty man, delighting in the taking
of human life, without mercy in his soul, gratified by the sight of the
death struggles of a fellow-human. Such men did exist, he knew. There
were gloomy tyrants in the King's service. In the past ten years of war
at sea there had been some outrages, a few, on both sides. These
Frenchmen did not know him for what he really was, nor did the West
India crew. Nor for that matter his own men. Their acquaintance had been
so short that they had no reason to believe him not to have homicidal
tendencies, so that their behaviour would not weaken the impression he
wished to convey. He turned to one of his men.

'Run aloft,' he said. 'Reeve a whip through the block at the main
yardarm.'

That portended a hanging. The man looked at him with a momentary
unbelief, but the scowl on Hornblower's face sent him scurrying up the
ratlines. Then Hornblower strode to where the wretched Frenchmen were
standing bound; their glance shifted from the man at the yardarm to
Hornblower's grim face, and their anxious chattering died away.

'You are pirates,' said Hornblower, speaking slowly and distinctly. 'I
am going to hang you.'

In case the English-speaking Frenchman's vocabulary did not include the
word 'hang' he pointed significantly to the man at the yardarm. They
could all understand that. They remained silent for a second or two, and
then several of them began to speak at once in torrential French which
Hornblower could not well follow, and then the leader, having pulled
himself together, began his protest in English.

'We are not pirates,' he said.

'I think you are,' said Hornblower.

'We are privateersmen,' said the Frenchman.

'Pirates,' said Hornblower.

The talk among the Frenchmen rose to a fresh height; Hornblower's French
was good enough for him to make out that the leader was translating his
curt words to his companions, and they were urging him to explain more
fully their position.

'I assure you, sir,' said the wretched man, striving to be eloquent in a
strange language, 'we are privateersmen and not pirates.'

Hornblower regarded him with a stony countenance, and without answering
turned away to give further orders.

'Leadbitter,' he said, 'I'll have a hangman's noose on the end of that
line.'

Then he turned back to the Frenchmen.

'Who do you say you are then?' he asked. He tried to utter the words as
indifferently as he could.

'We are from the privateer _Vengeance_ of Dunkirk, sir. I am Jacques
Lebon, prizemaster.'

Privateers usually went to sea with several extra officers, who could be
put into prizes to navigate them back to a French port without impairing
the fighting efficiency of the privateer, which could continue her
cruise. These officers were usually selected for their ability to speak
English and for their knowledge of English seagoing ways, and they bore
the title of 'prizemaster.' Hornblower turned back to observe the noose
now dangling significantly from the yardarm, and then addressed the
prizemaster.

'You have no papers,' he said.

He forced his lips into a sneer as he spoke; to the wretched men
studying every line in his face his expression appeared quite unnatural,
as indeed it was. And Hornblower was gambling a little when he said what
he did. If the prizemaster had been able to produce any papers the whole
line of attack would have to be altered; but it was not much of a
gamble. Hornblower was certain when he spoke that if Lebon had had
papers in his pocket he would have already mentioned them, asking
someone to dive into his pocket for them. That would be the first
reaction of any Frenchman whose identity had been put in question.

'No,' said Lebon, crestfallen. It was hardly likely that he would have,
when engaged on an ordinary operation of war.

'Then you hang,' said Hornblower. 'All of you. One by one.'

The laugh he forced himself to produce sounded positively inhuman,
horrible. Anyone hearing it would be justified in thinking that he was
inspired by the anticipated pleasure of watching the death struggles of
a dozen men. The white-haired captain of the _Amelia Jane_ could not
bear the prospect, and came forward to enter into the discussion.

'Sir,' he said. 'What are you going to do?'

'I am going to attend to my own business, sir,' said Hornblower,
striving to throw into his voice all the harshness he had ever heard
employed by all the insolent officers he had met during his service.
'May I ask you to be kind enough to do the same?'

'But you can't be meaning to hang the poor devils,' went on the captain.

'But that is what I do mean.'

'But not in my ship, sir--not now--not without trial.'

'In your ship, sir, which you allowed to be captured. And now. Pirates
taken red-handed can be hanged instantly, as you know, sir. And that is
what I shall do.'

It was a stroke of good fortune that the captain should have entered
into the discussion. His appearance of sick dismay and the tone of his
protests were convincingly genuine--they would never have been so if he
had been admitted previously to a planned scheme. Hornblower's attitude
towards him was brutal, but it was for the good of the cause.

'Sir,' persisted the captain, 'I'm sure they're only privateersmen----'

'Please refrain from interfering with a King's officer in the execution
of his duty. You two men, there, come here.'

The two of the crew of the gig that he indicated approached obediently.
Probably they had seen hangings before, along with every kind of
brutality in a brutal service. But the imminent certainty of taking
personal part in a hanging obviously impressed them. There was some
reluctance visible in their expressions, but the hard discipline of the
service would make certain they would obey the orders of this one man,
unarmed and outnumbered.

Hornblower looked along the line of faces. Momentarily he felt a horrid
sickness in his stomach as it occurred to him to wonder how he would be
feeling if he really was selecting a victim.

'I'll have that one first,' he said, pointing.

The bull-throated swarthy man whom he indicated paled and shuddered;
backing away he tried to shelter himself among his fellows. They were
all speaking at once, jerking their arms frantically against the bonds
that secured their wrists behind them.

'Sir!' said Lebon. 'Please--I beg of you--I implore----'

Hornblower condescended to spare him a glance, and Lebon went on in a
wild struggle against the difficulties of language and the handicap of
not being free to gesticulate.

'We are privateersmen. We fight for the Empire, for France.' Now he was
on his knees, his face lifted. As he could not use his hands he was
actually nuzzling with his mouth against the skirts of Hornblower's
pea-jacket. 'We surrendered. We did not fight. We caused no death.'

'Take this man away from me,' said Hornblower, withdrawing out of reach.

But Lebon on his knees followed him over the deck, nuzzling and
pleading.

'Captain,' said the English captain, interceding once again. 'Can't you
at least wait and land 'em for trial? If they're pirates it'll be proved
quick enough.'

'I want to see 'em dangling,' said Hornblower, searching feverishly in
his mind for the most impressive thing he could say.

The two English seamen, taking advantage of the volume of protest, had
paused in the execution of their orders. Hornblower looked up at the
noose, dangling dimly but horribly in the fog.

'I don't believe for one single moment,' went on Hornblower, 'that these
men are what they say they are. Just a band of thieves, pirates.
Leadbitter, put four men on that line. I'll give the word when they are
to walk away with it.'

'Sir,' said Lebon, 'I assure you, word of honour, we are from the
privateer _Vengeance_.'

'Bah!' replied Hornblower. 'Where is she?'

'Over there,' said Lebon. He could not point with his hands; he pointed
with his chin, over the port bow of the anchored _Amelia Jane_. It was
not a very definite indication, but it was a considerable help, even
that much.

'Did you see any vessel over there before the fog closed down, captain?'
demanded Hornblower, turning to the English captain.

'Only the Ramsgate trawler,' he said, reluctantly.

'That is our ship!' said Lebon. 'That is the _Vengeance_! She was a
Dunkirk trawler--we--we made her look like that.'

So that was it. A Dunkirk trawler. Her fish-holds could be crammed full
of men. A slight alteration of gear, an 'R' painted on her mainsail, a
suitable name painted on her stern and then she could wander about the
narrow seas without question, snapping up prizes almost at will.

'Where did you say she lay?' demanded Hornblower.

'There--oh!'

Lebon checked himself as he realized how much information he was giving
away.

'I can hazard a good guess as to how she bears from us,' interposed the
English captain, 'I saw--oh!'

He broke off exactly as Lebon had done, but from surprise. He was
staring at Hornblower. It was like the denouement scene in some silly
farce. The lost heir was at last revealed. The idea of now accepting the
admiration of his unwitting fellow players, of modestly admitting that
he was not the monster of ferocity he had pretended to be, irritated
Hornblower beyond all bearing. All his instincts and good taste rose
against the trite and the obvious. Now that he had acquired the
information he had sought he could please himself as long as he acted
instantly on that information. The scowl he wished to retain rested the
more easily on his features with this revulsion of feeling.

'I'd be sorry to miss a hanging,' he said, half to himself, and he
allowed his eye to wander again from the dangling noose to the shrinking
group of Frenchmen who were still ignorant of what had just happened.
'If that thick neck were stretched a little----'

He broke off and took a brief turn up and down the deck, eyed by every
man who stood on it.

'Very well,' he said, halting. 'It's against my better judgment, but
I'll wait before I hang these men. What was the approximate bearing of
that trawler when she anchored, captain?'

'It was at slack water,' began the captain, making his calculations. 'We
were just beginning to swing. I should say----'

The captain was obviously a man of sober judgment and keen observation.
Hornblower listened to what he had to say.

'Very well,' said Hornblower when he had finished. 'Leadbitter, I'll
leave you on board with two men. Keep an eye on these prisoners and see
they don't retake the brig. I'm returning to the ship now. Wait here for
further orders.'

He went down into his gig; the captain accompanying him to the ship's
side was clearly and gratifyingly puzzled. It was almost beyond his
belief that Hornblower could be the demoniac monster that he had
appeared to be, and if he were it was strange good fortune that his
ferocity should have obtained, by pure chance, the information that the
prisoners had just given him. Yet on the other hand it was almost beyond
his belief that if Hornblower had employed a clever ruse to gain the
information he should refuse to enjoy the plaudits of his audience and
not to bask in their surprise and admiration. Either notion was
puzzling. That was well. Let him be puzzled. Let them all be
puzzled--although it seemed as if the sobered hands pulling at the oars
of the gig were not at all puzzled. Unheeding of all that had been at
stake they were clearly convinced that their captain had shown himself
in his true colours, and was a man who would sooner see a man's death
agonies than eat his dinner. Let 'em think so. It would do no harm.
Hornblower could spare them no thought in any case, with all his
attention glued upon the compass card. It would be ludicrous--it would
be horribly comic--if after all this he were to miss _Atropos_ on his
way back to her, if he were to blunder about in the fog for hours
looking for his own ship. The reciprocal of North by East half East was
South by West half West, and he kept the gig rigidly on that course.
With what still remained of the ebb tide behind them it would only be a
few seconds before they ought to sight _Atropos_. It was a very great
comfort when they did.

Mr Jones received Hornblower at the ship's side. A glance had told him
that the gig's crew was two men and a coxswain short. It was hard to
think of any explanation of that, and Mr Jones was bursting with
curiosity. He could not help but wonder what his captain had been doing,
out there in the fog. His curiosity even overcame his apprehension at
the sight of the scowl which Hornblower still wore--now that he was back
in his ship Hornblower was beginning to feel much more strongly the
qualms that should have influenced him regarding what Their Lordships
might think of his absence from his ship. He ignored Jones's questions.

'You got those tops'l yards across, I see, Mr Jones.'

'Yes, sir. I sent the hands to dinner when you didn't come back, sir. I
thought----'

'They'll have five minutes to finish their dinners. No longer. Mr Jones,
if you were in command of two boats sent to capture a hostile vessel at
anchor in this fog, how would you set about it? What orders would you
give?'

'Well, sir, I'd--I'd----'

Mr Jones was not a man of quickness of thought or rapid adaptability to
a new situation. He hummed and he hawed. But there were very few
officers in the Navy who had not been on at least one cutting-out and
boarding operation. He knew well enough what he should do, and it slowly
became apparent.

'Very well, Mr Jones. You will now hoist out the longboat and the
launch. You will man them and see that the boats' crews are fully armed.
You will proceed North by East half East--fix that in your mind, Mr
Jones, North by East half East--from this ship for a quarter of a mile.
There you find a West India brig the _Amelia Jane_. She has just been
recaptured from a French prize crew, and my coxswain is on board with
two men. From her you will take a new departure. There's a French
privateer, the _Vengeance_. She's a Dunkirk trawler disguised as a
Ramsgate trawler. She is probably heavily manned--at least fifty of a
crew left--and she is anchored approximately three cables' lengths
approximately north-west of the _Amelia Jane_. You will capture her, by
surprise if possible. Mr Still will be in command of the second boat. I
will listen while you give him his instructions. That will save
repetition. Mr Still!'

The despatch that Hornblower wrote that evening and entrusted to the
_Amelia Jane_ for delivery to the Admiralty was couched in the usual
Navy phraseology.

    _Sir_

    _I have the honour to report to you for the information of Their
    Lordships that this day while anchored in dense fog in the Downs
    I became aware that it seemed likely that some disturbance was
    taking place near at hand. On investigating I had the good
    fortune to recapture the brig_ Amelia Jane, _homeward bound from
    Barbados, which was in possession of a French prize crew. From
    information gained from the prisoners I was able to send my
    first lieutenant, Mr Jones, with the boats of H.M. ship under my
    command, to attack the French private ship of war_ Vengeance _of
    Dunkirk. She was handsomely carried by Mr Jones and his officers
    and men, including Mr Still, second lieutenant, Messrs Horrocks
    and Smiley, and His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau,
    midshipmen, after a brief action in which our loss was two men
    slightly wounded while the French Captain, Monsieur Ducos, met
    with a severe wound while trying to rally his crew. The_
    Vengeance _proved to be a French trawler masquerading as an
    English fishing boat. Including the prize crew she carried a
    crew of seventy-one officers and men, and she was armed with one
    four-pounder carronade concealed under her net._

                           _I have the honour to remain,_
                                     _Your obed't servant,_
                                               _H. Hornblower, Captain._

Before sealing it Hornblower read through this report with a lopsided
smile on his face. He wondered if anyone would ever read between the
lines of that bald narrative, how much anyone would guess, how much
anyone would deduce. The fog, the cold, the wet; the revolting scene on
the deck of the _Amelia Jane_; the interplay of emotion; could anyone
ever guess at all the truth? And there was no doubt that his gig's crew
was already spreading round the ship horrible reports about his lust for
blood. There was some kind of sardonic satisfaction to be derived from
that, too. A knock at the door. Could he never be undisturbed?

'Come in,' he called.

It was Jones. His glance took in the quill in Hornblower's fingers, and
the inkwell and papers on the table before him.

'Your pardon, sir,' he said. 'I hope I don't come too late.'

'What is it?' asked Hornblower; he had little sympathy for Jones and his
undetermined manners.

'If you are going to send a report to the Admiralty, sir--and I suppose
you are, sir----'

'Yes, of course I am.'

'I don't know if you're going to mention my name, sir--I don't want to
ask if you are, sir--I don't want to presume----'

If Jones was soliciting a special mention of himself in the Admiralty
letter he would get none at all.

'What is it you're saying to me, Mr Jones?'

'It's only that my name's a common one, sir. John Jones, sir. There are
twelve John Jones's in the lieutenants' list, sir. I didn't know if you
knew, sir, but I am John Jones the Ninth. That's how I'm known at the
Admiralty, sir. If you didn't say that, perhaps----'

'Very well, Mr Jones. I understand. You can rely on me to see that
justice is done.'

'Thank you, sir.'

With Jones out of the way Hornblower sighed a little, looked at his
report, and drew a fresh sheet towards him. There was no chance of
inserting 'the Ninth' legibly after the mention of Jones's name. The
only thing to do was to take a fresh sheet and write it all over again.
An odd occupation for a bloodthirsty tyrant.




CHAPTER IX


Hornblower watched with a keen eye his crew at work as they took in sail
while _Atropos_ came gliding into Gibraltar Bay. He could call them
well-drilled now. The long beat down the Channel, the battles with the
Biscay gales, had made a correlated team of them. There was no confusion
and only the minimum number of orders. The men came hurrying off the
yards; he saw two figures swing themselves on to the main backstays and
come sliding down all the way from the masthead, disdaining to use the
shrouds and ratlines. They reached the deck simultaneously and stood
grinning at each other for a moment--clearly they had been engaged in a
race. One was Smiley, the midshipman of the maintop. The other--His
Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau. That boy had improved beyond
all expectation. If ever he should sit on his throne again in his
princely German capital he would have strange memories to recall.

But this was not the time for a captain to let his attention wander.

'Let go, Mr Jones!' he hailed, and the anchor fell, dragging the
grumbling hawser out through the hawsehole; Hornblower watched while
_Atropos_ took up on her cable and then rode to her anchor. She was in
her assigned berth; Hornblower looked up at the towering Rock and over
at the Spanish shore. Nothing seemed to have changed since the last
time--so many years ago--that he had come sailing into Gibraltar Bay.
The sun was shining down on him, and it was good to feel this
Mediterranean sun again, even though there was little warmth in it
during this bleak winter weather.

'Call away my gig, if you please, Mr Jones.'

Hornblower ran below to gird on his sword and to take the better of his
two cocked hats out of its tin case so as to make himself as presentable
as possible when he went ashore to pay his official calls. There was a
very decided thrill in the thought that soon he would be reading the
orders that would carry him forward into the next phase of his
adventures--adventures possibly; more probably the mere dreariness of
beating about on eternal blockade duty outside a French port.

Yet in Collingwood's orders to him, when he came to read them, there was
a paragraph which left him wondering what his fate was to be.

    _You will take into your ship Mr. William McCullum, of the
    Honourable East India Company's Service, together with his
    native assistants, and you will give them passage when, in
    obedience to the first paragraph of these orders, you come to
    join me._

Mr. McCullum was awaiting him in the Governor's anteroom. He was a
burly, heavy-set man in his early thirties, blue-eyed and with a thick
mat of black hair.

'Captain Horatio Hornblower?' There was a roll to the 'r's' which
betrayed the county of his origin.

'Mr McCullum?'

'Of the Company's Service.'

The two men eyed each other.

'You are to take passage in my ship?'

'Aye.'

The fellow carried himself with an air of vast independence. Yet judging
by the scantiness of the silver lace on his uniform, and by the fact
that he wore no sword, he was not of a very lofty position in the
Company's hierarchy.

'Who are these native assistants of yours?'

'Three Sinhalese divers.'

'Sinhalese?'

Hornblower said the word with caution. He had never heard it before, at
least pronounced in that way. He suspected that it meant something to do
with Ceylon, but he was not going to make a display of his ignorance.

'Pearl divers from Ceylon,' said McCullum.

So he had guessed right. But he could not imagine for one moment why
Collingwood, at grips with the French in the Mediterranean, should need
Ceylonese pearl divers.

'And what is your official position, Mr McCullum?'

'I am wreck-master and salvage director of the Coromandel Coast.'

That went far to explain the man's ostentatious lack of deference. He
was one of those experts whose skill made them too valuable to be
trifled with. He might have drifted out to India as a cabin boy or
apprentice; presumably he had been treated like a menial while young,
but he had learned a trade so well as now to be indispensable and in a
position to repay the slights he had endured earlier. The more the gold
lace he was addressing the brusquer was likely to be his manner.

'Very well, Mr McCullum. I shall be sailing immediately and I shall be
glad if you will come on board with your assistants at the earliest
possible moment. Within an hour. Do you have any equipment with you to
be shipped?'

'Very little besides my chests and the divers' bundles. They are ready,
along with the food for them.'

'Food?'

'The poor bodies'--McCullum narrowed the vowel sound until the word
sounded like 'puir'--'are benighted heathen, followers of Buddha. They
wellnigh died on the voyage here, never having known what it was to have
a full belly before. A scrap of vegetable, a drop of oil, a bit of fish
for a relish. That's what they're used to living on.'

Oil? Vegetables? Ships of war could hardly be expected to supply such
things.

'I've a puncheon of Spanish olive oil for them,' explained McCullum.
'They've taken kindly to it, although it's far removed from their
buffalo butter. Lentils and onions and carrots. Give them salt beef and
they'll die, and that would be poor business after shipping them all
round the Cape of Good Hope.'

The statement was made with apparent callousness, but Hornblower
suspected that the manner concealed some consideration for his
unfortunate subordinates so far from their homes. He began to like
McCullum a little better.

'I'll give orders for them to be well looked after,' he said.

'Thank you.' That was the first shade of politeness that had crept into
McCullum's speech. 'The poor devils have been perishing of cold here on
the Rock. That makes them homesick, like, and a long way they are from
home, too.'

'Why have they been sent here in any case?' asked Hornblower. That
question had been striving for utterance for some time; he had not asked
it because it would have given McCullum too good an opportunity to snub
him.

'Because they can dive in sixteen and a half fathoms,' said McCullum,
staring straight at him.

It was not quite a snub; Hornblower was aware that he owed the
modification to his promise that they would be well treated. He would
not risk another question despite his consuming curiosity. He was
completely puzzled as to why the Mediterranean Fleet should need divers
who could go down through a hundred feet of water. He contented himself
with ending the interview with an offer to send a boat for McCullum and
his men.

The Ceylonese when they made their appearance on the deck of the
_Atropos_ were of an appearance to excite pity. They held their white
cotton clothes close about them against the cold; the keen air that blew
down from the snow-clad Spanish mountains set them shivering. They were
thin, frail-looking men, and they looked about them with no curiosity,
but with only a dull resignation in their dark eyes. They were of a deep
brown colour, so as to excite the interest of the hands who gathered to
stare. They spared no glances for the white men, but conversed briefly
with each other in high piping musical voices.

'Give them the warmest corner of the 'tween decks, Mr Jones,' said
Hornblower. 'See that they are comfortable. Consult with Mr McCullum
regarding anything they may need. Allow me to present Mr McCullum--Mr
Jones. I would be greatly obliged if you will extend to Mr McCullum the
hospitality of the wardroom.'

Hornblower had to phrase it that way. The wardroom theoretically was a
voluntary association of officers, who could make their own choice as to
what members they might admit. But it would be a bold set of officers
who decided to exclude a wardroom guest recommended by their captain, as
Jones and Hornblower both knew.

'You must provide a cot for Mr McCullum, too, Mr Jones, if you please.
You can decide for yourself where you will put it.'

It was comforting to be able to say that. Hornblower knew perfectly
well--and so did Jones, as his slightly dismayed expression
revealed--that in a twenty-two gun sloop there was not a square foot of
deck space to spare. Everyone was already overcrowded, and McCullum's
presence would add seriously to the overcrowding. But it was Jones who
would have to find a way round the difficulty.

'Aye aye, sir,' said Jones; the interval that elapsed before he said it
was the best indication of the involved train of thought he had been
following out.

'Excellent,' said Hornblower. 'You can attend to it after we're under
way. No more time to waste, Mr Jones.'

Minutes were always valuable. The wind might always shift, or drop. An
hour wasted now might mean the loss of a week. Hornblower was in a fever
to get his ship clear of the Gut and into the wider waters of the
Mediterranean, where he would have sea room in which to beat against a
head-wind should a Levanter come blowing out of the East. Before his
mind's eye he had a picture of the Western Mediterranean; the
north-westerly blowing at present could carry him quickly along the
southern coast of Spain, past the dangerous shoal of Alboran, until at
Cape de Gata the Spanish coast trended away boldly to the northward.
Once there he would be less restricted; until Cape de Gata was left
behind he could not be happy. There was also--Hornblower could not deny
it--his own personal desire to be up and doing, to find out what was
awaiting him in the future, to put himself at least in the possible path
of adventure. It was fortunate that his duty and his inclination should
coincide in this way; one of the few small bits of good fortune, he told
himself with amused grimness, that he had experienced since he had made
his original choice of the career of a naval officer.

But at least he had come into Gibraltar Bay after dawn and he was
leaving before nightfall. He could not be accused of wasting any time.
They had rounded the Rock; Hornblower looked into the binnacle and up at
the commission pendant blowing out from the masthead.

'Full and bye,' he ordered.

'Full and bye, sir,' echoed the quartermaster at the wheel.

A keen gust of wind came blowing down out of the Sierra de Ronda, laying
the _Atropos_ over as the trimmed yards braced the sails to catch it.
Over she lay; a short steep wave came after them, the remnants of an
Atlantic roller that had survived its passage through the Gut. _Atropos_
lifted her stern to it, heaving jerkily in this unnatural opposition of
wind and wave. Spray burst under her counter, and spray burst round her
bows as she plunged. She plunged again in the choppy sea. She was only a
little ship, the smallest three-masted vessel in the service, the
smallest that could merit a captain to command her. The lofty frigates,
the massive seventy-fours, could condescend to her. Hornblower looked
round him at the wintry Mediterranean, at the fresh clouds obscuring the
sinking sun. The waves could toss his ship about, the winds could heel
her over, but standing there, braced on the quarter-deck, he was master
of them. Exultation surged within him as his ship hurried forward into
the unknown.

The exultation even remained when he quitted the deck and descended into
the cabin. Here the prospect was cheerless in the extreme. He had
mortified his flesh after he had come on board his ship at Deptford. His
conscience had nagged at him for the scanty hours he had wasted with his
wife and children; and he had never left his ship again for a moment
after he had reported her ready for sea. No farewell to Maria lying in
childbed, no last parting from little Horatio and little Maria. And no
purchase of cabin equipment. The furniture about him was what the ship's
carpenter had made for him, canvas chairs, a rough-and-ready table, a
cot whose frame was strung with cordage to support a coarse canvas
mattress stuffed with straw. A canvas pillow, straw-filled, to support
his head; coarse Navy blankets to cover his skinny body. There was no
carpet on the deck under his feet; the light came from a swinging and
odorous ship's lantern. A shelf with a hole in it supported a tin
wash-basin; on the bulkhead above it hung the scrap of polished steel
mirror from Hornblower's meagre canvas dressing-roll. The most
substantial articles present were the two sea chests in the corners;
apart from them a monk's cell could hardly have been more bare.

But there was no self-pity in Hornblower's mind as he crouched under the
low deck beams unhooking his stock preparatory to going to bed. He
expected little from this world, and he could lead an inner life of the
mind that could render him oblivious to discomfort. And he had saved a
good deal of money by not furnishing his cabin, money which would pay
the midwife's fee, the long bill at the 'George,' and the fare for the
carrier's cart which would convey Maria and the children to lodge with
her mother at Southsea. He was thinking about them--they must be well on
their way now--as he drew the clammy blankets over himself and rested
his cheek on the rough pillow. Then he had to forget Maria and the
children as he reminded himself that as the _Atropos'_ junction with the
fleet was so imminent he must exercise the midshipmen and the signal
ratings in signalling. He must devote a good many hours to that, and
there would not be much time to spare, for the creaking of the timbers,
the heave of the ship, told him that the wind was holding steady.

The wind continued to hold fair. It was at noon on the sixth day that
the lookout hailed the deck.

'Sail ho! Dead to loo'ard.'

'Bear down on her, Mr Jones, if you please. Mr Smiley! Take a glass and
see what you make of her.'

This was the second of the rendezvous which Collingwood had named in his
orders. Yesterday's had been barren, off Cape Carbomara. Not a sail had
been sighted since leaving Gibraltar. Collingwood's frigates had swept
the sea clear of French and Spanish shipping, and the British Levant
convoy was not due for another month. And no one could guess what was
going on in Italy at this moment.

'Captain, sir! She's a frigate. One of ours.'

'Very well. Signal midshipman! Be ready with the private signal and our
number.'

Thank Heaven for all the signalling exercise he had been giving during
the last few days.

'Captain, sir! I can see mastheads beyond her. Looks like a fleet.'

'Very well, Mr Jones, I'll have the gunner make ready to salute the
flag, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

There was the Mediterranean Fleet, a score of ships of the line, moving
slowly in two columns over the blue sea under a blue sky.

'Frigate's _Maenad_, 28, sir.'

'Very well.'

Reaching out like the tentacles of a sea monster, the scouting frigates
lay far ahead of the main body of the fleet, four of them, with a fifth
far to windward whence most likely would appear ships hostile or
friendly. The air was clear; Hornblower on the quarter-deck with his
glass to his eye could see the double column of topsails of ships of the
line, close-hauled, every ship exactly the same distance astern of her
predecessor. He could see the vice-admiral's flag at the foremast of the
leader of the weather line.

'Mr Carslake! Have the mail-bags ready for sending off.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

His own packet of despatches for Collingwood was handy in his cabin.

'Signal midshipman! Can't you see the flagship's making a signal?'

'Yes, sir, but the flags are blowing straight away from us. I can't make
them out.'

'What do you think the repeating frigate's for? Use your eyes.'

'General signal, sir. Number 41. That is "tack," sir.'

'Very well.'

As _Atropos_ had not yet officially joined the Mediterranean squadron a
general signal could not apply to her. Down came the signal from the
flagship's yardarm; that was the executive moment. Round came the
flagship's yards; round came the yards of the scouting frigates, and of
the leader of the lee column. One by one, at precise intervals, the
succeeding ships in the columns came round in order; Hornblower could
see the momentary backing and filling of the mizzen-topsails which
maintained the ships so exactly spaced. It was significant that the
drill was being carried out under all plain sail, and not merely under
the 'fighting sails.' There was something thrilling in the sight of this
perfection of drill; but at the same time something a little disturbing.
Hornblower found himself wondering, with a qualm of doubt, if he would
be able to maintain _Atropos_ so exactly in station now that the time
had come to join the fleet.

The manoeuvre was completed now; on its new tack the fleet was steadily
plunging forward over the blue sea. There was more bunting fluttering at
the flagship's yardarm.

'General signal, sir. "Hands to dinner."'

'Very well.'

Hornblower felt a bubbling of excitement within him as he stood and
watched. The next signal would surely be for him.

'Our number, sir! Flag to _Atropos_. Take station to windward of me at
two cables' lengths.'

'Very well. Acknowledge.'

There were eyes turned upon him everywhere on deck. This was the moment
of trial. He had to come down past the screening frigates, cross ahead
of what was now the weather column, and come to the wind at the right
moment and at the right distance. And the whole fleet would be watching
the little ship. First he had to estimate how far the flagship would
progress towards his starboard hand while he was running down to her.
But there was nothing for it but to try; there was some faint comfort in
being an officer in a fighting service where an order was something that
must be obeyed.

'Quartermaster! Port a little. Meet her. Steady as you go! Keep her at
that! Mr Jones!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

No need for an order to Jones. He was more anxious--at least more
apparently anxious--than Hornblower was. He had the hands at the braces
trimming the yards already. Hornblower looked up at yards and commission
pendant to assure himself that the bracing was exact. They had left the
_Maenad_ behind already; here they were passing _Amphion_, one of the
central frigates in the screen. Hornblower could see her lying over as
she thrashed to windward, the spray flying from her bows. He turned back
to look at the flagship, nearly hull up, at least two of her three rows
of checkered gun ports visible.

'Port a little! Steady!'

He resented having to give that additional order; he wished he could
have headed straight for his station with no alteration of course. The
leading ship--she wore a rear admiral's flag--of the weather column was
now nearly on his port beam. Four cables' length was the distance
between the two columns, but as his station was to windward of the
flagship, nearly on her starboard beam, he would be by no means between
the two ships, nor equidistant from them. He juggled in his mind with
the scalene triangle that could be drawn connecting _Atropos_ with the
two flagships.

'Mr Jones! Clue up the mizzen tops'l.' Now _Atropos_ would have a
reserve of speed that he could call for if necessary. He was glad that
he had subjected his crew to ceaseless sail drill ever since leaving
Deptford. 'Stand by the mizzen tops'l sheets.'

The reduction in the after-sail would make _Atropos_ a little slower in
coming to the wind; he must bear it in mind. They were fast approaching
their station. His eye darted from one column of ships to the other; he
could see all the starboard sides of one and all the port sides of the
other. It might be useful to take sextant angles, but he would rather
trust his eye in a trigonometrical problem as uncomplicated as this. His
judgment told him this must be the moment. The bows were pointing at the
flagship's jib-boom.

'Port your helm,' he ordered. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the little
ship's response would be delayed. Perhaps----He had to keep his voice
steady. 'Bring her to the wind.'

The wheel spun over. There was a nervous second or two. Then he felt the
heel of the ship alter under his feet; and he saw the flagship come
round on _Atropos'_ port beam, and he knew _Atropos_ was turning.

'Steady!'

The yards were braced up; strong arms were hauling on the tacks. A
moment or two while _Atropos_ regained the small amount of way she had
lost through her turn; but even making allowance for that he could see
that the flagship was slowly head-reaching on her.

'Mr Jones! Sheet home the mizzen tops'l.'

With the mizzen-topsail drawing full they would head-reach in turn upon
the flagship.

'Keep the hands at the braces there!'

Occasionally spilling the wind from the mizzen-topsail would enable
_Atropos_ to keep her speed equal to the flagship's. Hornblower felt the
wind on his neck; he looked up at the pendant and at the flagship. He
was exactly to windward of her, and there was 'two cables' lengths
between them.

'Mr Jones! You may begin the salute.'

Fifteen guns for a vice-admiral, a minute and a quarter to fire them.
That might be long enough for him to regain his composure, and for his
heart to resume its normal rate of beating. Now they were part of the
Mediterranean Fleet, the tiniest, most insignificant part of it.
Hornblower looked down the massive lines of ships ploughing along behind
them, three-deckers, two-deckers, ships of a hundred guns and ships of
seventy-four, the ships which had fought at Trafalgar, the roar of whose
cannons had dashed from Bonaparte's lips the heady cup of world
domination. On the invisibly distant Mediterranean shores that
encompassed them armies might march, kings might be set up and kings
might be pulled down; but it was these ships which in the end would
decide the destiny of the world, as long as the men who sailed them
retained their skill, as long as they remained ready to endure danger
and hardship, as long as the government at home remained resolute and
unafraid.

'Our number, sir! Flag to _Atropos_. "Welcome."'

'Reply to Flag. "Respectful greetings."'

Eager hands worked vigorously on the signal halliards.

'Signal "_Atropos_ to Flag. Have aboard despatches and letters for
fleet."'

'Flagship acknowledges, sir.'

'Flagship's signalling again,' announced Still; from a point of vantage
on the weather side he could see through his glass enough of the
flagship's quarter-deck, despite the fact that she was heeling away from
him, to make out that signal ratings were bending fresh flags on the
halliards. The dark lumps soared up to the flagship's yardarm and broke
into gaily-coloured bunting.

'General signal. "Heave-to on the starboard tack."'

'Acknowledge, Mr Jones! Clue up the courses.'

Hornblower watched the hands at the clue-garnets and buntlines, the
hands at the tacks and sheets.

'Signal's down, sir.'

Hornblower had already seen the first movement of descent.

'Back the mizzen tops'l. Let her come up.'

_Atropos_ rode easily, just meeting the waves with her bow, as the sharp
struggle with the wind changed to yielding acquiescence, like a girl's
resistance giving way in her lover's arms. But this was no time for that
sort of sentimental simile--here was another long signal from the
flagship.

'General signal. "Send to"--our number, sir--"for letters."'

'Mr Carslake! Have those mail-bags on deck at once. You'll have a boat
from every ship in the fleet alongside.'

It was at least a month--it might well be two--since any letters had
reached the Fleet from England. Not a newspaper, not a word. Possibly
some of the ships present had not yet seen the accounts in the press of
the victory they had won at Trafalgar four months before. _Atropos_ had
brought a respite from the dreadful isolation in which a fleet at sea
habitually lived. Boats would be hastening as fast as sail or oar could
drive them to collect the pitifully lean mail-bags.

Another signal.

'Our number, sir. "Flag to _Atropos_. Come and report."'

'Call away my gig.'

He was wearing the shabbier of his two coats. There was just time, when
he ran below to get the packets of despatches, to change his coat, to
pass a comb through his hair, and twitch his neckcloth into position. He
was back on deck just as his gig touched the water. Lusty work at the
oars carried him round to the flagship. A chair dangled at her side, now
almost lipped as a wave rose at it, now high above the water as the wave
passed on. He had to watch carefully for his chance; as it was there was
an uncomfortable moment when he hung by his arms as the gig went away
from under him. But he managed to seat himself, and he felt the chair
soar swiftly upwards as the hands above hauled on the tackle. The pipes
shrilled as his head reached the level of the maindeck and the chair was
swung in. He stepped aboard with his hand to the brim of his hat.

The deck was as white as paper, as white as the gloves and the shirts of
the sideboys. Gold leaf gleamed in the sun, the most elaborate Turks'
heads adorned the ropework. The King's own yacht could not be smarter
than the quarter-deck of the _Ocean_--that was what could be done in the
flagship of a victorious admiral. It was as well to remember that
Collingwood's previous flagship, the _Royal Sovereign_, had been pounded
into a mastless hulk, with four hundred dead and wounded on board her,
at Trafalgar. The lieutenant of the watch, his telescope quite dazzling
with polished brass and pipe-clayed twine, wore spotless and unwrinkled
white trousers; the buttons on his well-fitting coat winked in the
sunshine. It occurred to Hornblower that to be always as smart as that,
in a ship additionally crowded by the presence of an admiral and his
staff, could be by no means easy. Service in a flagship might be the
quick way to promotion, but there were many crumpled petals in the bed
of roses. The flag captain, Rotherham--Hornblower knew his name; it had
appeared in a hundred newspaper accounts of Trafalgar--and the flag
lieutenant were equally smart as they made him welcome.

'His Lordship is awaiting you below, sir,' said the flag lieutenant.
'Will you come this way?'

Collingwood shook hands with him in the great cabin below. He was a
large man, stoop-shouldered, with a pleasant smile. He eagerly took the
packets Hornblower offered him, glancing at the superscriptions. One he
kept in his hands, the others he gave to his secretary. He remembered
his manners as he was about to break the seal.

'Please sit down, captain. Harkness, a glass of Madeira for Captain
Hornblower. Or there is some Marsala that I can recommend, sir. Please
forgive me for a moment. You will understand when I tell you these are
letters from my wife.'

It was an upholstered chair in which Hornblower sat; under his feet was
a thick carpet; there were a couple of pictures in gilt frames on the
bulkheads; silver lamps hung by silver chains from the deck-beams.
Looking round him while Collingwood eagerly skimmed through his letters,
Hornblower thought of all this being hurriedly bundled away when the
_Ocean_ cleared for action. But what held his attention most was two
long boxes against the great stern windows. They were filled with earth
and were planted with flowers--hyacinths and daffodils, blooming and
lovely. The scent of the hyacinths reached Hornblower's nostrils where
he sat. There was something fantastically charming about them here at
sea.

'I've been successful with my bulbs this year,' said Collingwood,
putting his letters in his pocket and following Hornblower's glance. He
walked over and tilted up a daffodil bloom with sensitive fingers,
looking down into its open face. 'They are beautiful, aren't they? Soon
the daffodils will be flowering in England--some time, perhaps, I'll see
them again. Meanwhile these help to keep me contented. It is three years
since I last set foot on land.'

Commanders-in-Chief might win peerages and pensions, but their children,
too, grew up without knowing their fathers. And Collingwood had walked
shot-torn decks in a hundred fights; but Hornblower, looking at the
wistful smile, thought of other things than battles--thirty thousand
turbulent seamen to be kept disciplined and efficient, court martial
findings to be confirmed, the eternal problems of provisions and water,
convoys and blockade.

'You will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner, Captain?'
asked Collingwood.

'I should be honoured, my lord.'

It was gratifying to bring that phrase out pat like that, with hardly
more than the least feeling of embarrassment.

'That is excellent. You will be able to tell me all the gossip of home.
I fear there will be no other opportunity for some time, as _Atropos_
will not be staying with the Fleet.'

'Indeed, my lord?'

This was a moment of high excitement, when the future was about to be
revealed to him. But of course the excitement must not be allowed to
appear; only the guarded interest of a self-contained captain ready for
anything.

'I fear so--not that you young captains with your saucy little ships
want to stay tied to a fleet's apron strings.'

Collingwood was smiling again, but there was something in the words that
started a new train of thought in Hornblower's mind. Of course,
Collingwood had watched the advent of the newest recruit to his fleet
with a keen eye. Hornblower suddenly realized that if _Atropos_ had been
clumsy in taking up station, or dilatory in answering signals, his
reception here might not have been so pleasant. He might be standing at
attention at this moment submitting with a tight-shut mouth to a
dressing-down exemplary in its drastic quality. The thought caused a
little prickling of gooseflesh at the back of his neck. It reduced his
reply to a not very coherent mumble.

'You have this man McCullum and his natives on board?' asked
Collingwood.

'Yes, my lord.'

Only a little self-restraint was necessary to refrain from asking what
the mission would be; Collingwood would tell him.

'You are not acquainted with the Levant?'

'No, my lord.'

So it was to be the Levant, among the Turks and the Greeks and the
Syrians.

'You soon will be, captain. After taking my despatches to Malta you will
convey Mr McCullum to Marmorice Bay and assist him in his operations
there.'

Marmorice Bay? That was on the coast of Asia Minor. The fleet and
transports which had attacked Egypt some years ago had rendezvoused
there. It was a far cry from Deptford.

'Aye aye, my lord,' said Hornblower.

'I understand you have no sailing master in _Atropos_.'

'No, my lord. Two master's mates.'

'In Malta you will have a sailing master assigned to you. George Turner;
he is familiar with Turkish waters and he was with the fleet in
Marmorice. He took the bearings when _Speedwell_ sank.'

_Speedwell?_ Hornblower raked back in his memory. She was the transport
which had capsized and sunk at her anchors in a sudden gale of wind in
Marmorice Bay.

'Yes, my lord.'

'She had on board the military chest of the expeditionary force. I don't
expect you knew that.'

'No, indeed, my lord.'

'A very considerable sum in gold and silver coin for the pay and
subsistence of the troops--a quarter of a million sterling. She sank in
water far deeper than any diver in the service could reach. But as no
one knew what our gallant allies the Turks might contrive by way of
salvage with infinite leisure it was decided to keep the loss a secret.
And for once a secret remained a secret.'

'Yes, my lord.'

Certainly it was not common knowledge that a quarter of a million in
coin lay at the bottom of Marmorice Bay.

'So the Government had to send to India for divers who could reach those
depths.'

'I see, my lord.'

'Now it will be your duty to go to Marmorice Bay and with the assistance
of McCullum and Turner to recover that treasure.'

'Aye aye, my lord.'

No imagination could ever compass the possible range of duties of a
naval officer. But it was satisfactory that the words he had just
uttered were the only ones a naval officer could say in such
circumstances.

'You will have to be careful in your dealings with our friend the Turk.
He will be curious about your presence in Marmorice, and when he
ascertains the object of your visit he may raise objections. You will
have to conduct yourself according to the circumstances of the moment.'

'Aye aye, my lord.'

'You will not find all this in your orders, captain. But you must
understand that the Cabinet has no wish for complications with the
Turks. Yet at the same time a quarter of a million sterling in cash
would be a Godsend to the Government to-day--or any day. The money is
badly needed, but no offence should be offered to the Turks.'

It was necessary to steer clear of Scylla and yet not fall into
Charybdis, said Hornblower to himself.

'I think I understand, my lord.'

'Fortunately it is an unfrequented coast. The Turks maintain very small
forces, either military or naval, in the locality. That does not mean
that you should attempt to carry off matters with a high hand.'

Not in _Atropos_ with eleven popguns a side, thought Hornblower, and
then he mentally withdrew the sneer. He understood what Collingwood
meant.

'No, my lord.'

'Very well then, captain, thank you.'

The secretary at Collingwood's elbow had a pile of opened despatches in
his hand, and was clearly waiting for a break in the conversation to
give him an opportunity to intervene, and the flag lieutenant was
hovering in the background. Both of them moved in at once.

'Dinner will be in half an hour, my lord,' said the flag lieutenant.

'These are the urgent letters, my lord,' said the secretary.

Hornblower rose to his feet in some embarrassment.

'Perhaps, captain, you would enjoy a turn on the quarter-deck, eh?'
asked Collingwood. 'Flags here would keep you company, I'm sure.'

When a vice-admiral made suggestions to a captain and a flag lieutenant
he did not have to wait long before they were acted upon. But out on the
quarter-deck, pacing up and down making polite conversation, Hornblower
could have wished that Collingwood had not been so thoughtful as to
provide him with company. He had a great deal to think about.




CHAPTER X


Malta; Ricasoli Point on the one hand and Fort St Elmo returning the
salute on the other, and the Grand Harbour opening up between them;
Valetta with its palaces on the promontory; gaily-painted small craft
everywhere; a fresh north-easterly wind blowing. That wind--the Gregale,
the sailing directions called it--did not allow Hornblower any leisure
at present for sightseeing. In confined waters a sailing ship before the
wind always seemed pigheadedly determined to maintain her speed however
much her canvas was reduced, even under bare poles. It called for
accurate timing to round-to at the right moment, to take her way off
her, to clue up, and drop anchor at the right moment.

Nor would there be any leisure for Hornblower, it appeared, during the
few hours that he would be here. He could combine his official calls
with his personal delivery of the despatches entrusted to him, which
would save a good deal of time, but that saving was immediately eaten
up--as the fat kine of Pharaoh's dream were eaten up by the lean
kine--by the demands on his attention, and, just as the lean kine were
no fatter after their meal, so he was just as busy even when his
planning had saved that much time. It would be quarter-day, or as near
to it as made no matter, by the time letters from Malta would reach
England, so that now he could draw against his pay. Not to any great
extent, of course--there were Maria and the children to be
considered--but enough to provide himself with a few luxuries in this
island where bread was dear and luxuries cheap. Oranges and olives and
fresh vegetables--the bumboats were already awaiting permission to come
alongside.

McCullum, with his salvage operations in mind, was anxious for an indent
to be made for supplies he considered necessary. He wanted a mile of
half-inch line and a quarter mile of slow match--a fantastic demand, to
Hornblower's mind, but McCullum knew more about his business than he
did, presumably--and five hundred feet of leather 'fuse-hose,' which was
something Hornblower had hardly heard of. Hornblower signed the indent
wondering vaguely whether the Navy Office would surcharge him with it,
and turned away to face the inevitable fact that every officer in the
ship wished to go ashore and was presenting irrefutable reasons to Jones
in favour of his so doing. If _Atropos_ had been on fire they could not
be more passionately anxious to be out of her.

And here was another complication; a note from His Excellency the
Governor. Would Captain Hornblower and one of his officers dine at the
Palace this afternoon? It would be impossible to refuse, so no time need
be wasted on debate regarding that point--His Excellency was just as
anxious as any ordinary mortal to hear the gossip from England and to
see a new face--while there was equally no debate regarding which
officer he should take with him. His Excellency would never forgive him
if he heard who had been on board _Atropos_ and he had not been afforded
the opportunity of seating royalty at his table.

'Pass the word for Mr Prince,' said Hornblower, 'and the doctor.'

It would be necessary to have the doctor to interpret to the Prince
exactly what was going to happen; the boy had learned a good deal of
English during his month on board, but the vocabulary of the gunroom was
hardly inclusive enough to permit of discussions of vice-regal
etiquette. The Prince came in a little breathless, still twitching his
uniform into some kind of order; Eisenbeiss was breathing hard too--he
had to come the whole length of the ship and through a narrow hatchway.

'Please explain to His Serene Highness,' said Hornblower, 'that he is
coming ashore with me to dine with the Governor.'

Eisenbeiss spoke in German, and the boy gave his mechanical little bow.
The use of German evoked the manners of royalty from under the new
veneer of a British midshipman.

'His Serene Highness is to wear his court dress?' asked Eisenbeiss.

'No,' said Hornblower, 'his uniform. And if ever I see him again with
his shoes as badly brushed as those are I'll take the cane to him.'

'Sir----' said Eisenbeiss, but words failed him. The thought of the cane
being applied to his Prince struck him dumb; fortunately, perhaps.

'So that I am to wear this uniform too, sir?' asked Eisenbeiss.

'I fear you have not been invited, doctor,' said Hornblower.

'But I am First Chamberlain to His Serene Highness, sir,' exploded
Eisenbeiss. 'This will be a visit of ceremony, and it is a fundamental
law of Seitz-Bunau that I make all presentations.'

Hornblower kept his temper.

'And I represent His Britannic Majesty,' he said.

'Surely His Britannic Majesty cannot wish that his ally should not be
treated with the honours due to his royal position? As Secretary of
State it is my duty to make an official protest.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower. He put out his hand and bent the Prince's head
forward. 'You might be better employed seeing that His Serene Highness
washes behind his ears.'

'Sir! Sir!' said Eisenbeiss.

'Be ready and properly dressed in half an hour, if you please, Mr.
Prince.'

Dinner at the Palace ran the dreary course it might be expected to take.
It was fortunate that, on being received by the Governor's aide-de-camp,
Hornblower was able to shuffle on to his shoulders the burden of the
difficult decision regarding the presentations--Hornblower could not
guess whether His Serene Highness should be presented to His Excellency
or vice versa, and he was a little amused to note Her Excellency's
hurried asides when she heard the quality of her second guest; the
seating arrangements for dinner needed hasty revision. So Hornblower
found himself between two dull women, one of them with red hands and the
other with a chronic sniff. He struggled to make polite conversation,
and he was careful with his wine-glass, contriving merely to sip when
the others drank deep.

The Governor drank to His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau, and
the Prince, with the most perfect aplomb, drank to His Majesty the King
of Great Britain; presumably those were the first words of English he
had ever learned, long before he had learned to shout 'Vast heaving' or
'Come on, you no-sailors, you.' When the ladies had withdrawn Hornblower
listened to His Excellency's comments about Bonaparte's threatening
invasion of Southern Italy, and about the chances of preserving Sicily
from his clutches; and a decent interval after returning to the
drawing-room he caught the Prince's eye. The Prince smiled back at him
and rose to his feet. It was odd to watch him receiving the bows of the
men and the curtseys of the ladies with the assurance of ingrained
habit. To-morrow the boy would be in the gunroom mess again--Hornblower
wondered whether he was able yet to stand up for his rights there and
make sure he received no more than his fair share of gristle when the
meat was served.

The gig whisked them across the Grand Harbour from the Governor's steps
to the ship's side, and Hornblower came on to the quarter-deck with the
bos'n's mates' pipes to welcome him. He was conscious even before he had
taken his hand from his hat brim that there was something wrong. He
looked round him at the ship illuminated by the wild sunset the Gregale
had brought with it. There was no trouble with the hands, judging by
their attitudes as they stood crowded forward. The three Ceylonese
divers were there in their accustomed isolation by the knightheads. But
the officers grouped aft wore an apprehensive look; Hornblower's eyes
moved from face to face, from Jones to Still, the two lieutenants, to
Carslake, the purser, and to Silver, the master's mate of the watch. It
was Jones as senior officer who came forward to report.

'If you please, sir----'

'What is it, Mr Jones?'

'If you please, sir, there has been a duel.'

No one could ever guess what would be the next burden to be laid on a
captain's shoulders. It might be an outbreak of plague, or the discovery
of dry rot in the ship's timbers. And Jones's manner implied not merely
that there had been a duel, but that someone had been hurt in it.

'Who fought?' demanded Hornblower.

'The doctor and Mr McCullum, sir.'

Well, somewhere they could pick up another doctor, and if the worst came
to the worst they could manage without one at all.

'What happened?'

'Mr McCullum was shot through the lungs, sir.'

God! That was something entirely different, something of vital
importance. A bullet through the lungs meant death almost for certain,
and what was he to do with McCullum dead? McCullum had been sent for all
the way from India. It would take a year and a half to get someone out
from there to replace him. No ordinary men with salvage experience would
do--it had to be someone who knew how to use the Ceylonese divers.
Hornblower wondered with sick despair whether a man had ever been so
plagued as he was. He had to swallow before he could speak again.

'Where is he now?'

'Mr McCullum, sir? He's in the hands of the garrison surgeon in the
hospital ashore.'

'He's still alive?'

Jones spread despairing hands.

'Yes, sir. He was alive half an hour ago.'

'Where's the doctor?'

'Down below in his berth, sir.'

'I'll see him. No, wait. I'll send for him when I want him.'

He wanted to think; he needed time and leisure to decide what was to be
done. It was his instinct to walk the deck; that was how he could work
off the high internal pressure of his emotions. It was only incidentally
that the rhythmic exercise brought his thoughts into orderly sequence.
And this little deck was crowded with idle officers--his cabin down
below was of course quite useless. That was the moment when Jones came
forward with something else to bother him.

'Mr Turner's come aboard, sir.'

Mr Turner? Turner? That was the sailing master with experience of
Turkish waters whom Collingwood had detailed specially to service in
_Atropos_. He came from behind Jones as the words were said, a wizened
old man with a letter in his hand, presumably the orders which had
brought him on board.

'Welcome aboard, Mr Turner,' said Hornblower, forcing himself into
cordiality while wondering whether he would ever make use of Turner's
services.

'Your servant, sir,' said Turner with old-fashioned politeness.

'Mr Jones, see that Mr Turner's comfortable.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

That was the only reply Jones could make, however hard of execution the
order might be. But clearly Jones meditated some supplementary remark;
it could be that he was going to suggest putting Turner into McCullum's
quarters. Hornblower could not bear the thought of having to listen to
anything of the sort while he had yet to reach a decision. It was the
final irritation that roused him to the pitch of acting with the
arbitrariness of a captain of the old school.

'Get below, all of you,' he snapped. 'I want this deck clear.'

They looked at him as if they had not heard him aright, and he knew they
had.

'Get below, if you please,' he said, and the 'if you please' did nothing
to soften the harshness of his request. 'Master's mate of the watch, see
that this deck is kept clear, and keep out of my way yourself.'

They went below--this was an order from the captain who (according to
the reports of his gig's crew) had barely been diverted from hanging a
dozen French prisoners for no other reason than a desire to see their
death struggles. So he had the quarter-deck to himself, on which to
stride up and down, from taffrail to mizzen mast and back again, in the
fast-fading twilight. He walked rapidly, turning with a jerk at each
end, irritation and worry goading him on.

He had to reach a decision. The obvious thing to do was to report to
Collingwood and await further orders. But how long would it be before
any vessel left Malta with letters for Collingwood, and how long would
it be before another returned? A month altogether, probably. No captain
worth his salt would keep _Atropos_ lying idle in Grand Harbour for a
month. He could guess what Collingwood would think of a man who evaded
responsibility like that. He could take _Atropos_ and seek out
Collingwood himself, but the same objections applied. And how would he
appear in Collingwood's eyes if he were to arrive off Toulon or Leghorn
or wherever the chances of war might have summoned Collingwood, at the
moment when he was supposed to be two thousand miles away? No. No. It
would never do. At least he had reduced two apparent possibilities to
impossibilities.

Then he must proceed with his orders as if nothing had happened to
McCullum. That meant he must undertake the salvage operations himself,
and he knew nothing about the subject. A wave of fury passed over him as
his mind dwelt on the inconvenience and loss occasioned by the duel. The
idiotic Eisenbeiss and the bad-tempered McCullum. They had no business
incommoding England in her struggle with Bonaparte merely to satisfy
their own ridiculous passions. He himself had borne with Eisenbeiss's
elephantine nonsense. Why could not McCullum have done the same? And in
any event why could not McCullum have held his pistol straighter and
killed the ridiculous doctor instead of getting killed himself? But that
sort of rhetorical question did not get him any further with his own
urgent problems; he must not think along those lines. Moreover, with a
grinding feeling of guilt another consideration crept in. He should have
been aware of bad blood between the people in his ship. He remembered
the lighthearted way in which he had put on Jones's shoulders the
responsibility for accommodating McCullum in his crowded little ship. In
the wardroom the doctor and McCullum had probably got on each other's
nerves; there could be no doubt about that--and presumably ashore, over
wine in some tavern, the enmity had flared up and brought about the
duel. He should have known about the possibility and nipped it in the
bud. Hornblower scourged himself spiritually for his remissness. He
experienced bitter self-contempt at that moment. Perhaps he was unfit to
be captain of one of His Majesty's ships.

The thought brought about an even greater internal upheaval. He could
not bear it. He must prove to himself that there was no truth in it, or
he must break himself in the attempt. He must carry through that salvage
operation by his own efforts if necessary. He must. He _must_.

So that was the decision. He had only to reach it for the emotion to die
down within him, to leave him thinking feverishly but clearly. He must
of course do everything possible to ensure success, omit nothing that
could help. McCullum had indented for 'leather fuse-hose'; that was some
indication of how the salvage problem was to be approached. And McCullum
was not yet dead, as far as he knew. He might--no, it was hardly
possible. No one ever survived a bullet through the lungs. And yet----

'Mr Nash!'

'Sir!' said the master's mate of the watch, coming at the run.

'My gig. I'm going over to the hospital.'

There was still just a little light in the sky, but overside the water
was black as ink, reflecting in long, irregular lines the lights that
showed in Valetta. The oars ground rhythmically in the rowlocks.
Hornblower restrained himself from urging the men to pull harder. They
could never have rowed fast enough to satisfy the pressing need for
instant action that seethed inside him.

The garrison officers were still at mess, sitting over their wine, and
the mess sergeant, at Hornblower's request, went in and fetched out the
surgeon. He was a youngish man, and fortunately still sober. He stood
with the candlelight on his face and listened attentively to
Hornblower's questions.

'The bullet hit him in the right armpit,' said the surgeon. 'One would
expect that, as he would be standing with his shoulder turned to his
opponent and his arm raised. The actual wound was on the posterior
margin of the armpit, towards the back, in other words, and on the level
of the fifth rib.'

The heart was on the level of the fifth rib, as Hornblower knew, and the
expression had an ominous sound.

'I suppose the bullet did not go right through?' he asked.

'No,' replied the surgeon. 'It is very rare for a pistol bullet, if it
touches bone, to go through the body, even at twelve paces. The powder
charge is only one drachm. Naturally the bullet is still there,
presumably within the chest cavity.'

'So he is unlikely to live?'

'Very unlikely, sir. It is a surprise he has lived so long. The
hmoptysis--the spitting of blood, you understand, sir--has been
extremely slight. Most chest wounds die of internal bleeding within an
hour or two, but in this case the lung can hardly have been touched.
There is considerable contusion under the right scapula--that is the
shoulder blade--indicating that the bullet terminated its course there.'

'Close to the heart?'

'Close to the heart, sir. But it can have touched none of the great
vessels there, most surprisingly, or he would have been dead within a
few seconds.'

'Then why do you think he will not live?'

The doctor shook his head.

'Once an opening has been made in the chest cavity, sir, there is little
chance, and with the bullet still inside the chance is negligible. It
will certainly have carried fragments of clothing in with it. We may
expect internal mortification, a general gathering of malignant humours,
and eventual death within a few days.'

'You could not probe for the bullet?'

'Within the chest wall? My dear sir!'

'What action have you taken, then?'

'I have bound up the wound of entry to put an end to the bleeding there.
I have strapped up the chest to ensure that the jagged ends of the
broken ribs do no more damage to the lungs. I took two ounces of blood
from the left basilar vein, and I administered an opiate.'

'An opiate? So he is not conscious now?'

'Certainly not.'

Hornblower felt hardly wiser than he had done when Jones first told him
the news.

'You say he may live a few days? How many?'

'I know nothing about the patient's constitution, sir. But he is a
powerful man in the prime of life. It might be as much as a week. It
might even be more. But on the other hand if events take a bad turn he
might be dead to-morrow.'

'But if it is several days? Will he retain his senses during that time?'

'Likely enough. When he ceases to, it is a sign of the approaching end.
Then we can expect fever, restlessness, delirium, and death.'

Several days of consciousness were possible, therefore. And the
faintest, remotest chance that McCullum would live after all.

'Supposing I took him to sea with me? Would that help? Or hinder?'

'You would have to ensure his immobility on account of the fractured
ribs. But at sea he might perhaps even live longer. There are the usual
Mediterranean agues in this island. And in addition there is an endemic
low fever. My hospital is full of such cases.'

Now this was a piece of information that really helped in coming to a
decision.

'Thank you, doctor,' said Hornblower, and he took his decision. Then it
was only a matter of minutes to make the arrangements with the surgeon
and to take his leave. The gig took him back through the darkness, over
the black water, to where _Atropos'_ riding light showed faintly.

'Pass the word for the doctor to come to my cabin at once,' was
Hornblower's reply to the salute of the officer of the watch.

Eisenbeiss came slowly in. There was something of apprehension and
something of bravado in his manner. He was prepared to defend himself
against the storm he was certain was about to descend on him. What he
did not expect was the reception he actually experienced. He approached
the table behind which Hornblower was seated and stood sullen, meeting
Hornblower's eyes with the guilty defiance of a man who has just taken
another human's life.

'Mr McCullum,' began Hornblower, and the doctor's thick lips showed a
trace of a sneer, 'is being sent on board here to-night. He is still
alive.'

'On board here?' repeated the doctor, surprised into a change of
attitude.

'You address me as "sir." Yes, I am having him sent over from the
hospital. My orders to you are to make every preparation for his
reception.'

The doctor's response was unintelligible German, but there could be no
doubt it was an ejaculation of astonishment.

'Your answer to me is "aye aye, sir,"' snapped Hornblower, his pent-up
emotion and strain almost making him tremble as he sat at the table. He
could not prevent his fist from clenching, but he just managed to
refrain from allowing it to pound the table. The intensity of his
feelings must have had their effect telepathically.

'Aye aye, sir,' said the doctor grudgingly.

'Mr McCullum's life is extremely valuable, doctor. Much more valuable
than yours.'

The doctor could only mumble in reply to that.

'It is your duty to keep him alive.'

Hornblower's fist unclenched now, and he could make his points slowly,
one by one, accentuating each with the slow tap of the tip of a lean
forefinger on the table.

'You are to do all you can for him. If there is anything special that
you require for the purpose you are to inform me and I shall endeavour
to obtain it for you. His life is to be saved, or if not, it is to be
prolonged as far as possible. I would recommend you to establish an
hospital for him abaft No. 6 carronade on the starboard side, where the
motion of the ship will be least felt, and where it will be possible to
rig a shelter for him from the weather. You will apply to Mr Jones for
that. The ship's pigs can be taken for'rard where they will not
discommode him.'

Hornblower's pause and glance called forth an 'aye aye, sir' from the
doctor's lips like a cork from out of a bottle, so that Hornblower could
proceed.

'We sail at dawn to-morrow,' he went on. 'Mr McCullum is to live until
we reach our destination, and until long after, long enough for him to
execute the duty which has brought him from India. That is quite clear
to you?'

'Yes, sir,' answered the doctor, although his puzzled expression proved
that there was something about the orders which he could not explain to
himself.

'You had better keep him alive,' continued Hornblower. 'You had
certainly better. If he dies I can try you for murder under the ordinary
laws of England. Don't look at me like that. I am speaking the truth.
The common law knows nothing about duels. I can hang you, doctor.'

The doctor was a shade paler, and his big hands tried to express what
his paralysed tongue would not.

'But simply hanging you would be too good for you, doctor,' said
Hornblower. 'I can do more than that, and I shall. You have a fat,
fleshy back. The cat would sink deeply into it. You've seen men
flogged--you saw two flogged last week. You heard them scream. You will
scream at the gratings too, doctor. That I promise you.'

'No!' said the doctor--'you can't----'

'You address me as "sir," and you do not contradict me. You heard my
promise? I shall carry it out. I can, and I shall.'

In a ship detached far from superior authority there was nothing a
captain might not do, and the doctor knew it. And with Hornblower's grim
face before him and those remorseless eyes staring into his the doctor
could not doubt the possibility. Hornblower was trying to keep his
expression set hard, and to pay no attention to the internal
calculations that persisted in maintaining themselves inside him. There
might be terrible trouble if the Admiralty ever heard he had flogged a
warranted doctor, but then the Admiralty might never hear of an incident
in the distant Levant. And there was the other doubt--with McCullum once
dead, so that nothing could bring him to life, Hornblower could not
really believe he would torture a human being to no practical purpose.
But as long as Eisenbeiss did not guess that, it did not matter.

'This is all quite clear to you now, doctor?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then my order is that you start making your arrangements now.'

It was a really great surprise to Hornblower when Eisenbeiss still
hesitated. He was about to speak more sharply still, cutting into the
feverish gestures of the big hands, when Eisenbeiss spoke again.

'Do you forget something, sir?'

'What do you think I have forgotten?' asked Hornblower, playing for time
instead of flatly refusing to listen to any arguments--proof enough that
he was a little shaken by Eisenbeiss's persistence.

'Mr McCullum and I--we are enemies,' said Eisenbeiss.

It was true that Hornblower had forgotten that. He was so engrossed with
his chessboard manipulation of human pieces that he had overlooked a
vital factor. But he must not admit it.

'And what of that?' he asked coldly, hoping his discomfiture was not too
apparent.

'I shot him,' said Eisenbeiss. There was a vivid gesture by the big
right hand that had held the pistol, which enabled Hornblower to
visualize the whole duel. 'What will he say if I attend him?'

'Whose was the challenge?' asked Hornblower, still playing for time.

'He challenged me,' said Eisenbeiss. 'He said--he said I was no Baron,
and I said he was no gentleman. "I will kill you for that," he said, and
so we fought.'

Eisenbeiss had certainly said the thing that would best rouse McCullum's
fury.

'You are convinced you are a Baron?' asked Hornblower--curiosity urged
him to ask the question as well as the need for time to reassemble his
thoughts. The Baron drew himself up as far as the deck-beams over his
head allowed.

'I know I am, sir. My patent of nobility is signed by His Serene
Highness himself.'

'When did he do that?'

'As soon as--as soon as we were alone. Only His Serene Highness and I
managed to cross the frontier when Bonaparte's men entered Seitz-Bunau.
The others all took service with the tyrant. It was not fit that His
Serene Highness should be attended only by a bourgeois. Only a noble
could attend him to bed or serve his food. He had to have a High
Chamberlain to regulate his ceremonial, and a Secretary of State to
manage his foreign affairs. So His Serene Highness ennobled me--that is
why I bear the title of Baron--and gave me the high offices of State.

'On your advice?'

'I was the only adviser he had left.'

This was very interesting and much as Hornblower had imagined it, but it
was not to the point. Hornblower was more ready now to face the real
issue.

'In the duel,' he asked, 'you exchanged shots?'

'His bullet went past my ear,' answered Eisenbeiss.

'Then honour is satisfied on both sides,' said Hornblower, more to
himself than to the doctor.

Technically that was perfectly correct. An exchange of shots, and still
more the shedding of blood, ended any affair of honour. The principals
could meet again socially as if there had been no trouble between them.
But to meet in the relative positions of doctor and patient might be
something different. He would have to deal with that difficulty when it
arose.

'You are quite right to remind me about this, doctor,' he said, with the
last appearance of judicial calm that he could summon up. 'I shall bear
it in mind.'

Eisenbeiss looked at him a little blankly, and Hornblower put on his
hard face again.

'But it makes no difference at all to my promise to you. Rest assured of
that,' he continued. 'My orders still stand. They--still--stand.'

It was several seconds before the reluctant answer came.

'Aye aye, sir.'

'On your way out would you please be good enough to pass the word for Mr
Turner, the new sailing master?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

That showed the subtle difference between an order and a request--but
both of them had to be obeyed.

'Now, Mr Turner,' said Hornblower when Turner arrived in the cabin, 'our
destination is Marmorice Bay, and we sail at dawn to-morrow. I want to
know about the winds we can expect at this time of year. I want to lose
no time at all in arriving there. Every hour--I may say every minute is
of importance.'

Time was of importance, to make the most of a dying man's last hours.




CHAPTER XI


These were the blue waters where history had been made, where the future
of civilization had been decided, more than once and more than twice.
Here Greek had fought against Persian, Athenian against Spartan,
Crusader against Saracen, Hospitaller against Turk. The penteconters of
Byzantium had furrowed the seas here, and the caracks of Pisa. Great
cities had luxuriated in untold wealth. Only just over the horizon on
the port beam was Rhodes, where a comparatively minor city had erected
one of the seven wonders of the world, so that two thousand years later
the adjective colossal was part of the vocabulary of people whose
ancestors wore skins and painted themselves with woad at the time when
the Rhodians were debating the nature of the Infinite. Now conditions
were reversed. Here came _Atropos_, guided by sextant and compass,
driven by the wind harnessed to her well-planned sails, armed with her
long guns and carronades--a triumph of modern invention, in
short--emerging from the wealthiest corner of the world into one where
misgovernment and disease, anarchy and war, had left deserts where there
had been fertile fields, villages where there had been cities, and
hovels where there had been palaces. But there was no time to
philosophize in this profound fashion. The sands in the hour-glass
beside the binnacle were running low, and the moment was approaching
when course should be altered.

'Mr Turner!'

'Sir!'

'We'll alter course when the watch is called.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Doctor!'

'Sir!'

'Stand by for a change of course.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

McCullum's invalid bed was disposed athwart ships between Nos. 6 and 7
carronades on the starboard side; a simple tackle attached to the
bed-head enabled the level of the bed to be adjusted with the change of
course, so that the patient lay as horizontal as might be, whichever way
the ship might be heeling. It was the doctor's responsibility to attend
to that.

The watch was being called.

'Very good, Mr Turner.'

'Headsail sheets! Hands to the braces!'

Turner was an efficient seaman, despite his age. Hornblower could be
sure of that by now. He stood by and watched him lay the ship close to
the wind. Still came and touched his hat to Turner to take over the
watch.

'We ought to raise the Seven Capes on this tack, sir,' said Turner,
coming over to Hornblower.

'I fancy so,' said Hornblower.

The passage from Malta had been comfortingly rapid. They had lain
becalmed for a single night to the south of Crete, but with the morning
the wind had got up again from a westerly quarter. There had not been a
single breath of a Levanter--the equinox was still too far off for that,
apparently--and every day had seen at least a hundred miles made good.
And McCullum was still alive.

Hornblower walked forward to where he lay. Eisenbeiss was bending over
him, his fingers on his pulse, and with the cessation of the bustle of
going about the three Ceylonese divers had returned, to squat round the
foot of the bed, their eyes on their master. To have those three pairs
of melancholy eyes gazing at him would, Hornblower thought, have a most
depressing effect, but apparently McCullum had no objection.

'All well, Mr McCullum?' asked Hornblower.

'Not--quite as well as I would like.'

It was distressing to see how slowly and painfully the head turned on
the pillow. The heavy beard that had sprouted over his face could not
conceal the fact that McCullum was more hollow-cheeked, more
feverish-eyed, than yesterday. The decline had been very marked; the day
they sailed McCullum had appeared hardly more than slightly wounded, and
the second day he had seemed better still--he had protested against
being kept in bed, but that night he had taken a turn for the worse and
had sunk steadily ever since, just as the garrison surgeon and
Eisenbeiss had gloomily predicted.

Of course those had not been his only protests. McCullum had been as
angry as his muddled condition would allow when he emerged from his
narcotic to find he was under the treatment of the man who had shot him.
He had struggled against his weakness and his bandages. It had called
for Hornblower's personal intervention--fortunately _Atropos_ was clear
of the harbour mouth when McCullum regained consciousness--to calm him
down. 'It's a blackguard trick to pursue an affair of honour after an
exchange of shots,' Hornblower had said, and 'It's the Doctor who's
attending to you, not the Baron,' and then the clinching argument 'Don't
be a fool, man. There's no other surgeon within fifty miles. Do you want
to die?' So McCullum had yielded, and had submitted his tortured body to
Eisenbeiss's ministrations, perhaps deriving some comfort from the
ignoble things the doctor had to do for him.

And now all that spirit had gone. McCullum was a very sick man. He
closed his eyes as Eisenbeiss laid his hand on his forehead. The pale
lips muttered, and Hornblower, stooping, could only hear disjointed
phrases. There was something about 'fuses under water.' McCullum was
thinking, then, of the salvage operation ahead. Hornblower looked up and
met Eisenbeiss's eyes. There was deep concern in them, and there was the
least perceptible shake of the head. Eisenbeiss thought McCullum was
going to die.

'It hurts--it hurts,' said McCullum, moaning a little.

He moved restlessly, and Eisenbeiss's large powerful hands eased him
into a more comfortable position on his left side. Hornblower noticed
that Eisenbeiss laid one hand, as if inquiringly, over McCullum's right
shoulder-blade, and then lower down, towards the short ribs, and
McCullum moaned again. There was no change in the gravity of
Eisenbeiss's expression.

This was horrible. It was horrible to see this magnificently constructed
creature dying. And it was equally horrible that Hornblower was aware
that his deep sympathy was allayed with concern for himself. He could
not imagine how he would carry through the salvage operation with
McCullum dead, or even with McCullum as helpless as he was at present.
He would return empty-handed, to face Collingwood's wrath and contempt.
What was the use of all his endeavours? Hornblower suddenly boiled with
exasperation at the duelling convention which had claimed the life of a
valuable man and at the same time had imperilled his own professional
reputation. Within himself he was a whirlpool of emotions conflicting
with each other.

'Land! Land ho! Land on the starboard bow!'

The cry came ringing down from the fore topmast head. No one could hear
it without at least a little excitement. McCullum opened his eyes and
turned his head again, but Eisenbeiss, stooping over him, endeavoured to
soothe him. Hornblower's place was aft, and he turned away from the bed
and walked back, trying to restrain himself from appearing too eager.
Turner was already there, brought up from his watch below at the cry,
and by the lee bulwark the other officers were rapidly assembling in a
group.

'A good landfall, sir,' said Turner.

'An hour earlier than I was led to expect,' answered Hornblower.

'The current sets northerly here with steady winds from the West, sir,'
said Turner. 'We'll raise Atairo in Rhodes to port soon, and then we'll
have a cross-bearing.'

'Yes,' replied Hornblower. He was aware of his shortness of manner, but
only dimly aware of its cause; he was uneasy with a sailing master on
board who knew more about local conditions than he did, although that
sailing master had been assigned to him to save him from uneasiness.

_Atropos_ was shouldering her way valiantly through the short but steep
seas that came hurrying forward to assail her port bow. Her motion was
easy; she was carrying exactly the right amount of sail for that wind.
Turner put a telescope in his pocket and walked forward to ascend the
main shrouds, while Hornblower stood on the weather side with the wind
blowing against his sunburned cheeks. Turner came aft again, his smile
denoting self-satisfaction.

'That's the Seven Capes, sir,' he said. 'Two points on the starboard
bow.'

'There's a northerly set here, you say?' asked Hornblower.

'Yes, sir.'

Hornblower walked over and looked at the compass, and up at the trim of
the sails. The northerly set would help, and the wind was coming from
the southward of west, but there was no sense in going unnecessarily far
to leeward.

'Mr Still! You can come closer to the wind than this. Brace her up.'

He did not want to have to beat his way in at the last, and he was
making allowance for the danger of the current setting in on Cape Kum.

Now here was the doctor, touching his hat to demand attention.

'What is it, doctor?' asked Hornblower.

The hands were hauling on the maintack.

'May I speak to you, sir?'

That was exactly what he was doing, and at a moment by no means
opportune. But of course what he wanted was a chance to speak to him in
privacy, and not on this bustling deck.

'It's about the patient, sir,' supplemented Eisenbeiss. 'I think it is
very important.'

'Oh, very well,' said Hornblower, restraining himself from using bad
language. He led the way down into the cabin, and seated himself to face
the doctor. 'Well? What do you have to say?'

Eisenbeiss was nervous, that was plain.

'I have formed a theory, sir.'

He failed, as ever, with the 'th' sound, and the word was so unusual and
his pronunciation of it was so odd that Hornblower had to think for a
moment before he could guess what it was Eisenbeiss had said.

'And what is this theory?'

'It is about the position of the bullet, sir,' answered Eisenbeiss; he,
too, took a moment to digest what was the English pronunciation of the
word.

'The garrison surgeon at Malta told me it was in the chest cavity. Do
you know any more than that?'

That expression 'chest cavity' was an odd one, but the garrison surgeon
had used it. It implied an empty space, and was an obvious misnomer.
Lungs and heart and the great blood-vessels must fill that cavity full.

'I believe it may not be in there at all, sir,' said Eisenbeiss, clearly
taking a plunge.

'Indeed?' This might be exceedingly important news if it were true.
'Then why is he so ill?'

Now that Eisenbeiss had committed himself he became voluble again.
Explanations poured out of him, accompanied by jerky gestures. But the
explanations were hard to follow. In this highly technical matter
Eisenbeiss had been thinking in his native language even more than
usual, and now he was having to translate into technical terms
unfamiliar to him and still more unfamiliar to Hornblower, who grasped
despairingly at one contorted sentence.

'You think that the bullet, after breaking those ribs, may have bounced
off again?' he asked. At the last moment he substituted the word
'bounce' for 'ricochet' in the hope of retaining clarity.

'Yes, sir. Bullets often do that.'

'And where do you say you think it went then?'

Eisenbeiss tried to stretch his left hand far under his right armpit;
his body was too bulky to permit it to go far enough to make his
demonstration quite complete.

'Under the scapula, sir--the--the shoulder-blade.'

'Land ho! Land on the port bow?'

Hornblower heard the cry come down through the skylight from above. That
must be Rhodes they had sighted. Here they were heading into Rhodes
Channel, and he was down below talking about ribs and scapulas. And yet
the one was as important as the other.

'I can't stay down here much longer, doctor. Tell me why you think this
is the case?'

Eisenbeiss fell into explanation again. He talked about the patient's
fever, and about his comparative well-being the morning after he had
been wounded, and about the small amount of blood he had spat up. He was
in the full flood of his talk when a knock at the door interrupted him.

'Come in,' said Hornblower.

It was His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau, with a speech that
he had obviously prepared carefully on his way down.

'Mr Still's respects, sir,' he said. 'Land in sight on the port bow.'

'Very well, Mr Prince. Thank you.'

It was a pity there was not time to compliment the boy on his rapid
acquirement of English. Hornblower turned back to Eisenbeiss.

'So I think the bullet went round the back, sir. The skin is--is tough,
sir, and the ribs are--are elastic.'

'Yes?' Hornblower had heard of bullets going round the body before this.

'And the patient has much muscle. Much.'

'And you think the bullet has lodged in the muscles of the back?'

'Yes. Deep against the ribs. Under the lower point of the scapula, sir.'

'And the fever? The illness?'

They could be accounted for, according to Eisenbeiss's torrential
explanation, by the presence of the foreign body deep inside the
tissues, especially if, as was probable, it had carried fragments of
clothing in along with it. It all seemed plausible enough.

'And you are trying to say that if the bullet is there and not inside
the chest you might be able to extract it?'

'Yes, sir.'

Eisenbeiss showed by his manner that he knew that those words had
finally committed him.

'You think that you can do that? It means using the knife?'

As soon as Hornblower finished asking the second question he was aware
that it was impolitic to ask two questions at once of a man who had
enough trouble answering one. Eisenbeiss had to think a long time over
the phrasing of his answers.

'It means using the knife,' he said at length. 'It means a difficult
operation. I do not know if I can do it.'

'But you hope you can?'

'I hope so.'

'And do you think you will be successful?'

'I do not think. I hope.'

'And if you are not successful?'

'He will die.'

'But you think he will die in any case if you do not attempt the
operation?'

That was the point. Eisenbeiss twice opened his mouth and shut it again
before he answered.

'Yes.'

Down through the skylight, as Hornblower sat studying Eisenbeiss's
expression, came a new cry, faintly borne from the weather main chains.

'No bottom! No bottom with this line!'

Turner and Still had very properly decided to take a cast of the lead;
they were still out of soundings, as was to be expected. Hornblower
brought his mind back from the situation of the ship to the decision
regarding McCullum. The latter might have some claim to be consulted on
the matter, but the claim was specious. His life was his country's. A
seaman was not consulted first when he was carried into the ordeal of
battle.

'So that is your opinion, doctor. If you operate and fail you will only
have shortened the patient's life by a few hours?'

'A few hours. A few days.'

A few days might suffice for the salvage operation; but with McCullum as
sick as he was he would be no use during those few days. On the other
hand there was no knowing at present whether or not he might possibly
recover after those few days, without being operated on.

'What are the difficulties of the operation?' asked Hornblower.

'There are several layers of muscle there,' explained Eisenbeiss.
'Infraspinatus. Subscapularis, many of them. In each case the--the
threads run in a different direction. That makes it difficult to work
quickly and yet without doing great damage. And there is the big artery,
the subscapular. The patient is weak already and unable to withstand
much shock.'

'Have you everything you need for this operation if you carry it out?'

Eisenbeiss hunched his thick shoulders.

'The two attendants--loblolly boys, you call them, sir--are experienced.
They have both served in ships in action. I have my instruments. But I
should like----'

Eisenbeiss clearly wanted something he believed to be difficult to
grant.

'What?'

'I should like the ship to be still. At anchor. And a good light.'

That turned the scale of the decision.

'Before nightfall,' said Hornblower, 'this ship will be at anchor in a
landlocked harbour. You can make your preparations for the operation.'

'Yes, sir.' Again a pause before Eisenbeiss asked an important question.
'And your promise, sir?'

Hornblower did not have to think very long about the question as to
whether Eisenbeiss would work more efficiently or not if he were faced
with the certainty of flogging and hanging if he failed. The man would
do all he could out of sheer professional pride. And the thought that
his life was at stake might possibly make him nervous.

'I'll take my promise back,' said Hornblower. 'You'll suffer no harm,
whatever happens.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'No bottom!' called the leadsman in the chains.

'Very well, then. You have until this evening to make what preparations
you can.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

With Eisenbeiss out of the cabin Hornblower sat for hardly a moment
retracing the grounds of his decision. His ship was entering Rhodes
Channel and he must be on deck.

'Wind's come southerly a point, sir,' said Still, touching his hat.

The first thing, of course, that Hornblower had noticed as he came up
the companion was that _Atropos_ was still braced up as close to the
wind as she would lie. Still and Turner had acted correctly without
troubling him about it.

'Very well, Mr Still.'

Hornblower put his glass to his eye and swept the horizon. A bold,
wildly rugged coast on the one hand; on the other a low sandy shore. He
bent to study the chart.

'Cape Angistro to starboard, sir,' said Turner at his side. 'Cape Kum
abaft the port beam.'

'Thank you.'

Everything was as it should be. Hornblower straightened up and turned
his glass upon the Turkish coast. It was steep, with bold cliffs, behind
which rose a chain of steeply undulating hills.

'They're only green at this time of year, sir,' explained Turner. 'The
rest of the year they're brown.'

'Yes.'

Hornblower had read all he could about the Eastern Mediterranean, and he
knew something of the climatic conditions.

'Not many people live there now, sir,' went on Turner. 'Farmers, a few.
Shepherds. Little fishing villages in some of the coves. A little
coasting trade in caiques from Rhodes--not so much of that now, sir.
There's piracy in all these waters, on account of the feuds between the
Greeks and the Turks. There's a bit of trade in honey an' timber, but
precious little.

'Yes.'

It was fortunate the wind had backed southerly, even by so little. It
eased one of the myriad complications in his complicated life.

'Ruins a-plenty along that coast, though, sir,' droned on Turner.
'Cities--temples--you'd be surprised.'

Ancient Greek civilization had flourished here. Over there had stood
Artemisia and a score of other Greek cities, pulsating with life and
beauty.

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

'The villages mostly stand where the old cities were,' persisted Turner.
'Ruins all round 'em. Half the cottages are built of marble from the
temples.'

'Yes.'

In other circumstances Hornblower could have been deeply interested, but
as it was Turner was merely distraction. There was not merely the
immediate business in hand of taking _Atropos_ up into Marmorice
harbour; there was the business of how to deal with the Turkish
authorities; of how to set about the problems of salvage; there was the
question--the urgent, anxious question--as to whether McCullum would
live. There was the routine of the ship; when Hornblower looked round
him he could see the hands and the officers clustered along the ship's
sides gazing out eagerly at the shores. There were Greeks dwelling among
the Mohammedans of the mainland--that would be important when it came to
a question of keeping liquor from the men. And he would like to fill his
water barrels; and there was the matter of obtaining fresh vegetables.

Here was Still with a routine question. Hornblower nodded in agreement.

'Up spirits!'

The cry went through the little ship, and when they heard it the men had
no ears for any siren song from the shore. This was the great moment of
the day for most of them, when they would pour their tiny issue of
rum-and-water down their eager throats. To deprive a man of his ration
was like barring a saint from Paradise. The speculations that went on
among the men, their dealings with their rum rations, the exchanging,
the buying, the selling, made the South Sea Bubble seem small by
comparison. But Hornblower decided he need not vaunt himself above the
herd, he need not look down with condescension at the men as if they
were Circe's hogs swilling at a trough; it was perfectly true that this
was the great moment of their day, but it was because they had no other
moment at all, for months and for years, confined within the wooden
walls of their little ship, often seeing not a shilling of money in all
that time, not a fresh face, not a single human problem on which to
exercise their wits. Perhaps it was better to be a captain and have too
many problems.

The hands went to dinner. Cape Kum went by on the one hand and the
Turkish coast on the other, the breeze freshening with the bright sunny
day, and Turner droning on as the landmarks went by.

'Cape Marmorice, sir,' reported Turner.

The coast dipped here, revealing mountains more lofty close behind. Now
was the time to take in sail, ready to enter. It was the time when
decisive action had to be taken, too; when _Atropos_ changed from a
peaceful ship, cruising placidly along outside territorial waters, to a
stormy petrel, whose entrance into a foreign harbour might send
despatches hastening from embassies, and might cause cabinets to
assemble at opposite ends of Europe. Hornblower tried to give his orders
as if he had no care for the importance of the moment.

'All hands! All hands shorten sail! All hands!'

The watch below came running to their posts. The officers, at the call
of all hands, went to their stations, the one or two who had been dozing
down below coming hastily on deck. Courses and top gallants were got in.

'Mr Jones!' said Hornblower harshly.

'Sir!'

'Ease that sheet and take the strain off the tack! Where did you learn
your seamanship?'

'Aye aye, sir,' answered Jones rather pathetically, but he ran up both
clues smartly together.

The reprimand was deserved, but Hornblower wondered if he would have
administered it in just that way if he had not been anxious to show that
the responsibilities he was carrying could not distract him from any
detail of the management of the ship. Then he decided bitterly that it
was unnecessary in any event; not one of those hurrying figures on deck
gave a single thought to the responsibilities of his captain, or of what
international crisis this shortening of sail might be the preliminary.

'Red Cliff Point, sir,' said Turner. 'Passage Island. Cape Sari over
there. The east passage is better, sir--there's a rock in the middle of
the west passage.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower. There was not much detail in the chart, but that
much was clear. 'We'll take the east passage. Quartermaster! Port your
helm. Steady! Steady as you go!'

With the wind on her quarter _Atropos_ headed for the entrance like a
stag, even with her sail reduced to topsails and headsails. The entrance
became better defined as she approached; two bold points running to meet
each other with a lofty island in between. It was obvious why Red Cliff
Point was so named; elsewhere there was a dark, straggling growth of
pine trees on capes and island, while on the summits could just be seen
the rectangular outlines of small forts.

'They don't keep those manned, sir,' said Turner. 'Gone to rack and ruin
like everything else.'

'You say the east passage is absolutely clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well.'

_Atropos_ headed in, with Hornblower giving his orders to the wheel.
There was no flag flying on shore, and until one could be seen there was
no question of firing a salute. From point to island the entrance
extended a scant half mile, possibly less; now they could see through
it, to the wide waters of Marmorice Bay, with high mountains surrounding
it on nearly every side, except to the northward.

'There's the town, sir,' said Turner. 'Not much of a place.'

A white tower--a minaret--caught the afternoon sun.

'You can see the red mound behind the town now, sir.'

'Where did the _Speedwell_ go down?' asked Hornblower.

'Over to port, there, sir. Right in line between the red mound and the
fort on Passage Island. The fort on Ada bore sou'-sou'east half south.'

'Take the bearing now,' ordered Hornblower.

They were through the entrance now. The water was smooth, not smooth
enough to reflect the blue sky. Turner was calling the bearing of the
fort on Capa Ada. With his own eye Hornblower could judge the other
cross-bearing. There was no harm in anchoring close to the projected
scene of operations; that would attract less attention than to anchor in
one place first and to move to another anchorage later. Jones took in
fore and main topsails and headsails smartly enough. _Atropos_ glided
quietly on.

'Hard a-starboard,' said Hornblower to the quartermaster. Round came
_Atropos_, the mizzen-topsail helping the turn as Jones clued it up. The
ship's way died away almost imperceptibly, the tiny waves lapping
against her bows.

'Let go!'

The hawser rumbled out. _Atropos_ swung to her anchor, in Turkish
waters. The crossing of the three-mile limit, even the entrance through
the Pass, had been actions that might be argued about, disavowed. But
that anchor, its flukes solidly buried in the firm sand, was something
of which a diplomatic note could take definite notice.

'Pass the word for the doctor,' said Hornblower.

There were many things to do; it was his duty to make contact with the
Turkish authorities if they did not make contact with him. But first of
all, without wasting a moment, it was necessary to make arrangements for
the operation on McCullum. The man's life hung in the balance, and far
more than his life.




CHAPTER XII


Hornblower sat waiting in his cabin. 'A few minutes' had been
Eisenbeiss's estimate of the time necessary for the operation. It was
necessary, Hornblower knew, to work as quickly as possible, so as to
minimize the shock to the patient.

'In the old _Hannibal_, sir,' said the sickberth attendant whom
Hornblower had questioned regarding his experience, 'we took off eleven
legs in half an hour. That was at Algeciras, sir.'

But amputations were relatively simple. A full half of all amputation
cases survived--Nelson himself had lost an arm, amputated on a dark
night in a moderate storm at sea, and he had lived until a musket bullet
killed him at Trafalgar. This was not an amputation. It was something
which would be worse than useless if Eisenbeiss's diagnosis was
incorrect and which could easily fail in any case.

The ship was very still and quiet. Hornblower knew that all his crew
were taking a morbid interest in the fate of the 'poor gentleman.' They
were sentimental about McCullum, lying at death's door as a result of a
bullet wound he need never have received; the fact that he was going to
be cut about with a knife had an unholy attraction for them; the fact
that in a few minutes he might be dead, might have gone through those
mysterious doors they all feared to go through, invested his personality
with some special quality in their eyes. Sentries had to be posted to
keep out all the sentimental, the inquisitive, and the morbid-minded
among the crew, and now Hornblower could tell by the silence that his
men were waiting in shuddering silence for the climax, hoping perhaps to
hear a scream or a groan, waiting as they would wait to see a condemned
criminal turned off the hangman's cart. He could hear the heavy ticking
of his watch as he waited.

Now there were distant sounds, but sounds in the little wooden ship were
susceptible to so many possible interpretations that he would not at
first allow himself to think that they might arise as a result of the
ending of the operation. But then there were steps and voices outside
his cabin door, the sentry speaking and then Eisenbeiss, and then came a
knock.

'Come in,' said Hornblower, trying to keep his voice indifferent; the
first sight of Eisenbeiss as he entered was enough to tell Hornblower
that all was as well as could be hoped. There was an obvious
lightheartedness about the doctor's elephantine movements.

'I found the bullet,' said Eisenbeiss. 'It was where I thought--at the
inferior angle of the scapula.'

'Did you get it out?' asked Hornblower; the fact that he did not correct
Eisenbeiss for omitting the 'sir' was proof--if anyone had been present
to notice it--that he was not as calm as he appeared.

'Yes,' said Eisenbeiss.

He laid something on the table in front of Hornblower, with a gesture
positively dramatic. It was the bullet, misshapen, flattened to an
irregular disc, with a raw scratch on one surface.

'That is where my scalpel cut into it,' said Eisenbeiss proudly. 'I went
straight to the right place.'

Hornblower picked the thing up gingerly to examine it.

'You see,' said Eisenbeiss, 'it was as I said. The bullet struck the
ribs, breaking them, and then glanced off, passing back between the bone
and the muscle.'

'Yes, I see,' said Hornblower.

'And there are these as well,' went on Eisenbeiss, laying something else
in front of Hornblower with the same sort of conscious pride as a
conjuror at a fair bringing the rabbit out of the hat.

'Is this the wad?' asked Hornblower, puzzled, and making no attempt to
pick up the horrid little object.

'No,' said Eisenbeiss, 'that is how my forceps brought it out. But
see----'

Eisenbeiss's large fingers plucked the object into successive layers.

'I have looked at these through my lens. That is a piece of a blue coat.
That is a piece of silk lining. That is a piece of linen shirt. And
those are threads of a knitted undershirt.'

Eisenbeiss beamed with triumph.

'The bullet carried these in with it?' asked Hornblower.

'Exactly. Of course. Between the bullet and the bone these portions were
cut off, as they might be between the blades of scissors, and the bullet
carried them on with it. I found them all. No wonder the wound was
suppurating.'

'You address me as "sir,"' said Hornblower, realizing, now that the
tension had eased, that Eisenbeiss had been omitting the honorific. 'The
operation was otherwise successful as well?'

'Yes--sir,' said Eisenbeiss. 'The removal of these foreign bodies and
the draining of the wound brought immediate relief to the patient.'

'He did not suffer too much?'

'Not too much. The men who were ready to hold him still had hardly
anything to do. He submitted with good spirit, as he promised you he
would. It was well that he lay still. I feared further injury to the
lung from the broken ribs if he struggled.'

'You address me as "sir,"' said Hornblower. 'That is the last time,
doctor, that I shall overlook the omission.'

'Yes--sir.'

'And the patient is going on well?'

'I left him as well as I could hope--sir. I must return to him soon, of
course.'

'Do you think he will live?'

Some of the triumph evaporated from Eisenbeiss's expression as he
concentrated on phrasing his reply.

'He is more likely to live now, sir,' he said. 'But with wounds--one
cannot be sure.'

There was always the likelihood, the unpredictable likelihood, of a
wound taking a turn for the worse, festering and killing.

'You cannot say more than that?'

'No, sir. The wound must remain open to drain. When applying the sutures
I inserted a bristle----'

'Very well,' said Hornblower, suddenly squeamish. 'I understand. You had
better return to him now. You have my thanks, doctor, for what you have
done.'

Even with Eisenbeiss gone there was no chance of quietly reviewing the
situation. A knock on the door heralded the appearance of Midshipman
Smiley.

'Mr Jones' compliments, sir, and there are boats heading for us from the
shore.'

'Thank you. I'll come up. And if Mr Turner's not on deck tell him I want
to see him there.'

Some of the gaily-painted boats in the distance were under oars, but the
nearest one was under a lateen sail, lying very close to the wind. As
Hornblower watched her she took in her sail, went about, and reset it on
the other tack. The lateen rig had its disadvantages. On the new tack
the boat would fetch up alongside _Atropos_ easily enough.

'Now listen to me, Mr Turner,' said Hornblower, reaching the decision he
had had at the back of his mind--overlain until now by a host of other
considerations--for the last two days. 'When you speak to them you are
to tell them that we are looking for a French squadron.'

'Beg pardon, sir?'

'We are looking for a French squadron. Two sail--that will do. A ship of
the line and a frigate, escaped from Corfu three weeks back. The first
thing you ask is whether they have touched here.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Turner was not very clear on the point yet.

'Admiral--Admiral Harvey has sent us in for news. He's cruising off
Crete looking for them with four sail of the line. Four will do. Enough
force to make them respect us.'

'I see, sir.'

'You're quite sure you do?'

'Yes, sir.'

It was irksome being dependent on Turner to interpret for him. With
Spanish authorities, or French, Hornblower could have conducted his own
negotiations, but not with Turks.

'Remember, that's the first thing you ask, the very first. Have two
French ships touched here? Then you can go on to get permission to fill
the water casks. We'll buy fresh vegetables, too, and a couple of
bullocks, if we can.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Keep it in your mind all the time that we're scouting for Admiral
Harvey. Don't forget it for a moment, and then everything will be all
right.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The lateen boat was nearing them fast, making surprising speed with the
small evening wind; there was a respectable bubble of foam under her
bow. She came running close alongside and hove-to, the lateen sail
flapping until they brailed up the upper portion.

'Turks, sir, not Greeks,' said Turner.

Hornblower could have guessed that without Turner's help; the boat's
crew was dressed in dirty white gowns; they wore on their heads round
red hats wreathed in dirty white turbans. The grey-bearded man who stood
up in the stern wore a red sash about his waist, from which hung a
curved sword. He hailed _Atropos_ in a thin high voice. Turner hailed
back; the jargon he spoke was the lingua franca of the Levant, and
Hornblower tried to guess at what was being said. Italian, French,
English, Arabic, Greek, all contributed to the language, he knew. It was
a little strange to hear the words 'Horatio Hornblower' come clearly
through the incomprehensible remainder.

'Who is this fellow?' he asked.

'The Mudir, sir. The local Jack-in-office. Harbour master--preventive
officer. He is asking about our bill of health, sir.'

'Don't forget to ask about the French ships,' said Hornblower.

'Aye aye, sir.'

The shouted conversation went on; Hornblower caught the word 'fregata'
more than once. The grey-beard in the boat extended his hands in a
negative gesture and went on to supplement it with a further sentence.

'He says there have been no French ships in here for years, sir,' said
Turner.

'Ask him if he has heard about any along the coast or in the islands?'

The grey-beard clearly disclaimed all knowledge.

'Tell him,' said Hornblower, 'I'll give him five pieces of gold for news
of the French.'

There was something infectious in the atmosphere, in this Oriental
talk--that was the only explanation Hornblower could think of for his
using the outlandish expression 'pieces of gold.' There was no reason
why he should not have said 'guineas' to Turner. The grey-beard shook
his head again; Hornblower, looking keenly at him, fancied that the
offer impressed him nevertheless. He asked another question and Turner
answered.

'I've told him about the British squadron in the offing, sir,' he
reported.

'Good.'

There was no harm in having the Turks believe he had a powerful force to
back him up. Now the grey-beard was gesturing with the fingers of one
hand outstretched as he answered some question of Turner's.

'He says he wants five piastres a hogshead for us to fill our water
casks, sir,' said Turner. 'That's a shilling each.'

'Tell him--tell him I'll give him half.'

The conversation continued; the western sky was beginning to redden with
the sunset as the sun sank lower. At last the grey-beard waved in
farewell, and the boat turned away and unfurled her sail to the dying
wind.

'They've gone back to spread their mats for the evening prayer, sir,'
said Turner. 'I've promised him ten guineas for everything. That gives
us the right to land at the jetty over there, to fill our water casks,
and to buy in the market that he'll open in the morning. He'll take his
share of what we pay there, you can be sure, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Turner. Mr Jones!'

'Sir!'

'With the first light in the morning I'm going to start sweeping for the
wreck. I'll have the sweep prepared now.'

'Er--aye aye, sir.'

'A hundred fathoms of one-inch line, if you please, Mr Jones. Two
nine-pounder shot. Have a net made for each, and attach them ten fathoms
apart at equal distances from the ends of the line. Is that clear?'

'Not--not quite, sir.'

Because he was honest about it Hornblower refrained from remarking on
his slowness of comprehension.

'Take a hundred fathoms of line and attach one shot forty-five fathoms
from one end and another forty-five fathoms from the other end. Is that
clear now?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You can get the launch and longboat into the water now, ready for the
morning. They'll carry the sweep between them, dragging the bottom for
the wreck. Tell off the boats' crews for duty. I want to start work at
first dawn, as I said. And we'll need grapnels and buoys to mark what we
find. Nothing conspicuous--planks will do, with seventeen fathoms of
line to each. You understand all that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Carry on, then, Mr Turner, report in my cabin in fifteen minutes' time,
if you please. Messenger! My compliments to the doctor, and I'd like to
see him in my cabin immediately.'

Hornblower felt like a juggler at a fair, keeping half a dozen balls in
the air at once. He wanted to hear from the doctor how McCullum was
progressing after the operation; he wanted to discuss with Turner the
question of what local authorities might be likely to be present in
Marmorice to interfere with his work there; he wanted to make all
preparations for the next morning; he wanted to be ready with his own
plans for raising the treasure if McCullum was unable to give advice;
and night orders for the care of the ship in this harbour of doubtful
neutrality had to be written; it was only late in the evening that he
remembered something else--something of which he was reminded only by a
suddenly noticed feeling of emptiness inside him. He had eaten nothing
since breakfast. He ate biscuit and cold meat, crunching the flinty
fragments hurriedly at his cabin table before hurrying on deck again
into the darkness.

It was a chilly night, and the young moon had already set. No breath of
air now ruffled the black surface of the water of the bay, smooth enough
to bear faint reflections of the stars. Black and impenetrable was the
water, beneath which lay a quarter of a million pounds sterling. It was
as impenetrable as his future, he decided, leaning on the bulwark. An
intelligent man, he decided, would go to bed and sleep, having done all
that his forethought and ingenuity could devise, and an intelligent man
would worry no further for the moment. But he had to be very firm with
himself to drive himself to bed and allow his utter weariness of body
and mind to sweep him away into unconsciousness.

It was still dark when he was called, dark and cold, but he ordered
coffee for himself and sipped it as he dressed. Last night when he had
given the time for his being called he had allowed for a leisurely
dressing before daylight, but he felt tense and anxious as he got out of
bed, much as he had felt on other occasions when he had been roused in
the night to take part in a cutting-out expedition or a dawn landing,
and he had to restrain himself from putting on his clothes in haphazard
fashion and hurrying on deck. He forced himself to shave, although that
was an operation which had mostly to be carried out by touch because the
hanging lamp gave almost no illumination to the mirror. The shirt he
pulled on felt clammy against his ribs; he was struggling with his
trousers when a knock at the door brought in Eisenbeiss, reporting in
obedience to overnight orders.

'The patient is sleeping well, sir,' he announced.

'Is his condition good?'

'I thought I should not disturb him, sir. He was sleeping quietly, so I
could not tell if he had fever nor could I examine the wound. I can wake
him if you wish, sir----'

'No, don't do that, of course. I suppose it's a good symptom that he's
sleeping in any case?'

'A very good one, sir.'

'Then leave him alone, doctor. Report to me if there is any change.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower buttoned his trousers and thrust his feet into his shoes. His
eagerness to be on deck overcame his self-restraint to the extent that
he was still buttoning his coat as he went up the companion. On deck as
well the atmosphere seemed to be charged with that feeling of impending
attack at dawn. There were the dimly-seen figures of the officers,
silhouetted against the sky. To the east there was the faintest
illumination, a little light reaching half-way up to the zenith, so
faint as almost to be unnoticed, and its colour, in its turn, was so
faint a shade of pink as hardly to be called that.

'Morning,' said Hornblower in response to the touched hats of his
subordinates.

In the waist he could hear orders being quietly given--just like manning
the boats for a cutting-out expedition.

'Longboat's crew starboard side,' said Smiley's voice.

'Launch's crew port side.' That was the Prince's voice. He was acquiring
a better accent than Eisenbeiss's.

'There's some surface mist, sir,' reported Jones. 'But it's very
patchy.'

'So I see,' replied Hornblower.

'Last night we were lying two cables' lengths from the wreck as near as
makes no matter, sir,' said Turner. 'We've swung during the night, with
the wind dropping, but little enough.'

'Tell me when it's light enough for you to get your bearings.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

In that short time the eastern sky had changed. One might almost have
said it had darkened, but perhaps that was because with the tiny
increase in the general illumination the contrast was not so marked.

'You took a third bearing at the time when _Speedwell_ went down, Mr
Turner?'

'Yes, sir. It was----'

'No matter.'

Turner could be relied upon to manage a simple piece of business of that
sort.

'I don't expect the wreck has moved an inch, sir,' said Turner. 'There's
no tide here. No scour. The two rivers that run into the Bay don't set
up any current you can measure.'

'And the bottom's firm sand?'

'Firm sand, sir.'

That was something to be thankful for. In mud the wreck might have sunk
beyond discovery.

'How the devil did _Speedwell_ come to capsize?' asked Hornblower.

'Sheer bad luck, sir. She was an old ship, and she'd been at sea a long
time. The weeds and the barnacles were thick along her waterline--she
wasn't coppered high enough, sir. So they were heeling her, cleaning her
port side, with the guns run out to starboard and all the weights they
could shift over to starboard too. It was a still day, baking hot. Then,
before you could say Jack Robinson, there came a gust out of the
mountains. It caught her square on the port beam and laid her over
before she could pay off. The gun ports were open and the water came up
over the sills. That laid her over still more--at least, that's what the
court of inquiry found, sir--and with her hatchways open the water rose
over the coamings and down she went.'

'Did she right herself as she sank?'

'No, sir. I looked over at her when I heard the shout, and I saw her
keel. Bottom upwards she went. Her topmasts were snapped clean off. They
came up soon enough, main and fore topmasts still anchored to the wreck
by a shroud or two. That was a help when it came to taking the
bearings.'

'I see,' said Hornblower.

Dawn was coming up fast. It actually seemed--an optical illusion, of
course--as if great arms of colour were climbing up the sky from the
eastern horizon at a pace perceptible to the eye.

'It's light enough now, sir,' said Turner.

'Thank you. Mr Jones! You can carry on.'

Hornblower watched them go, Turner leading the way in the gig with his
instruments and compass, Still following behind in the launch with
Smiley in the longboat attached to the launch by the sweep. Hornblower
became acutely aware that despite the cup of coffee he had drunk he
wanted his breakfast. It seemed almost against his will that he
lingered. This dead still calm at dawn was the ideal time for an
operation of this sort; it enabled the gig to take up and maintain a
position with the least possible effort. The ripples caused by the
boat's passage, slow though it was, spread far over the glassy surface
of the Bay before dying out at last. He saw the gig stop, and clearly
over the water came the sound of Turner's voice as he spoke through his
speaking trumpet to the other boats. They jockeyed round into position
awkwardly, like two beetles tied together with a thread, and then they
paid out the sweep between them, manoeuvred awkwardly again for a moment
as they laid themselves exactly upon the correct bearing, and then the
oars began to swing rhythmically, slowly, like the pendulum of Fate, as
the boats began to sweep the area ahead of them. Hornblower's heart beat
faster despite himself, and he swallowed with excitement. Around him the
ship was beginning her normal life. Amid the peculiar patter of bare
feet on wooden planking--a sound unlike any other on earth--the watch
below were bringing their hammocks to stow in the nettings. Swabs and
holystones, buckets and pump; the hands not at work in the boats began
the eternal daily routine of washing down the decks. Not for the first
time on the voyage Hornblower found himself experiencing a momentary
envy of the seamen at their work. Their problems were of the simplest,
their doubts were minute. To holystone a portion of planking to the
whiteness demanded by a petty officer, to swab it off, to swab it dry,
working in amicable companionship with friends of long standing,
dabbling their naked feet in the gush of clear water--that was all they
had to do, as they had done for an infinity of mornings in the past and
would do for an infinity of mornings in the future. He would be glad to
exchange with them his loneliness, his responsibility, the complexity of
his problems; so he felt for a moment before he laughed at himself,
knowing perfectly well he would be horrified if some freak of Fate
forced such an exchange on him. He turned away, changing the subject of
his thoughts; a generous slice of fat pork, fried to a pale brown--there
had been a leg in soak for him for the past two days, and the outside
cut would be not too salt now. It would smell delicious--he could almost
smell it at this very moment. Holy Jerusalem, unless it was still
spluttering on his plate when it was put before him despite the journey
from galley to cabin he'd make someone wish he had never been born. And
he would have biscuit crumbs fried with it, and he would top it off with
black treacle smeared on a biscuit, thick. That was a breakfast worth
thinking about.




CHAPTER XIII


Hornblower stood with his purse in his hand, having taken it from his
sea chest where it had lain in the inner compartment. He knew exactly
how many guineas there were in it, and he was trying not to wish there
were more. If he were a wealthy captain he would be generous towards his
ship's company, and to the wardroom and gunroom. But as it was----He
shook his head. He did not want to appear miserly or mean, but he
certainly did not want to be foolish. He walked along to the wardroom
door and paused there; Still caught his eye.

'Please come in, sir.'

The other officers rose from their chairs; there was nowhere for them to
sit unless they sat round the table in the tiny wardroom.

'I was hoping,' said Hornblower to Carslake the purser, 'that you would
be kind enough to make some purchases for me.'

'Of course, sir. Honoured, I'm sure,' said Carslake. He could say
nothing else, in any case.

'A few chickens--half a dozen, say, and some eggs.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Is it the intention of the wardroom to buy fresh meat for itself?'

'Well, sir----'

That had been the subject under discussion at his entrance.

'At this time of year there might be lambs to sell. I could have
one--two young ones, if they're cheap. But an ox--what am I to do with a
whole ox?'

Everyone in the wardroom had been up against this problem at some time
or other.

'If the wardroom decides to buy an ox I would be glad to pay a quarter
of the price,' said Hornblower, and the wardroom cheered up perceptibly.

A captain who bought a share in an animal would always get the best
cuts--that was in the course of nature. And they had all known captains
who would pay no more than their share. But with five wardroom officers
Hornblower's offer was generous.

'Thank you very much, sir,' said Carslake. 'I think I can sell a couple
of joints to the gunroom.'

'On advantageous terms, I trust?' said Hornblower, with a grin.

He could remember well enough as a midshipman occasions when wardroom
and gunroom had gone shares in an animal.

'I expect so, sir,' said Carslake and then, changing the subject, 'Mr
Turner says that it'll be goat here, mainly. Do you care for goat, sir?'

'Young kid, stewed with turnips and carrots!' said Jones. 'You can do
worse than that, sir.'

Jones's lantern-jawed face was alight with appetite. These grown men,
continuously fed on preserved food, were like children at a gingerbread
stall at a fair with the thought of fresh meat.

'Do what you can,' said Hornblower. 'I'll eat kid or lamb, or I'll share
in an ox, as you find the market provides. You know what you're buying
for the crew?'

'Yes, sir,' said Carslake.

The penny-pinching clerks of a penurious government at home would
scrutinize those expenditures in time. Nothing very generous could be
bought for the hands.

'I don't know what vegetables we'll find, sir, at this time of year,'
went on Carslake, 'winter cabbage, I suppose.'

'Nothing wrong with winter cabbage,' interposed Jones.

'Carrots and turnips out of winter store,' said Carslake. 'They'll be
pretty stringy, sir.'

'Better than nothing,' said Hornblower. 'There won't be enough in the
market for all we need, nor will there be until the word goes round the
countryside. So much the better. Then we'll have an excuse to linger.
You're going to interpret, Mr Turner?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Keep your eyes open. And your ears.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Mr Jones, you will attend to the water casks, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

That was the transition between the social visit and the official
issuing of orders.

'Carry on.'

Hornblower went to the bedside where McCullum lay. Sailcloth pillows
supported him in a position half on his side. It was a comfort to see
how comparatively well he looked. The fever and its accompanying
distortion of thought had left him.

'Glad to see you looking so well, Mr McCullum,' said Hornblower.

'Well enough,' answered McCullum.

He croaked a little, but his speech was almost normal.

'A full night's sleep,' said Eisenbeiss, hovering on the far side of the
bed. He had already made his report to Hornblower--the wound showed
every sign of healing, the sutures had not at least as yet caused undue
inflammation, and the draining where the bristle kept the wound in the
back open had been apparently satisfactory.

'And we've started a full morning's work,' said Hornblower. 'You have
heard that we have located the wreck?'

'No. I had not heard that.'

'It's located and buoyed,' said Hornblower.

'Are you sure it is the wreck?' croaked McCullum. 'I've known some queer
mistakes made.'

'It is exactly where the bearings were taken when she sank,' said
Hornblower. 'It is the right size as far as the sweep can show. And no
other obstructions were found by the sweep, either. The bottom here is
firm sand, as I expect you know.'

'It sounds plausible,' said McCullum grudgingly. 'I could have wished
I'd had the direction of the sweeping, nevertheless.'

'You must trust me, Mr McCullum,' said Hornblower patiently.

''Tis little that I know about you and your capabilities,' answered
McCullum.

Hornblower, swallowing his irritation at that remark, wondered how
McCullum had managed to live so long without previously being shot in a
duel. But McCullum was the irreplaceable expert, and even if he were not
a sick man it would be both foolish and undignified to quarrel with him.

'I presume the next thing to do is to send your divers down to report on
the condition of the wreck,' he said, trying to be both firm and polite.

'Undoubtedly that will be the first thing I do as soon as I am allowed
out of this bed,' said McCullum.

Hornblower thought of all that Eisenbeiss had told him about McCullum's
wound, about gangrene and suppuration and general blood-poisoning, and
he knew there was a fair chance that McCullum would never rise from his
bed.

'Mr McCullum,' he said, 'this is an urgent matter. Once the Turks get
wind of what we want to do, and can assemble sufficient force to stop
us, we will never be allowed to conduct salvage operations here. It is
of the first importance that we get to work as quickly as we can. I was
hoping that you would instruct your divers in their duties so that they
could start now, immediately.'

'So that is what you were thinking, is it?' said McCullum.

It took some minutes of patient argument to wear McCullum down, and the
grudging agreement that McCullum gave was tempered by an immediate
pointing out of the difficulties.

'That water's mortal cold,' said McCullum.

'I'm afraid so,' answered Hornblower, 'but we have always expected
that.'

'The Eastern Mediterranean in March is nothing like the Bay of Bengal in
summer. My men won't stand it for long.'

It was a great advance that McCullum should admit that they might stand
it at all.

'If they work for short intervals----?' suggested Hornblower.

'Aye. Seventeen fathoms beside the wreck?'

'Seventeen fathoms all round it,' said Hornblower.

'They can't work for long at that depth in any case. Five dives a day
will be all. Then they bleed at the nose and ears. They'll need lines
and weights--nine-pounder shot will serve.'

'I'll have them got ready,' said Hornblower.

Hornblower stood by while McCullum addressed his divers. He could guess
at the point of some of the speeches. One of the divers was raising
objections; it was clear, when he clasped his arms about his chest and
shuddered dramatically with a rolling of his pathetic dark eyes, what he
was saying. All three of them talked at once for a space in their
twittering language. A sterner note came into McCullum's voice when he
replied, and he indicated Hornblower with a gesture, directing all eyes
to him for a moment. All three clung to each other and shrank away from
him like frightened children. McCullum went on speaking,
energetically--Eisenbeiss leaned over him and restrained the left hand
that gesticulated; the right was strapped into immobility against
McCullum's chest.

'Do not move,' said Eisenbeiss. 'We shall have an inflammation.'

McCullum had winced more than once after an incautious movement, and his
appearance of well-being changed quickly to one of fatigue.

'They'll start now,' he said at length, his head back on his pillow.
'You can take 'em. Looney, here--that's what I call him--will be in
charge. I've told 'em there are no sharks. Generally when one of 'em's
down at the bottom the other two pray against sharks--they're all three
of 'em shark doctors. A good thing they've seen men flogged on board
here. I promised 'em you'd give 'em a taste of the cat if there was any
nonsense.'

Hornblower had seen very plainly what the reactions of these twittering,
bird-like creatures had been to that horror.

'Take 'em away,' said McCullum, lying back on his pillow.

With longboat and launch over at the far side of the Bay for stores and
water only the gig and the tiny jolly boat were available. The gig was
uncomfortably crowded but it served, with four hands at the oars,
Hornblower and Leadbitter in the stern--Hornblower felt he could not
possibly endure not taking part in this first essay--and the Ceylonese
crowded into the bows. Hornblower had formed a shrewd notion about the
extent of McCullum's ability to speak the divers' language. He had no
doubt that McCullum made no attempt to speak it accurately or with any
attempt at inflection. He made his points, Hornblower guessed, with a
few nouns and verbs and some energetic gestures. McCullum's command of
the Ceylonese tongue could not compare with Hornblower's Spanish, nor
even with his French. Hornblower felt a sense of grievance about that,
as he sat with his hand on the tiller and steered the gig over the
dancing water--already the flat calm of dawn had given way to a moderate
breeze that ruffled the surface.

They reached the first of the buoys--a plank wallowing among the
wavelets at the end of its line--and Hornblower stood to identify the
others. A stroke or two of the oars carried the gig into the centre of
the area, and Hornblower looked down the boat to where the divers
huddled together.

'Looney,' he said.

Now that he had been paying special attention to them he could
distinguish each of the three divers from the others. Until that time
they might as well have been triplets as far as his ability went to tell
them apart.

'Looney,' said Hornblower again.

Looney rose to his feet and dropped the grapnel over the side. It went
down fast, taking out the coiled-down line rapidly over the gunwale.
Slowly Looney took off his clothes until he stood naked. He sat himself
on the gunwale and swung his legs over. As his feet felt the cold of the
water he cried out, and the other two joined with him in cries of alarm
or commiseration.

'Shall I give 'im a shove, sir?' asked the hand at the bow oar.

'No,' said Hornblower.

Looney was sitting systematically inflating and deflating his chest,
inhaling as deeply as he could, forcing air into his lungs. Hornblower
could see how widely the ribs moved at each breath. One of the other two
Ceylonese put a cannonball into Looney's hands, and he clasped it to his
naked chest. Then he let himself slip from the gunwale and disappeared
below the surface, leaving the gig rocking violently.

Hornblower took out his watch; it had no second-hand--watches with
second-hands were far too expensive for him to afford--but he could
measure the time roughly. He watched the tip of the minute hand creep
from one mark to the next, from there to the next, and into the third
minute. He was concentrating so deeply on the task that he did not hear
Looney break water; his attention was called by a word from Leadbitter.
Looney's head was visible twenty yards astern, his long thick switch of
black hair, tied with a string, beside his ear.

'Back water!' said Hornblower promptly. 'Pay out that line, there!'

The second order was understood clearly enough by the Ceylonese, or at
least they knew their business, for as a vigorous stroke or two sent the
gig down to Looney one of them attended to the line over the bows.
Looney put his hands up to the gunwale and the other two pulled him on
board. They talked volubly, but Looney at first sat still on the thwart,
his head down by his thighs. Then he lifted his head, the water
streaming from his wet hair. Clearly he talked about the cold--that
sharp breeze must have been icy upon his wet skin--for the others
towelled him and assisted him to cover himself with his clothes.

Hornblower wondered how he would set them to work again, but there was
no need for him to interfere. As soon as Looney had his white garments
about his shoulders he stood up in the bows of the gig and looked about
him, considering. Then he pointed to a spot in the water a few yards
away, looking round at Hornblower.

'Give way!' said Hornblower.

One of the Ceylonese hauled in on the grapnel and let it go again when
the boat reached the spot indicated. Now it was his turn to strip, to
inflate and deflate his chest, and to take a cannonball into his hands
and drop over the side. Cannonballs cost money, thought Hornblower, and
a time might come when he would need them to fire at the enemy. It would
be better in the future to play in a supply of small rocks gathered on
the shore. The diver came up to the surface and scrambled on board, to
be received by his companions just as Looney had been. There was some
kind of discussion among the divers, which was ended by the third one
going down in the same place, apparently to settle the point in dispute.
What he discovered led on his return to Looney requesting by signs a
further shifting of the gig, and then Looney took off his clothes again
to go down.

The divers were working industriously and, as far as Hornblower could
see, intelligently. Later on Looney and one of his mates made a
simultaneous descent, and it was on this occasion that Hornblower
noticed that Looney's legs and feet, when he climbed in, were scratched
and bleeding. For a moment Hornblower thought of sharks and similar
underwater perils, but he revised his opinion at once. Looney must have
been scrambling about on the wreck itself. There were decaying timbers
down there, deep in the bright water, overgrown with barnacles and
razor-edged sea shells. Hornblower felt confirmed in his opinion when
Looney desired to buoy this particular spot. They anchored a plank there
by a grapnel, and then dived more than once again in the neighbourhood.

Now the divers were exhausted, lying doubled up and huddled together
beside the bow thwart.

'Very well, Looney,' said Hornblower, and he pointed back to the ship.

Looney gave him a weary nod.

'Up anchor,' ordered Hornblower, and the gig pulled back towards
_Atropos_.

A mile away were visible the lug sails of longboat and launch also on
their return journey, coming down with the freshening wind abeam. It
seemed to Hornblower as if things could never happen to him one at a
time; he had hardly set foot on the deck of the _Atropos_ before they
were running alongside, and as the Ceylonese made their weary way
forward to report to McCullum here were Carslake and Turner demanding
his attention.

'The water casks are refilled, sir,' said Carslake. 'I used the little
stream that comes in half a mile from the town. I thought that would be
better than those in the town.'

'Quite right, Mr Carslake,' said Hornblower. On account of what he had
seen in North Africa, Hornblower agreed with Carslake that a water
supply that had not passed through a Turkish town would be preferable.

'What stores did you get?'

'Very little, sir, to-day, I'm afraid.'

'There was only the local market, sir,' supplemented Turner. 'The Mudir
has only sent out word to-day. The goods will be coming in for sale
to-morrow.'

'The Mudir?' asked Hornblower. That was the word Turner had used before.

'The head man, sir, the local governor. The old man with the sword who
came out to us in the boat yesterday.'

'And he is the Mudir?'

'Yes, sir. The Mudir is under the Kaimakam, and the Kaimakam is under
the Vali, and the Vali is under the Grand Vizier, and he's under the
Sultan, or at least that's how it's supposed to be--all of 'em try to be
independent when they get the chance.'

'I understand that,' said Hornblower.

No one who had given any study at all to the military and naval history
of the last few years in the Eastern Mediterranean could be ignorant of
the anarchy and disintegration prevailing in the Turkish Empire. What
Hornblower wanted to hear about was the effect these were producing
locally and to-day. He turned back to Carslake to listen patiently first
to his account of what had been bought and what would be available
later.

'I bought all the eggs there were, sir. Two and a half dozen,' said
Carslake in the course of his report.

'Good,' said Hornblower, but without any fervour, and that was clear
proof that his mind was not on what Carslake was saying. Normally the
thought of eggs, boiled, scrambled, or poached, would have excited him.
The untoward events at Malta had prevented his buying any there for
himself. He had not even laid in a store of pickled eggs at Deptford.

Carslake droned himself to a stop.

'Thank you, Mr Carslake,' said Hornblower. 'Mr Turner, come below and
I'll hear what you have to say.'

Turner had apparently kept his eyes and ears open, as Hornblower had
ordered him to.

'The Mudir has no force here at all worth mentioning, sir,' said Turner,
his wizened old face animated and lively. 'I doubt if he could raise
twenty-five armed men all told. He came down with two guards as old as
himself.'

'You spoke with him?'

Yes, sir. I gave him--Mr Carslake and I gave him--ten guineas to open
the market for us. Another ten guineas to-morrow, is what we've promised
him.'

No harm in keeping local authority on his side as long as possible,
thought Hornblower.

'And was he friendly?' he asked.

'We-ell, sir. I wouldn't say that, not exactly, sir. Maybe it was
because he wanted our money. I wouldn't call him friendly, sir.'

He would be reserved and cautious, Hornblower decided, not anxious to
commit himself without instructions from superior authority, and yet not
averse to pocketing twenty pieces of gold--pickings for an average year,
Hornblower guessed--when the opportunity presented itself.

'The Vali's carried off the local army, sir,' went on Turner. 'That was
plain enough from the way the Mudir talked. But I don't know why, sir.
Maybe there's trouble with the Greeks again. There's always trouble in
the Archipelago.'

Rebellion was endemic among the Greek subjects of Turkey. Fire and
sword, massacre and desolation, piracy and revolt, swept islands and
mainland periodically. And nowadays with French influence penetrating
from the Seven Islands, and Russia taking a suspiciously humanitarian
interest in the welfare of Turkey's Orthodox subjects, there were fresh
sources of trouble and unrest.

'One point's clear, anyway,' said Hornblower, 'and that is that the
Vali's not here at present.'

'That's so, sir.'

It would take time for a message to reach the Vali, or even the Vali's
subordinate, the--the Kaimakam, decided Hornblower, fishing the strange
title out of his memory with an effort. The political situation was
involved beyond any simple disentanglement. Turkey had been Britain's
enthusiastic ally recently, when Bonaparte had conquered Egypt and
invaded Syria and threatened Constantinople. But Russia and Turkey were
chronic enemies--they had fought half a dozen wars in the last half
century--and now Russia and England were allies, and Russia and France
were enemies, even though since Austerlitz there was no way in which
they could attack each other. There could be no doubt in the world that
the French ambassador in Constantinople was doing his best to incite
Turkey to a fresh war with Russia; no doubt at all that Russia since the
days of Catherine the Great was casting covetous eyes on Constantinople
and the Dardanelles.

The Greek unrest was an established fact. So was the ambition of the
local Turkish governors. The tottering Turkish government would seize
any opportunity to play off one possible enemy against the other, and
would view with the deepest suspicion--there was even the religious
factor to be borne in mind--any British activity amid Turkish
possessions. With England and France locked in a death struggle the
Turks could hardly be blamed if they suspected England of buying
Russia's continued alliance with a promise of a slice of Turkish
territory; luckily France, with a far worse record, was liable to be
similarly suspected. When the Sultan heard--if ever he did hear--of the
presence of a British ship of war in Marmorice Bay, he would wonder what
intrigues were brewing with the Vali, and if Sultan or Vali heard that a
quarter of a million in gold and silver lay at the bottom of Marmorice
Bay it could be taken for granted that none would be salvaged unless the
lion's share went into Turkish hands.

There was just no conclusion to be reached after all this debate, except
for the one he had reached a week ago, and that was to effect as prompt
a recovery of the treasure as possible and to leave the diplomats to
argue over a _fait accompli_. He walked forward to hear from McCullum's
lips how much had been learned regarding this possibility.

McCullum had just finished hearing what the divers had reported to him.
They were squatting round his cot, with all the attention of their big
eyes concentrated on his face, and with all their clothes draped about
them until they looked something like beehives.

'She is there,' said McCullum. Apparently he had been quite prepared to
find that some gross blunder or other had been committed, either in
plotting the original bearings or in the recent sweeping operations.

'I'm glad to hear it,' replied Hornblower, as politely as he could make
himself endure these temperamental liberties of an expert and an
invalid.

'She's greatly overgrown, except for her copper, but she shows no sign
of breaking up at all.'

A wooden ship, fastened together with wooden pegs, and untouched by
storm or current, might well lie for ever on a sandy bed without
disintegration.

'Did she right herself?' asked Hornblower.

'No. She's nearly bottom up. My men could tell bow from stern.'

'That's fortunate,' said Hornblower.

'Yes.' McCullum referred to some pages of written notes that he held in
his free hand. 'The money was in the lower lazarette, aft, abaft the
mizzen mast and immediately below the main deck. A ton and a half of
coined gold in iron chests and nearly four tons of coined silver in
bags.

'Ye-es,' said Hornblower, trying to look as if that exactly agreed with
his own calculations.

'The lazarette was given an additional lining of oak to strengthen it
before the treasure was put on board,' went on McCullum. 'I expect the
money's still there.'

'You mean----?' asked Hornblower, quite at a loss.

'I mean it will not have fallen through the deck on to the sea bottom,'
said McCullum, condescending to explain to this ignorant amateur.

'Of course,' said Hornblower, hastily.

'_Speedwell's_ main cargo was half the battering train of the army,'
went on McCullum. 'Ten long eighteen-pounders. Bronze guns. And the shot
for them. Iron shot.'

'That's why she went down the way she did,' said Hornblower brightly. As
he spoke he realized as well the implications of the words 'bronze' and
'iron' which McCullum had accented. Bronze would endure under water
longer than iron.

'Yes,' said McCullum. 'As soon as she heeled, guns and shot and all
would shift. I'll wager on that, from what I know of first mates in
these days. With the war, any jumped-up apprentice is a first mate.'

'I've seen it myself,' said Hornblower, sorrowfully.

'But that's neither here nor there,' went on McCullum. 'Looney here says
she is still, most of her, above the sand. He could get in under the
break of the poop, just.'

From McCullum's significant glance when he made this announcement
Hornblower could guess that it was of great importance, but it was hard
to see just why this should be.

'Yes?' said Hornblower, tentatively.

'Do you think they can break in through the ship's side with crowbars?'
asked McCullum testily. 'Five minutes' work on the bottom a day each for
three men! We'd be here a year.'

Hornblower suddenly remembered the 'leather fuse-hoses' for which
McCullum had indented at Malta. He made a hasty guess, despite the
fantastic nature of what he had to say.

'You're going to blow up the wreck?' he said.

'Of course. A powder charge in that angle should open the ship at
exactly the right place.'

'Naturally,' said Hornblower. He was dimly aware that it was possible to
explode charges under water, but his knowledge of the technical methods
to be employed was dimmer still.

'We'll try the fuse-hoses first,' announced McCullum. 'But I've little
hope of them at that depth. The joints can't resist the pressure.'

'I suppose not,' said Hornblower.

'I expect it'll mean a flying fuse in the end,' said McCullum. 'These
fellows here are always afraid of 'em. But I'll do it.'

The bulky figure of Eisenbeiss loomed up beside the cot. He put one hand
on McCullum's forehead and the other on his wrist.

'Take your hands off me!' snarled McCullum. 'I'm busy.'

'You must not do too much,' said Eisenbeiss. 'Excitement increases the
morbid humours.'

'Morbid humours be damned!' exclaimed McCullum. 'And you be damned,
too.'

'Don't be a fool, man,' said Hornblower, his patience exhausted. 'He
saved your life yesterday. Don't you remember how sick you were? "It
hurts. It hurts." That's what you were saying.'

Hornblower found his voice piping in imitation of McCullum's yesterday,
and he turned his face feebly from side to side like McCullum's on the
pillow. He was aware that it was an effective bit of mimicry, and even
McCullum was a trifle abashed by it.

'Sick I may have been,' he said, 'but I'm well enough now.'

Hornblower looked across at Eisenbeiss.

'Let Mr McCullum have five more minutes,' he said. 'Now, Mr McCullum,
you were talking about leather fuse-hoses. Will you please explain how
they are used?'




CHAPTER XIV


Hornblower came forward to where the gunner and his mates were squatting
on the deck at work upon the fuse-hose in accordance with McCullum's
instructions.

'You are making a thorough job of those seams, I hope, Mr Clout,' he
said.

'Aye aye, sir,' said Clout.

They had an old sail spread out to sit on, for the purpose of saving the
spotless deck from the warm pitch in the iron pot beside them.

'Five seconds to the foot, this quick match burns, sir. You said one
foot of slow match, sir?'

'I did.'

Hornblower bent to look at the work. The leather hose was in irregular
lengths, from three to five feet; it was typical of the cross-grained
ways of nature that animals could not provide longer pieces of leather
than that. One of the gunner's mates was at work with a slender wooden
bodkin, dragging the end of a vast length of quick match through a
section of hose. When the bodkin emerged he proceeded to slip the hose
along the quick match until it joined the preceding section.

Easy with that, now,' said Clout. 'We don't want a break in that match.'

The other gunner's mate set to work with needle and palm to sew and
double sew the new length to its neighbour. The joint completed, Clout
proceeded to apply warm pitch liberally over the joint and down the seam
of the new section. Eventually there would be a hundred and twenty feet
of hose joined and pitched and with quick match threaded all the way
through it.

'I've picked a couple of sound kegs, sir,' said Clout. 'Fifty-pound
kegs, they are. I have bags of dry sand to fill 'em up.'

'Very well,' said Hornblower.

Thirty pounds of powder was what McCullum wanted for his explosive
charge, no more and no less.

'I don't want to shatter the wreck to pieces,' McCullum had said. 'I
only want to split her open.'

That was a part of McCullum's special knowledge; Hornblower could not
possibly have guessed how much powder, at a depth of a hundred feet,
would achieve this result. In a long nine-pounder, he knew, three pounds
of powder would throw the shot a mile and a half, random shooting, but
this was something entirely different, and in the incompressible medium
of water, too. With a fifty-pound keg and only thirty pounds of powder
it was necessary to have some indifferent substance like sand to fill
the keg full.

'Send me word the moment you are ready,' said Hornblower, and turned
back aft again.

Here was Turner, newly come from the shore, hovering about to attract
his attention.

'Well, Mr Turner?'

Turner kept his distance, his manner indicating that he had something
very private to say. He spoke in a low voice when Hornblower walked over
to him.

'Please, sir, it's the Mudir. He wants to visit you. I can't make him
out, but there's something he wants.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I said--I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't know what else to do--I said you'd
be delighted. There's something fishy, I think. He said he'd come at
once.'

'He did, did he?'

Things were bound to be fishy in these troubled waters, thought
Hornblower, with a simultaneous disapproval of the style of that
sentiment.

'Midshipman of the watch!'

'Sir!'

'What do you see over towards the town?'

Smiley trained his glass across the Bay.

'Boat putting out, sir. She's the same lateen we saw before.'

'Any flag?'

'Yes, sir. Red. Turkish colours, it looks like.'

'Very well. Mr Jones, we're going to have an official visitor. You may
pipe the side for him.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Now, Mr Turner, you don't know what the Mudir wants?'

'No, sir. He wanted to see you, urgently, it seems like. "Il capitano"
was all he'd say when we landed--the market was supposed to be ready for
us, but it wasn't. What he wanted was to see the Captain, and so I said
you'd see him.'

'He gave no hint?'

'No, sir. He wouldn't say. But he was agitated, I could see.'

'Well, we'll know soon enough,' said Hornblower.

The Mudir mounted to the deck with a certain dignity, despite the
difficulties the awkward ascent presented to his old legs. He looked
keenly about him as he came on board; whether or not he understood the
compliment that was being paid him by the bos'n's mates and the sideboys
could not be determined. There was a keen hawk-like face above the white
beard, and a pair of lively dark eyes took in the scene about him
without revealing whether it was a familiar one or not. Hornblower
touched his hat and the Mudir replied with a graceful gesture of his
hand to his face.

'Ask him if he will come below,' said Hornblower. 'I'll lead the way.'

Down in the cabin Hornblower offered a chair, with a bow, and the Mudir
seated himself. Hornblower sat opposite him with Turner at his side. The
Mudir spoke and Turner translated.

'He hopes God has given you the gift of health, sir,' said Turner.

'Make the correct reply,' said Hornblower.

As he spoke he met the glance of the sharp brown eyes and smiled
politely.

'Now he's asking you if you have had a prosperous voyage, sir,' reported
Turner.

'Say whatever you think fit,' answered Hornblower.

The conversation proceeded from one formal politeness to another. This
was the way of the Levant, Hornblower knew. It could be neither
dignified nor tactful to announce one's business in one's opening
sentences.

'Should we offer him a drink?' asked Hornblower.

'Well, sir, it's usual over business to offer coffee.'

'Then don't you think we'd better?'

'You see, sir, it's the coffee--it'll be different from what he calls
coffee.'

'We can hardly help that. Give the order, if you please.'

The conversation continued, still without reaching any point. It was
interesting to note how an intelligent and mobile face like the Mudir's
could give no hint at all of any emotion behind it. But the coffee
brought about a change. The sharp eyes took in the thick mugs, the
battered pewter coffee pot, while the face remained impassive, and while
the Mudir was going through the ceremony of polite refusal and then
grateful acceptance; but the tasting of the coffee effected a
transformation. Willy nilly, the Mudir could not prevent an expression
of surprise, even though he instantly brought his features under control
again. He proceeded to sweeten his coffee to a syrup with sugar, and he
did not touch the cup, but raised it to his lips by means of the saucer.

'There ought to be little cakes and sweetmeats, too, sir,' said Turner.
'But we couldn't offer him blackstrap and biscuit.'

'I suppose not,' said Hornblower.

The Mudir sipped cautiously at his coffee again, and resumed his speech.

'He says you have a very fine ship, sir,' said Turner. 'I think he is
coming to the point soon.'

'Thank him and tell him what a wonderful village he has, if you think
that's the right thing,' said Hornblower.

The Mudir sat back in his chair--it was plain that he was not accustomed
to chairs--studying first Hornblower's face and then Turner's. Then he
spoke again; his voice was well modulated, well controlled.

'He's asking if _Atropos_ is going to stay long, sir,' said Turner.

It was the question Hornblower was expecting.

'Say that I have not completed my stores yet,' he said.

He was quite sure that the preliminary operations of salvage, sweeping
for the wreck, buoying it, and sending down the divers, had escaped
observation, or at least would be quite unintelligible from the shore.
He did not take his eyes from the Mudir's face as Turner translated and
the Mudir replied.

'He says he presumes you will be leaving as soon as you've done that,'
said Turner.

'Tell him it's likely.'

'He says this would be a good place to wait for information about French
ships, sir. The fishing boats often come in with news.'

'Tell him I have my orders.'

The suspicion began to form in Hornblower's mind that the Mudir did not
want _Atropos_ to leave. Perhaps he wanted to keep him here until an
ambush could be laid, until the guns at the fort could be manned, until
the Vali returned with the local army. This was a good way to carry on a
diplomatic conversation. He could watch the Mudir all the time, while
any unguarded statement of Turner's could be disavowed on the grounds of
poor translation if no other way.

'We can keep an eye on the Rhodes Channel from here, sir, he says,' went
on Turner. 'It's the most likely course for any Frenchy. It looks as if
he wants to get his twenty guineas, sir.'

'Maybe so,' said Hornblower, trying to convey by his tone that he saw no
need for Turner to contribute to the conversation. 'Say that my orders
give me very little discretion.'

With the conversation taking this turn it was obvious that the best
tactics would be to display a reluctance that might with great
difficulty be overcome. Hornblower hoped that Turner's command of lingua
franca was equal to this demand upon it.

The Mudir replied with more animation than he had previously shown; it
was as if he were about to show his hand.

'He wants us to stay here, sir,' said Turner. 'If we do there'll be much
better supplies coming in from the country.'

That was not his real reason, obviously.

'No,' said Hornblower. 'If we can't get the supplies we'll go without
them.'

Hornblower was having to be careful about the expression on his face; he
had to say these things to Turner as if he really meant them--the Mudir
was not letting anything escape his notice.

'Now he's coming out in the open, sir,' said Turner. 'He's asking us to
stay.'

'Then ask him why he wants us to.'

This time the Mudir spoke for a long time.

'So that's it, sir,' reported Turner. 'Now we know. There are pirates
about.'

'Tell me exactly what he said, if you please, Mr Turner.'

'There are pirates along the coast, sir,' explained Turner, accepting
the rebuke. 'A fellow called Michael--Michael the--the Slayer of Turks,
sir. I've heard of him. He raids these coasts. A Greek, of course. He
was at Fettech two days back. That's just along the coast, sir.'

'And the Mudir's afraid this'll be the next place he raids?'

'Yes, sir. I'll ask him so as to make sure, sir,' added Turner, when
Hornblower glanced at him.

The Mudir was quite eloquent now that he had taken the plunge. Turner
had to listen for a long time before he could resume his translation.

'Michael burns the houses, sir, and takes the women and cattle. He's the
sworn enemy of the Mohammedans. That's where the Vali is with the local
army, sir. He went to head off Michael, but he guessed wrong. He went to
Adalia, and that's a week's march away, sir.'

'I see.'

With _Atropos_ lying in Marmorice Bay a pirate would never venture in,
and the Mudir and his people were safe as long as she stayed there. The
purpose of the Mudir's visit was plain; he wanted to persuade Hornblower
to stay until this Michael was at a safe distance again. It was a
remarkable piece of good fortune; it was, thought Hornblower, ample
compensation for the freak of fate which had left McCullum wounded in a
duel. In the same way that in a long enough session the whist player
found that the luck evened itself out, so it was with war. Good luck
followed bad--and for Hornblower that was an astonishing admission,
although he was ready enough to admit that bad luck followed good. But
he must on no account show any pleasure.

'It's a stroke of luck for us, sir,' said Turner.

'Please keep your conclusions to yourself, Mr Turner,' said Hornblower
bitingly.

The tone of his voice and Turner's crestfallen expression puzzled the
Mudir, who had not ceased to watch them closely. But he waited patiently
for the unbelievers to make the next move.

'No,' said Hornblower decisively, 'tell him I can't do it.'

At Hornblower's shake of the head the Mudir actually showed a little
dismay even before Turner translated. He stroked his white beard and
spoke again, choosing his words carefully.

'He's offering to bribe us, sir,' said Turner. 'Five lambs or kids for
every day we stay here.'

'That's better,' said Hornblower. 'Tell him I'd rather have money.'

It was the Mudir's turn to shake his head when he heard what Turner had
to say. He looked, to Hornblower's searching eye, like a man quite
sincere.

'He says there isn't any money, sir. The Vali took all there was when he
was here last.'

'He has our twenty guineas, anyway. Tell him I want them back, and six
lambs a day--no kids--and I'll stay.'

That was how it was decided in the end. With Turner escorting the Mudir
back in the launch Hornblower went forward to inspect the gunner's work.
It was nearly completed. A hundred odd feet of hose, carefully coiled,
lay on the deck, and one end disappeared into a powder keg covered over
with canvas which the gunner was smearing thickly with pitch. Hornblower
stooped to examine what must be the weakest point, where the canvas
cover of the keg was sewn round the hose.

'That's as good as I can make it, sir,' said the gunner. 'But it's a
mighty long length of hose.'

At a hundred feet below water the pressures were enormous. A minute,
indetectable pinprick anywhere in the fabric and water would be forced
in.

'We can try it,' said Hornblower. 'The sooner the better.' That was how
it always was--'the sooner the better' might be found written on a naval
officer's heart like Queen Mary's Calais. Man the gig, see that all
necessary equipment was packed into it, herd the divers into the bows
after their last-minute instructions from McCullum, and start off
without a minute wasted. Drink coffee with a Turkish Mudir at one hour,
and dabble in underwater explosives the next. If variety was the spice
of life, thought Hornblower, his present existence must be an Oriental
curry.

'Easy!' he ordered, and the gig drifted slowly up to the moored plank
which marked the accessible point of the wreck underneath.

Looney knew his business. The canvas-covered powder keg lay beside him;
it was bound with line, and Looney took another short length of line,
secured one end to the keg, passed the line round the mooring line of
the buoy, and secured the other end to the keg again. He checked to see
that the free end of the fuse-hose was properly fastened to the empty
keg that was to buoy it up, and then gave a piping order to one of his
colleagues, who stood up to take off his clothes. Looney laid hold of
the powder keg, but it was too heavy for his spindly arms.

'Help him, you two,' said Hornblower to the two seamen nearest. 'See
that the line's clear and see that the hose is clear, too.'

Under Looney's direction the powder keg was lifted up and lowered over
the side.

'Let go! Handsomely! Handsomely!' ordered Hornblower.

It was a tense moment--one more tense moment--to watch the powder keg
sink below the choppy surface. By the line attached to it the seamen
lowered it slowly down, the fuse-hose uncoiling after it as the keg
sank. The loop of line which Looney had passed round the mooring line of
the buoy made certain that the keg would sink to the right place.

'Bottom, sir,' said a seaman, as the lowering line went slack in his
hands. Several feet of hose remained in the boat.

The diver was sitting on the opposite gunwale; he carried a sheath knife
on a string round his naked waist, and he took in his hands the
cannonball that Looney gave him. Then he lowered himself over and
vanished under the surface. They waited until he came up; they waited
while the next diver went down and came up again, they waited while
Looney took his turn too. Dive succeeded dive; apparently it was not too
easy an operation to move the powder keg to exactly the right place
under the break of the _Speedwell's_ poop. But presumably, down below
the surface, the thing was achieved in the end. Looney came up from what
seemed to be an extra long dive; he had to be helped over the gunwale
and he lay gasping in the bows for some time recovering. Then at last he
sat up and made to Hornblower the unmistakable gesture of handling flint
and steel.

'Strike a light,' said Hornblower to Leadbitter. In all his life he had
never properly acquired the knack of it.

Leadbitter opened the tinderbox, and struck, and struck again. It did
not take Leadbitter more than six times before he succeeded. He bent and
blew the spark on the tinder into life, took the piece of slow match and
caught the fire on it, blew that into life too, and looked to Hornblower
for further orders.

'I'll do it,' said Hornblower.

Leadbitter handed him the glowing match, and Hornblower sat with it in
his hand for a second while he checked once more to see that all was
ready. He was tingling with excitement.

'Stand by with the cask!' he said. 'Leadbitter, have the stopper ready.'

There were four or five inches of quick match hanging out of the
fuse-hose; Hornblower dabbed the glowing match upon it. A second's
hesitation and it took fire. Hornblower watched the spark run along the
quick match and vanish down into the hose.

'Stopper it!' said Hornblower, and Leadbitter forced the wooden stopper
into the end of the hose, grinding down upon the brittle ashes of the
match.

At five seconds to the foot the fire was now, he hoped, travelling down
the hose, down, down, far below the level of the sea. At the far end,
next to the powder keg, there was a foot of slow match. That burned at
five minutes to the foot; they had plenty of time--no need for feverish
haste, however great the urge to hurry.

'Over with it!' said Hornblower, and Leadbitter picked up the empty cask
and lowered it gently into the water. It floated there, holding up above
the surface the stoppered end of the fuse-hose.

'Oars!' said Hornblower. 'Give way!'

The gig swung away from the floating keg. The spark was still travelling
along the quick match, Hornblower presumed; it would be some seconds yet
before it even reached the slow match down there by the wreck of the
_Speedwell_. He remembered to take the time by his watch.

'Take her back to the ship,' he ordered Leadbitter; he looked back to
where the empty cask bobbed on the surface.

McCullum had said, 'I advise you to keep clear of the explosion.'
Apparently the explosion of a barrel of powder, even far down under the
water, created a turmoil on the surface that would endanger the gig.
Beside the ship they would be a quarter of a mile away; that should be
safe enough. When the bowman hooked on to the main chains of the
_Atropos_, Hornblower looked at his watch again. It was exactly five
minutes since he had seen the spark passing into the end of the
fuse-hose. The explosion could be expected at any time from now.

Naturally the side of the ship was lined with every idler who could find
a place there. The preparation of the charge and the fuse had excited
gossip throughout the ship.

Hornblower changed his mind about awaiting the explosion in the gig and
mounted to the deck.

'Mr Jones!' he bellowed. 'Is this a raree-show? Keep the hands at work,
if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

He very much wanted to see the explosion himself, but he feared to
display curiosity inconsonant with his dignity. And there was the
chance--a likely chance, according to McCullum--that there would be no
explosion at all. A glance at his watch showed him that it was by now
overdue. With an appearance of the utmost indifference he strolled
forward to McCullum's bedside, where McCullum was listening to the
reports of his divers.

'Nothing as yet?' said McCullum.

'Nothing.'

'I never trust a fuse-hose beyond five fathoms,' said McCullum, 'even
when I handle it myself.'

Hornblower kept back an irritated answer, and gazed out towards the
scene of his recent activities. In the choppy water he could just
perceive at intervals the dark spot which was the keg that floated the
end of the fuse-hose. He glanced at his watch again.

'Long overdue,' he said.

'Water's in that hose. You'll have to use a flying fuse after all.'

'The sooner the better,' said Hornblower. 'How do I set about it?'

He was glad for the sake of his precious dignity that he had not waited
in sight of the men.




CHAPTER XV


This time so many men were wanted for the operation that Hornblower was
using the launch instead of the gig. As usual the three Ceylonese divers
were huddled in the bows, but next to them in the bottom of the boat
stood an iron pot of melted pitch, and beside it squatted a sailmaker's
mate, and Mr Clout, the gunner, sat amidships with the powder keg
between his legs. The canvas covering to the keg was incompletely sewn,
gaping wide at the upper end. They dropped the grapnel and the launch
rode on the little waves beside the little keg that floated with the end
of the useless fuse-hose, a monument to the previous failure.

'Carry on, Mr Clout,' said Hornblower.

This was something more than exciting. This was dangerous. The divers
stripped themselves for their work, and sat up to begin their exercises
of inflating and deflating their lungs. There would not be any time to
spare later. Clout took the tinderbox and proceeded to strike a spark
upon the tinder, crouching low to shelter it from the small breeze which
blew over the surface of the Bay. He caught fire upon the slow match,
brought it to a glow, and looked over at Hornblower.

'Carry on, I said,' said Hornblower.

Clout dabbed the slow match upon the fuse that protruded through a hole
in the end of the powder keg. Hornblower could hear the faint irregular
hissing of the fuse as Clout waited for it to burn down into the hole.
Among them now, in the middle of the boat, fire was creeping towards
thirty pounds of gunpowder. If there were a few powder grains out of
place, if the fuse were the least faulty, there would come a sudden
crashing explosion which would blow them and the boat to fragments.
There was not a sound in the boat save the hissing of the fuse. The
spark crept down into the hole. The powder keg at this upper end had a
double head, the result of the most careful work by the ship's cooper.
In the space between the two heads was coiled the fuse, whose farther
end penetrated the inner head to rest amid the powder. Along that coil
stapled to the inner head the fire was now moving unseen, creeping round
and round on its way to dive down along its final length through the
inner head.

Clout took from his pocket the canvas-covered stopper, and dipped it
into the warm pitch.

'Make sure of it, Mr Clout,' said Hornblower.

Clout rammed the stopper into the hole in the outer head. The action cut
off the sound of the hissing fuse, but everyone in the boat knew that
the fire was still pursuing its inexorable way inside. Clout smeared
pitch thickly about the stopper and then moved out of the way.

'Now, my hearty,' he said to the sailmaker's mate.

This last needed no urging. Needle and palm in hand, he took Clout's
place and sewed up the canvas cover over the top of the keg.

'Keep those stitches small,' said Hornblower; the sailmaker's mate,
crouching over instant death, was not unnaturally nervous. So was
Hornblower, but the irritation caused by the previous failure made him
anxious that the work should be well done.

The sailmaker's mate finished the last stitch, oversewed it, and,
whipping out his sheath knife, cut the twine. There could be hardly
anything more harmless in appearance than that canvas-covered keg. It
looked a stupid, a brainless object, standing there in the boat. Clout
was already daubing pitch over the newly-sewn end; the sides and the
other end had been thickly pitched before the keg was put into the
launch.

'Now the line,' said Hornblower.

As on the previous occasion a loop of line attached to the keg was
passed round the mooring line of the buoy and secured to the keg again.

'Hoist it, you two. Lower away. Handsomely.'

The keg sank below the surface, dangling on the lowering line as the men
let it down hand over hand. There was a sudden relief from tension in
the boat, marked by a sudden babble of talk.

'Silence!' said Hornblower.

Even though the thing was invisible now, sinking down to the bottom of
the Bay, it was still deadly--the men did not understand that. One of
the divers was already sitting on the gunwale, a cannon-ball in his
hands--that was a ridiculous moment for Hornblower to remember that he
had not carried out his earlier resolution to get in a store of rocks
for that purpose--and his chest expanding and contracting. Hornblower
would have liked to tell him to make certain to place the powder keg to
the best advantage, but that was impossible owing to the difficulties of
language. He had to content himself with a glance, half encouragement
and half threat.

'Bottom, sir,' announced the seaman at the lowering line.

The diver slipped from the gunwale and vanished under the surface. Down
there with the powder charge and the glowing fuse he was in worse peril
even than before. 'They've seen one of their mates blown to bits using a
flying fuse off Cuddalore,' McCullum had said. Hornblower wanted nothing
like that to happen now. It occurred to him that if it were to happen
the launch, with him in it, would be on top of the explosion and
turmoil, and he wondered what was the mysterious force that always drove
him into voluntarily taking part in dangerous adventures. He thought it
must be curiosity, and then he realized that it was a sense of shame as
well; and it never occurred to him that a sense of duty had something to
do with it too.

The second diver was sitting on the gunwale, cannon-ball in hand and
breathing deeply, and the moment the first diver's head broke water he
let himself slip down and vanished. 'I've put the fear of God into 'em,'
McCullum had said. 'I've told 'em that if the charge explodes without
being properly placed they'll all get two dozen. An' I've said we're
here to stay. No matter how long we try we get the money up. So you can
rely on 'em. They'll do their best.'

And they certainly were doing their best. Looney was waiting on the
gunwale now, and down he went as soon as the second diver appeared. They
wanted to waste no time at all. Not for the first time Hornblower peered
overside in the attempt to see down through the water, unsuccessfully
again. It was clear, and the loveliest deep green, but there was just
sufficient lop and commotion on the surface to make it impossible to see
down. Hornblower had to take it for granted that deep down below, in
semi-darkness at least, and amid paralysing cold, Looney was dragging
the powder charge towards the wreck and shoving it under the break of
the poop. That powder keg under water could weigh little enough, thanks
to the upthrust that Archimedes discovered, twenty centuries ago.

Looney reappeared, and the first diver instantly went down to replace
him. This business was for the divers a gamble with life and death, a
losing lottery. If the charge were to explode prematurely it would be
chance that would dictate who would happen to be down there with it at
that moment. But surely it could not take long to move the charge a few
yards along the bottom and into the right place. And down there, he
hoped, the fire was creeping along the coils of the fuse, sandwiched
tight between the two barrel-heads. The philosophers had decided that
fuses were able to burn in the absence of air--unlike candles--because
the nitre that permeated the cord supplied the same combustible
substance that air supplied. It was a discovery that went close to
solving the problem of life--a human being's life went out like a
candle's in the absence of air. It might be reasonably expected soon
that the discovery might be made as to how to maintain life without air.

Yet another dive. The fire was hurrying along the fuse. Clout had
allowed enough for an hour's burning--it must not be too little,
obviously, but also it must not be too much, for the longer the keg was
exposed to the water pressure the greater the chance of a weak point
giving way and water seeping in. But Clout had pointed out that in that
confined space between the barrel-heads the heat would not be able to
escape; it would grow hotter and hotter in there and the fuse would burn
faster--the fire might even jump from one part of the coil to another.
The rate of burning, in other words, was unpredictable.

The diver who had just appeared gave a sharp cry, in time to prevent the
next one--Looney--from going down. An eager question and answer, and
Looney turned to Hornblower with a waving of hands.

'Get that man on board,' ordered Hornblower. 'Up anchor!'

A few strokes of the oars got the launch under weigh; the Ceylonese in
the bows were chattering like sparrows at dawn.

'Back to the ship,' ordered Hornblower.

He would go straight on board without looking back once; he would not
compromise his dignity by awaiting an explosion which might never come.
The tiller was put over and the launch began her steady course towards
_Atropos_.

And then it happened, while Hornblower's back was turned to it. A
sullen, muffled roar, not very loud, as if a gun had been fired in a
distant cave. Hornblower swung round in his seat just in time to see a
bulging wave overtake them, heaving up the stern of the launch. The
stern sank and bow rose, the launch pitching violently, like a child's
toy boat in a tub. The water that surged round them was discoloured and
dark. It was only for a few seconds that the violent commotion lasted,
and then it passed on, leaving the launch rocking jerkily.

'She's gone up, sir,' said Clout, quite unnecessarily.

The hands were chattering as much as the Ceylonese.

'Silence in the boat!' said Hornblower.

He was angry with himself because the unexpected sound had caused him to
leap in his seat. He glowered at the men, and they fell into a hushed
silence.

'Starboard your helm,' growled Hornblower. 'Give way!'

The launch swung round and retraced its course towards the scene of the
explosion, marked by a dirty patch of water. Half a dozen big bubbles
rose to the surface and burst as he watched. Then something else came
up, and something else, dead fish floating up to the surface, their
white bellies gleaming under the sky. The launch passed one which was
not quite dead; it was making feeble efforts, just perceptible, to right
itself and descend again.

'Silence!' said Hornblower again--the irrepressible chatter had broken
out again. 'Easy!'

In silence the launch floated over the scene of the explosion. Dead
fish, a stain, and nothing else. Nothing else at all. Hornblower felt a
sick feeling of disappointment; there should be fragments from the wreck
covering the surface, shattered bits of timber to show that the powder
charge had done its work. The fact that there was none was proof that no
gap had been blown in the wreck. His mind was racing into the future.
Another charge with another flying fuse would have to be used, he
supposed, and the most brutal threats would have to be employed towards
the divers to make them put it into position. They had escaped the last
explosion by not more than thirty seconds, he supposed, and they would
be chary of running the risk again.

There was a bit of timber! No, it was the plank which had been used as a
marker buoy.

'Haul in on that line,' said Hornblower to the man pulling stroke oar.
There was only ten feet of line attached to the plank--the line had been
broken at that point; so the explosion had effected something, at least.
It was ironical that that was all--just a marker buoy torn loose.

'Put on another grapnel and line,' ordered Hornblower. They must still
be close enough to the spot for the marker to be better than nothing.

Hornblower caught Looney's eye; he seemed willing enough to all
appearance. It would save time if an examination of the scant results
were made now.

'Looney,' said Hornblower, and pointed overside. He had only to point a
second time for Looney to nod his agreement and pull off his clothes
again. As far as Hornblower could remember Looney had not yet made his
daily quota of five dives yet. Looney inflated his chest and slipped in,
and the launch lay drifting. The little waves that slapped against her
sides had a different quality from usual; they had not even the small
amount of system arising from the wind that agitated the surface--they
seemed to come from all points at once. Hornblower realized that they
were the last dying remnants of the turbulence which the explosion had
set up.

Up came Looney, his slender bundle of black hair bobbing beside his
face. His white teeth showed in what might almost be thought to be a
smile, except that of course he was gasping for breath. He struck out
towards the launch, saying something to his colleagues as he did so
which set them off twittering volubly. Apparently the explosion which
had torn the marker buoy loose had not driven it any distance from its
position. They hauled Looney on board into the bows. The chattering went
on; now Looney was making his way aft over the thwarts and between the
men. He was rubbing something in a portion of his clothing as he
came--something which he put into Hornblower's hand with a broad grin.
Something disc-shaped and heavy, tarnished, encrusted, and yet--and
yet----

'God bless my soul,' said Hornblower.

It was a shilling; Hornblower could only stare at it, and turn it over
in his fingers. Every eye in the boat was directed at it; the men were
quick enough to guess even if they could not see it clearly. Someone
started a cheer, and the others took it up. Hornblower looked down the
boat at the grinning faces. Even Clout was waving his hat and yelling.

'Silence!' shouted Hornblower. 'Mr Clout, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself.'

But the noise did not stop instantly as before; the men were too
excited. But it died away at length, and the men waited. Hornblower had
to think now about the next move, completely at a loss--this development
had taken him by surprise and he had no idea for the moment what to do
next. It would have to be anti-climax, he decided at last. For the
recovery of the treasure fresh equipment would be necessary; that was
certain. The divers had made nearly as many dives that day as they
could. Moreover, McCullum must be informed of the results of the
explosion and his decision heard regarding further steps. Hornblower
even realized that there was no certainty that subsequent operations
would be easy. One shilling did not make a quarter of a million
sterling. There might be much further work necessary.

'Oars!' he snapped at the waiting men. The oar-looms clattered into the
rowlocks and the men bent forward ready to pull. 'Give way!'

The oar-blades bit into the water and the launch slowly gathered way.

'Head for the ship!' he growled at the coxswain.

He sat glowering in the stern-sheets. Anyone seeing his face might well
have thought that the launch was returning after a complete failure, but
it was merely that he was annoyed with himself at not being quick-witted
enough to have had the appropriate orders ready at once when that
astonishing shilling was put into his hand. The whole boat's crew had
seen him at a loss. His precious dignity was hurt. When he got on board
he was inclined to sulk in his cabin, but common sense made him go
forward soon to discuss the situation with McCullum.

'There's a cascade of silver,' said McCullum, who had been listening to
the reports of the divers. 'The bags have rotted, and when the treasure
room was blown open the silver poured out. I think that's clear enough.'

'And the gold?' asked Hornblower.

'Looney can't tell me as yet,' said McCullum. 'If I had been in the
launch I daresay I should have acquired more information.'

Hornblower bit back an angry retort. Nothing would please McCullum
better than a quarrel, and he had no wish to indulge him.

'At least the explosion served its purpose,' he said pacifically.

'Like enough.'

'Then why,' asked Hornblower--the question had been awaiting the asking
for a long time--'if the wreck was blown open why didn't wreckage come
to the surface?'

'You don't know?' asked McCullum in reply, clearly gratified at
possessing superior knowledge.

'No.'

'That's one of the elementary facts of science. Timber submerged at
great depths soon becomes waterlogged.'

'Indeed?'

'Wood only floats--as I presume you know--by virtue of the air contained
in the cavities in its substance. Under pressure that air is squeezed
out, and, deprived of this upthrust, the residual material has no
tendency to rise.'

'I see,' said Hornblower. 'Thank you, Mr McCullum.'

'I am accustomed by now,' said McCullum, 'to supplementing the education
of King's officers.'

'Then I trust,' said Hornblower, still keeping his temper, 'you will
continue with mine. What is the next step to take?'

McCullum pursed his lips.

'If that damned Dutch doctor,' he said, 'would only have the sense to
allow me out of this bed I could attend to it all myself.'

'He'll have the stitches out of you soon,' said Hornblower. 'Meanwhile
time is of importance.'

It was infuriating that a captain in his own ship should have to endure
this sort of insolence. Hornblower thought of the official complaints he
could make. He could quarrel with McCullum, abandon the whole attempt,
and in his report to Collingwood he would declaim that 'owing to the
complete lack of co-operation on the part of Mr William McCullum, of the
Honourable East India Company's Service' the expedition had ended in
failure. No doubt McCullum would then be rapped on the knuckles
officially. But it was better to achieve success, even without receiving
any sympathy for the trials he was enduring, than to return with the
best of excuses empty-handed. It was just as meritorious to pocket his
pride and to coax McCullum into giving clear instructions as it was to
head a boarding party on to an enemy's deck. Just as
meritorious--although less likely to achieve a paragraph in the Gazette.
He forced himself to ask the right questions and to listen to McCullum's
grudging explanations of what should next be done.

And it was pleasant, later, when eating his dinner, to be able to
congratulate himself on his duty done, orders given, all prepared. Those
words of McCullum's, 'a cascade of silver,' ran in his mind as he sat
and ate. It called for little imagination to conjure up a mental picture
of the wreck down there in the translucent water, with her strong-room
torn open and the silver in a frozen stream pouring out of it. Gray
could have written a poem about it; and somewhere in that strong-room
there was the gold. Life was good, and he was a fortunate man. He slowly
consumed his last mouthful of roast lamb, and addressed himself to his
lettuce salad, tender young plants, sweet and delicious, the first
fruits of the Turkish spring.




CHAPTER XVI


The Turkish spring was not going to give way to summer without a last
struggle, without calling the vanished winter back to her aid. The wind
blew wildly and cold from the north-westward; the skies were grey, and
the rain lashed down torrentially. It drummed upon the deck, streaming
out through the scuppers; it poured in unexpected streams down from
points in the rigging; even though it grudgingly gave to the crew the
chance to wash their clothes in fresh water it denied them the
opportunity of drying them again. _Atropos_ swung fitfully to her anchor
as the gusts blowing down from the surrounding mountains backed and
veered, whipping the surface of the Bay into turbulent white-caps. Wind
and rain seemed peculiarly searching. Everyone seemed to be colder and
wetter than if the ship were battling a storm in mid-Atlantic, with the
deck leaking as she worked in a sea way and the waves crashing down upon
it; sulkiness and bad temper made their appearance among the ship's
company along with the cold and wet--lack of exercise and lack of
occupation combined with the constant drumming of the rain to bring that
about.

Walking upon the quarter-deck with the raindrops rattling upon his
oilskin seemed to Hornblower to be a cheerless business, the more so
until this gale dropped there would be no chance of continuing the
salvage operations. Boxes of gold lay over there under that wind-whipped
surface; he hated having to wait through these empty hours before
knowing if they could be recovered. He hated the thought of having to
rouse himself from his inertia and exert himself to re-establish the
good spirits of the ship's company, but he knew he must.

'Messenger!' he said, 'my compliments to Mr Smiley and Mr Horrocks, and
I'll see them at once in my cabin.

Half an hour later both watches were assembled on deck by divisions
('Half an hour I'll give you to get it all arranged,' Hornblower had
said) wearing only their duck trousers in the rain, the cold drops
beating on their bare chests and feet. There was plenty of growling at
the discomfort, but there was amusement among the topmen because every
idler in the ship was there--'I'll have 'em all,' Hornblower had said,
'waisters and holders, gunner's crew and sailmaker's crew.' And there
was the excitement always attendant upon a race; and there was the
compensation of seeing the three senior watch-keeping officers, Jones
and Still and Turner, climbing the ratlines to take their places in the
cross-trees to see that the racing was fair. Hornblower stood forward by
the knightheads with his speaking trumpet so that the wind would carry
his voice plainly along the deck.

'One to get steady!' he shouted. 'Two to be ready! Three--and you're
_off_!'

It was a relay race, up the rigging of each mast in turn and down again,
port watch against starboard; it was the inclusion of the men who
rarely, if ever, went aloft that gave spice to the proceedings. Soon
divisions down on deck were dancing with excitement as they watched the
slow ascent and descent of some lumbering gunner's mate or ship's
corporal; until he completed the journey they were not free to dash to
the next mast and start again.

'Come on, Fatty!'

The Pegasus-winged topmen to whom the ascent was a trifle leaped up and
down on deck with never a thought for the streaming rain as some rival
division, set free by the eventual descent of its last man, rushed
joyfully along the deck to the next mast while they were forced to stand
and witness the cautious movements of the slowest of their own side.

Up went the men and down, round and across. The Prince of Seitz-Bunau
came shrieking round the deck, wild with excitement; Horrocks and
Smiley, captains of the two sides, were croaking like crows, their
voices failing them with the continual shouting as they organized and
encouraged. The cook's mate, who was the last man of the port watch, was
already close to the mainmast head when Horrocks, who had reserved
himself to be the last of the starboard watch, began the ascent on the
other side. Everyone in the ship seemed to be shouting and
gesticulating. Up ran Horrocks, the shrouds vibrating with the ape-like
speed of his passage. The cook's mate reached the cross-trees and
started down again.

'Come on, Fatty!'

The cook's mate did not even look to see where to put his feet, and he
was coming down two ratlines at a time. Horrocks reached the cross-tress
and leaped for the back stay. Down he came, sliding at a speed that must
burn his hands. Cook's mate and midshipman reached the deck together,
but Horrocks had farther to run to reach his place with his division
than did the cook's mate. There was a final yell as both of them
staggered gasping to their places, but the cook's mate was first by a
full yard, and every eye was turned towards Hornblower.

'Port watch wins!' he announced. 'Starboard watch provides the
entertainment to-morrow night!'

The port watch cheered again, but the starboard watch--Hornblower was
observing them closely--was not humiliated. He could guess that there
were plenty of men among them who were not too displeased at the thought
of to-morrow exhibiting their talents to an audience and who were
already planning their turns. He put his speaking trumpet to his lips
again.

'Attention! Mr Horrocks! Mr Smiley! Dismiss your teams.'

Aft, beside the wardroom door, as Hornblower was returning to his cabin,
there was an unusual figure, walking with slow steps under the
supervision of the doctor.

'This is a pleasure, Mr McCullum,' said Hornblower. 'It's good to see
you out of your bed.'

'The incision has entirely healed, sir,' said Eisenbeiss, proudly. 'Not
only are the sutures removed, but I have judged it safe to remove the
bristle from the wound, as the drainage was complete.'

'Excellent!' said Hornblower. 'Then that arm will come out of its sling
soon?'

'Within a few days. The broken ribs seem to have knitted well.'

'Still a bit stiff round there,' said McCullum, feeling his right armpit
with his left hand. He was displaying none of his usual ill temper; but
a convalescent, making his first attempt to walk, and with his wound
under discussion, could feel so much in the centre of the picture as to
be well disposed towards humanity.

'Well it might be,' said Hornblower. 'A pistol bullet at twelve paces is
not a welcome visitor. We thought we had lost you. At Malta they thought
that bullet was in your lungs.'

'It would have been easier,' said Eisenbeiss, 'if he had not been so
muscular. The bullet could not be felt in that mass of muscle.'

McCullum fished from his left trouser pocket a small object which he
handed to Hornblower.

'D'you see that?' asked McCullum. It was the bullet which Eisenbeiss had
extracted, flattened and irregular. Hornblower had seen it before, but
this was not the moment to say so. He marvelled over it in suitable
terms, much to McCullum's gratification.

'I think,' said Hornblower, 'that this occasion should be observed with
a fitting ceremony. I shall invite the wardroom to dine with me, and I
can ask you two gentlemen first of all.'

'Honoured, I'm sure,' said McCullum, and Eisenbeiss bowed.

'Let us say to-morrow, then. We can dine in comfort before the
entertainment which the starboard watch is providing.'

He retired to his cabin well pleased with himself. He had exercised his
crew; he had given them something to think about; he had found a
suitable occasion to entertain his officers socially; his salvage expert
had returned from the jaws of death and in a better temper than
usual--all this, and the _Speedwell's_ treasure lay on the Tom Tiddler's
Ground of the sandy bottom of the Bay, with gold and silver only waiting
to be picked up. His good opinion of himself even enabled him to endure
the tedium of the concert given by the starboard watch that night. There
were the sentimental songs which a handsome young fore-topman sang;
Hornblower found their glutinous sentimentality as wearisome to his soul
as the music was to his tone-deaf ear. 'The Flowers on Mother's Grave'
and 'The Empty Cradle'--the young seaman squeezed out every lugubrious
drop from their funereal substance, and his audience, with the exception
of Hornblower, revelled in it. And an elderly bos'n's mate sang sea
songs in a thunderous bass while Hornblower marvelled that a seagoing
audience could tolerate the misuse of nautical terms in those songs; if
his 'good sail' were to 'rustle' with a following wind, his officer of
the watch would hear from him in good round terms, and there was, of
course, the usual landsman's confusion between the sheet and the sail,
and Dibdin had never bothered to find out that a 'sheer hulk' was still
leading a useful existence thanks to its sheers--the term did not imply
a complete hulk or anything like it. And of course the song laid stress
on the statement that Tom Bowling was dead, like the fore-topman's
mythical mother and baby. He had 'gone aloft' and everybody in the
ship's company, apparently, felt the better for it.

The hornpipes were more agreeable; Hornblower could admire the lightness
and grace of the dancers and could manage to ignore the squeaky
sweetness of the flute that accompanied them, played by the same cook's
mate whose final effort had won the race for the port watch--his
services as accompanist were so necessary, apparently, that they were
called for even though the port watch were officially the guests at the
concert. To Hornblower the most amusing part of the evening's
entertainment, in fact, was the difference in attitude between the two
watches, the starboard watch as anxious hosts and the port watch as
critical guests. He could congratulate himself again at the end of the
evening on a successful piece of work. He had a willing and orderly
crew, and a satisfied complement of officers.

And next morning came the real triumph, no less satisfactory in that
Hornblower stayed on board the ship and allowed McCullum, his arm still
in a sling, to go out with launch and longboat and all the new apparatus
that had been constructed for the salvage operations. Hornblower stood
at the side of the ship, warmed by the newly returned sunshine, as the
boats returned. McCullum pointed with his left hand to a vast heap piled
between the centre thwarts of the launch, and turned and pointed to
another in the longboat. Silver! The divers must have worked fast down
in the depths, shovelling the coins with their hands into the lowered
buckets.

The boats came alongside, and a working party prepared to hoist the mass
of silver on board. A sudden sharp order by McCullum halted the three
Ceylonese divers as they were about to make their way forward to their
own particular lair. They looked at him a little sheepishly as he gave a
further order in their strange tongue, and he repeated it. Then slowly
they began to take off their clothes; Hornblower had seen them stripping
themselves so often before in the days--they seemed weeks ago--when the
salvage operations had begun. The voluminous cotton garments came off
one by one.

'I'll lay a bet,' said McCullum, 'they've got fifty pounds between
them.'

One of the garments gave out a mysterious chink as it was laid on the
deck, despite the care of the owner.

'Master at arms!' said Hornblower, 'search those clothes!'

With a grinning crew looking on the seams and folds of the clothing were
emptied of coins, dozens of them.

'They never make a dive,' said McCullum, 'without trying this on.'

Hornblower could only wonder how a naked man climbing from the sea into
a boat could possibly manage to convey silver coins into his clothing
unobserved, but anything was possible to human ingenuity.

'That would have made them rich for life if they could have taken it
back to Jaffra,' said McCullum. Reverting to the foreign speech he
dismissed the divers, who picked up their clothes again and vanished,
while McCullum turned back to Hornblower. 'It might be quicker to weigh
this than to count it. If we get it all up there'll be four tons
altogether.'

Silver by the ton! The sailmaker stitched sacks out of new canvas to
hold it, and just as in the lost _Speedwell_, the lower lazarette was
cleared to store it. And Hornblower found there was a profound truth in
the story of Midas, who received the gift of the Golden Touch not so
very far from where _Atropos_ swung at anchor. Just as Midas lost his
happiness at a moment when the world must have deemed him the happiest
man on earth, so Hornblower lost his happiness at this moment of
success. For as the silver was piled in the lazarette so he came to
worry about the coins. He was in no doubt about the ingenuity and
persistence and skill of the seamen under his orders; nor was he in
doubt about the criminal pasts of many of them, the sweepings of Newgate
Gaol. Tales innumerable were told about the remarkable ways in which
seamen managed to steal liquor, but the man who stole liquor inevitably
revealed himself sooner or later. This was money, English coins, and
there was only a frail wooden bulkhead to keep out thieves. So, as in
the _Speedwell_, the bulkheads and decks were reinforced by stout
timbers nailed across them; the careful and well-planned arrangement of
the stores in the hold had to be altered so that the biggest beef casks,
the ones that could only be moved by block and tackle, were ranged
outside the bulkheads to hinder thieves from breaking through. And even
then Hornblower spent wakeful nights visualizing the situation of the
lower lazarette and wondering first how he would set about breaking into
it and second how he would defeat such an attempt. These feelings
intensified each day as the piles of sacks of silver grew larger; and
they grew ten times more intense on the triumphant day when McCullum's
divers reached the gold.

McCullum knew his work, no doubt about that. One day he told Hornblower
of the discovery of one of the chests of gold; the next morning
Hornblower watched launch and longboat start off with strongbacks
erected in their sterns, and blocks and tackles rigged on them, miles of
line coiled in readiness, timbers, buckets, everything that human
ingenuity could think of for use in this new task. Hornblower watched
through his glass as the boats lay together over the wreck. He saw the
divers go down and come up again, time after time. He saw the weighted
lines lowered from the tackles; more than once he saw the hands begin to
haul in on the falls and then desist while another diver went down,
presumably to clear the line. Then at the end he saw the hands haul in
again, and stay at work, hauling in, coiling down, until at last,
between the two boats, something broke water and a yell of exultation
came echoing over to the ship.

It was something quite large which was gingerly swung into the stern of
the launch--Hornblower could see the stern of the launch sink and the
bows rise as the weight was transferred. His calculations had already
told him that a cubic foot of gold weighed half a ton--and gold was at a
premium, five guineas in paper or more to the ounce. That was a king's
ransom; Hornblower looked at it as the launch came pulling back
alongside, a strange object lying in the bottom of the boat, half
obscured by weed.

'Those must be wrought iron bars on it,' said McCullum, standing beside
him while Jones fussily supervised the transfer to the ship, 'and best
Sussex iron at that. Steel would have rusted to nothing a year ago, but
some of those bars are still whole. The weeds growing from the oak must
have been a yard long--my boys had to trim 'em off before they got the
tackles round.'

'Easy there! Easy!' shouted Jones.

'Vast heaving at the yardarm!' shouted the bos'n. 'Now, you at the stay
tackle, walk away with it!'

The chest dangled over the deck, balancing on its supporting lines.

'Easy! Lower away, yardarm! Easy! Lower away stay tackle! Handsomely!'

The chest sank to the deck; there were little dribbles of water still
flowing from inside it. The gold that lay concealed inside it would have
built, armed, and equipped the whole _Atropos_, have filled her holds
with stores for a year, have provided a month's advance pay for the
crew, and still have left a handsome balance.

'Well, that's one of them,' said McCullum. 'I have a feeling that it
won't be so easy to get up the other two. This is the easiest job I've
ever done, so far. We've been lucky--inexperienced as you are, you will
never know how lucky.'

But Hornblower knew how lucky he was. Lucky that McCullum had survived a
pistol shot in the ribs; lucky that the Ceylonese divers had survived
the journey all round Africa from India to Asia Minor; lucky--incredibly
lucky--that the Turks had been so complacent, allowing him to carry out
the salvage operation in the Bay without guessing what he was doing and
without interfering. It was consideration of this good fortune that
reconciled him at last to the worry regarding the guarding of the
treasure in the lower lazarette. He was the most fortunate man on earth;
fortunate (he told himself) and yet at the same time he owed some of his
success to his own merits. He had been clever in his handling of the
Mudir. It had been a cunning move to accept a bribe to stay here
anchored in the Bay, to appear reluctant to do the very thing he wanted
most to do. Collingwood would approve, no doubt. He had recovered the
silver; he had recovered one-third of the gold already. He would receive
a pat on the back from authority even if McCullum should find it
impossible to recover the rest.




CHAPTER XVII


These Mediterranean mornings were beautiful. It was a pleasure to come
on deck as the dawn brightened into daylight; usually the night wind had
died down, leaving the Bay glassy smooth, reflecting, as the light
increased, the intense blue of the sky as the sun climbed up over the
mountains of Turkey. There was a refreshing chill in the air--not enough
to necessitate wearing a pea-jacket--so that the increasing warmth of
the sun brought a sensuous pleasure with it. During a walk on deck with
his mind leisurely working out the plans for the day, Hornblower soaked
in the beauty and freshness; and right at the back of his mind,
flavouring his pleasure as a sauce might give the finishing touch to
some perfect dish, was the knowledge that when he went below he could
sit down to a plate of fried eggs and a pot of coffee. Beauty all round
him, a growing appetite and the immediate prospect of satisfying it--at
least they brought the realization that he was a fortunate man.

To-day he was not quite as fortunate as usual, because instead of
indulging in solitary thought he had to give some attention to McCullum
and his problems.

'We'll have one more try along the present lines,' said McCullum. 'I'll
send the boys down again to-day, and hear what they have to say. But I'm
afraid that chest is out of reach at present. I came to suspect that
yesterday.

Two days ago the second of the three chests of gold had been recovered,
but only after an explosive charge had blown a wide entrance into the
wreck.

'Yes,' said Hornblower, 'that was the substance of your report.'

'It's not easy to make 'em go down right in among the wreckage.'

'I shouldn't think it was,' said Hornblower.

In the dimly-lit depths, under the intolerable weight of a hundred feet
of water, to hold one's breath, suffocating, and to make one's way in
among the tangled timbers, must be a frightful thing to do.

'The deck sloped away from the gap in the side, and I fancy the last
explosion sent that third chest through and down. The whole wreck's on
top of it now,' said McCullum.

'Then what do you propose to do?'

'It'll be a couple of weeks' work, I expect. I'll use half a dozen
charges--with flying fuses, of course--and blow the whole wreck to
pieces. But I must inform you officially that the result may still be
unsatisfactory.'

'You mean you may not recover the gold even then?'

'I may not.'

Two-thirds of the gold and nearly all the silver lay already in the
lower lazarette of the _Atropos_--a good second-best, but as
unsatisfactory as any other second-best.

'I'm sure you'll do the best you can, Mr McCullum,' said Hornblower.

Already the morning breeze was blowing. The first gentle breaths had
swung _Atropos_ round from where she lay completely inert upon the
water. Now she rode to her anchor again, with a fair breeze coursing
along her deck. Hornblower felt it about his ears.

And for the last few seconds something had been troubling him.
Subconsciously he had become aware of something, while he had addressed
that final sentence to McCullum, like a gnat seen out of the corner of
his eye. He looked over at the pine-clad slopes of Ada peninsula, at the
square outline of the fort on the summit. The beauty of the morning
seemed suddenly to turn harsh and grey; the feeling of intense
well-being was suddenly replaced by sharp apprehension.

'Give me that glass,' he snapped at the master's mate of the watch.

There was really no need for the glass; Hornblower's powers of deduction
had already reinforced his naked eye, and the telescope merely revealed
what he was sure he would see. There was a flag waving over the fort on
the peninsula--the red flag of Turkey, where no flag had flown
yesterday, nor ever since his arrival in the Bay of Marmorice. There
could be only one conclusion. There was a garrison in that fort now;
troops must have come back to Marmorice--they must have manned the guns
of the fort. He was a fool, a stupid, insensitive idiot, blinded by his
own complacency. Now that the revelation had come to him his mind worked
feverishly. He had been utterly deceived; the Mudir with his white beard
and his innocent anxiety had played upon him the very trick he thought
he was playing himself--had lulled him into self-confidence, gaining
time for troops to be gathered while he thought he was gaining time to
carry out the salvage operation. With bitter self-contempt it dawned
upon him that all the work on the wreck must have been carefully noted
from the shore. Even the Turks had telescopes--they must have seen all
that was done. They must know of the treasure being recovered, and now
they had manned the guns guarding the exit, shutting him in.

From where he stood aft he could not see Passage Island--Red Cliff Point
lay in line with it. Without a word to the astonished master's mate he
ran forward and threw himself into the foremast shrouds. He ran up them,
gasping for breath, as fast as any of the competitors in that foolish
relay race; back downward, he went up the futtock shrouds, and then up
the fore topmast shrouds to the fore topmast head. There was a flag
flying above the fort on Passage Island too; the glass revealed a couple
of boats drawn up on the beach in the little cove there, showing how
during the night, or at first dawn, the garrison had been conveyed
there. The guns on Passage Island could cross their fire with those on
Ada and sweep the entrance, and could sweep also the tortuous passage
between the island and Kaia Rock. The cork was in the bottle. He and the
_Atropos_ were trapped.

Not by guns alone. The easterly sun, shining behind him, was reflected
back from far off in the Rhodes Channel by three geometrical shapes
close together on the horizon, two rectangles and a triangle--the sails
of a big ship, a Turkish ship, obviously. Equally obvious was the fact
that it could not be pure coincidence that the hoisting of the flags on
the forts occurred at the same moment that those sails appeared. The
flags had been hoisted as soon as the lofty fort on Ada had perceived
the sails; the despised Turk was perfectly capable of executing a
well-planned coup. In an hour--in less--that ship would be stemming the
entrance to the Bay. With the wind blowing straight in he could not hope
to escape, even discounting the fact that if he tried to beat out of the
entrance the guns on Ada would dismast him. Hornblower was sunk in
despair as he clung to his lofty perch, glass in hand; to the despair of
a man faced by overwhelming odds was added the frightful self-contempt
of a man who found himself out-tricked, out-deceived. The memory of his
recent self-congratulation was like the echoing laughter of a crowd of
scornful spectators, drowning his thoughts and paralysing his mental
processes.

It was a bad moment, up there at the fore topmast head, perhaps the
worst moment Hornblower had ever known. Self-control came back slowly,
even though hope remained quite absent. Looking again through his glass
at the approaching sails Hornblower found that the telescope was
trembling with the shaking of his hands, the eyepiece blinding him by
vibrating against his eyelashes. He could admit to himself that he was a
fool--bitter though such an admission might be--but he could not admit
to himself that he was a coward, at least that kind of coward. And yet
was anything worth the effort? Did it matter if a grain of dust in a
whirlwind retained its dignity? The criminal in the cart on the way to
Tyburn strove to retain his self-control, strove not to give way to his
pitiful human fears and weaknesses, tried to 'die game' for the sake of
his own self-respect under the gaze of the heartless crowd, and yet did
it profit him when in five minutes he would be dead? There was a
horrible moment when Hornblower thought how easy something else would
be. He had only to let go his hold, to fall, down, down, to a final
crash upon the deck and the end of all this, no need for further effort,
the end, oblivion; that would be far easier than to face, trying to
appear not to notice, the pity or contempt of his fellow men. He was
being tempted to cast himself down, as Christ had been by Satan.

Then he told himself again that he was not that kind of coward. He was
calm now; the sweat that had streamed down him lay cold upon his skin.
He shut the telescope with a click that sounded clear amid the noise of
the wind about his ears. He had no idea what he was going to do, but it
was a healing mechanical exercise to set himself to descend the rigging,
to lodge first one foot and then the other upon the ratlines, to make
sure that despite the weakness he felt he accomplished the descent in
safety. And, having set foot on deck, it was further good exercise to
try to appear quite unruffled and unperturbed, the grain of dust
unchanging in the whirlwind, even though he had a feeling that his
cheeks were pale under their sunburn. Habit was a useful thing too; to
put back his head and bellow an order could set his mechanism working
again, as the stopped clock would start to tick again and would go on
ticking after a single shake.

'Mr McCullum! Belay those arrangements, if you please. Officer of the
watch! Pipe all hands. Get the launch hoisted in. Leave the longboat for
the present.'

A surprised Jones came hurrying on deck at the call of all hands.

'Mr Jones! Get a hawser passed out through a stern port. I want a spring
on the cable.'

'A spring, sir? Aye aye, sir.'

It was a minute compensation for his own misery to see how a glance
called forth the last three words after the astonished utterance of the
first three. Men who went to sea, and ten times more so men who went to
sea in a fighting ship, must be ready for the execution of the most
unexpected orders, at any moment, even the shattering of the routine of
a peaceful morning by an order to put a spring on the cable--a hawser
passed out through a stern port and made fast to the anchor cable, so
that by hauling in on the spring with the capstan the ship could be
swung even though she was stationary, and her guns trained to sweep a
different arc at will. It happened to be very nearly the only exercise
in which Hornblower had not drilled his ship's company so far.

'You're too slow, Mr Jones! Master-at-arms, take the names of those
three men there!'

Midshipman Smiley went off with the hawser end in the longboat; Jones,
running forward, bellowed himself hoarse through his speaking trumpet
with instructions to Smiley, to the man beside him at the capstan, to
the man aft with the hawser. Cable was taken in; cable was paid out.

'Spring's ready, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Jones. Hoist in the longboat and clear for action.'

'Er--aye aye, sir. Pipe "hands to quarters." Clear for action. Drummer!
Beat to quarters.'

There was no marine detachment in a little ship like _Atropos_. The
ship's boy who had been appointed drummer set his sticks rolling on his
drumhead. That warlike sound--there was nothing quite as martial as the
rolling of a drum--would drift over the water and would bear a message
of defiance to the shore. The longboat came swaying down on the chocks;
excited men, with the drum echoing in their ears, braced the lines about
her and secured her; already the pump crew were directing a stream of
water into her to fill her up--a necessary precaution against her
catching fire while providing a convenient reservoir of water to fight
other fires. The hands at the tackles broke off and went racing away to
their other duties.

'Guns loaded and run out, if you please, Mr Jones!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Mr Jones was startled again. In a mere exercise of clearing for action
it was usual merely to simulate the loading of the guns; otherwise when
the exercise ended there was the difficulty and waste of drawing wads
and charges. At the cry the powder boys went scurrying to bring up from
below the cartridges that Mr Clout was laying out in the magazine. Some
gun captain gave a yell as he flung his weight on the tackle to run out
his gun.

'Silence!'

The men were well enough behaved; despite the excitement of the moment
they had worked in silence save for that one yell. Much drill and
relentless discipline showed their effects.

'Cleared for action, sir!' reported Jones.

'Rig the boarding nettings, if you please.'

That was a harassing, irritating exercise. The nettings had to be roused
out, laid in position along the ship's sides, and their lower edges made
fast in the chains all round. Then lines from the yardarms and bowsprit
end had to be rove through the upper edges. Then with steady hauling on
the falls of the tackles the nettings rose into position, sloping up and
out from the ship's sides from bow to stern, making it impossible for
boarders to come in over the ship's side.

'Belay!' ordered Jones as the tricing lines came taut.

'Too taut, Mr Jones! I told you that before. Slack away on those falls!'

Taut boarding nettings, triced up trimly as far as they would go, might
look seaman-like, but were not as effective when their function as
obstacles was considered. A loose, sagging netting was far more
difficult to climb or to cut. Hornblower watched the netting sag down
again into lubberly festoons.

'Belay!'

That was better. These nettings were not intended to pass an admiral's
inspection, but to keep out boarders.

'Boarding nettings rigged, sir,' reported Jones, after a moment's
interval, to call his captain's attention to the fact that the ship's
company was awaiting further orders; Hornblower had given the last one
himself.

'Thank you, Mr Jones.'

Hornblower spoke a trifle absently; his gaze was not towards Jones, but
was directed far away. Automatically Jones followed his glance.

'Good God!' said Jones.

A big ship was rounding Red Cliff Point, entering into the Bay. Everyone
else saw her at the same moment, and a babble of exclamation arose.

'Silence, there!'

A big ship, gaudily painted in red and yellow, coming in under topsails,
a broad pendant at her mainmast head and the flag of the Prophet at her
peak. She was a great clumsy craft, old-fashioned in the extreme,
carrying two tiers of guns so that her sides were unnaturally high for
her length; and her beam was unnaturally wide, and her bowsprit steved
higher than present fashions in European navies dictated. But the
feature which first caught the eye was the lateen rig on the mizzen
mast; it was more than thirty years since the last lateen mizzen in the
Royal Navy had been replaced by the square mizzen-topsail. When
Hornblower had first seen her through his glass the triangular peak of
her mizzen beside her two square topsails had revealed her nationality
unmistakably to him. She looked like something in an old print; without
her flag she could have taken her place in the fighting line in Blake's
navy or Van Tromp's without exciting comment. She must be almost the
last survivor of the small clumsy ships of the line that had now been
replaced by the stately 74; small, clumsy, but all the same with a
weight of metal that could lay the tiny _Atropos_ into a splintered
wreck at one broadside.

'That's a broad pendant, Mr Jones,' said Hornblower. 'Salute her.'

He spoke out of the side of his mouth, for he had his glass trained on
her. Her gun ports were closed; on her lofty forecastle he could see men
scurrying like ants making ready to anchor. She was crowded with men; as
she took in sail it was strange to see men balanced across the sloping
mizzen yard--Hornblower had never expected to see a sight like that in
his life, especially as the men wore long loose shirts like gowns which
flapped round them as they hung over the yard.

The nine-pounder forward gave its sharp bang--some powder boy must have
run fast below to bring up the one-pound saluting charges--and a puff of
smoke, followed by a report, showed that the Turkish ship was replying.
She had goose-winged her main topsail--another outlandish sight in these
circumstances--and was slowly coming into the Bay towards them.

'Mr Turner! Come here please, to interpret. Mr Jones, send some hands to
the capstan, if you please. Take in on the spring if necessary so that
the guns bear.'

The Turkish ship glided on.

'Hail her,' said Hornblower to Turner.

A shout came back from her.

'She's the _Mejidieh_, sir,' reported Turner. 'I've seen her before.'

'Tell her to keep her distance.'

Turner hailed through his speaking trumpet, but the _Mejidieh_ still
came on.

'Tell her to keep off. Mr Jones! Take in on the spring. Stand by at the
guns, there!'

Closer and closer came the _Mejidieh_, and as she did so the _Atropos_
swung round, keeping her guns pointed at her. Hornblower picked up the
speaking trumpet.

'Keep off, or I'll fire into you!'

She altered course almost imperceptibly and glided by, close enough for
Hornblower to see the faces that lined the side, faces with moustaches
and faces with beards; mahogany-coloured faces, almost
chocolate-coloured faces. Hornblower watched her go by. She rounded-to,
with the goose-winged main topsail close-hauled, held her new course for
a few seconds, and then took in her sail, came to the wind and anchored,
a quarter of a mile away. The excitement of action ebbed away in
Hornblower, and the old depression returned. A buzz of talk went up from
the men clustered at the guns--it was quite irrepressible by now, with
this remarkable new arrival.

'The lateener's heading this way, sir,' reported Horrocks.

From the promptitude with which she appeared she must have been awaiting
the _Mejidieh's_ arrival. Hornblower saw her pass close under the
_Mejidieh's_ stern; he could almost hear the words that she exchanged
with the ship, and then she came briskly up close alongside the
_Atropos_. There in the stern was the white-bearded Mudir, hailing them.

'He wants to come on board, sir,' reported Turner.

'Let him come,' said Hornblower. 'Unlace that netting just enough for
him to get through.'

Down in the cabin the Mudir looked just the same as before. His lean
face was as impassive as ever; at least he showed no signs of triumph.
He could play a winning game like a gentleman; Hornblower, without a
single trump card in his hand, was determined to show that he could play
a losing game like a gentleman, too.

'Explain to him,' he said to Turner, 'that I regret there is no coffee
to offer him. No fires when the ship's cleared for action.'

The Mudir was gracious about the absence of coffee, as he indicated by a
gesture. There was a polite interchange of compliments which Turner
hardly troubled to translate, before he approached the business in hand.

'He says the Vali is in Marmorice with his army,' reported Turner. 'He
says the forts at the mouth are manned and the guns loaded.'

'Tell him I know that.'

'He says that ship's the _Mejidieh_, sir, with fifty-six guns and a
thousand men.'

'Tell him I know that too.'

The Mudir stroked his beard before taking the next step.

'He says the Vali was very angry when he heard we'd been taking treasure
from the bottom of the Bay.'

'Tell him it is British treasure.'

'He says it was lying in the Sultan's waters, and all wrecks belong to
the Sultan.'

In England all wrecks belonged to the King.

'Tell him the Sultan and King George are friends.'

The Mudir's reply to that was lengthy.

'No good, sir,' said Turner. 'He says Turkey's at peace with France now
and so is neutral. He said--he said that we have no more rights here
than if we were Neapolitans, sir.'

There could not be any greater expression of contempt anywhere in the
Levant.

'Ask him if he has ever seen a Neapolitan with guns run out and matches
burning.'

It was a losing game that Hornblower was playing, but he was not going
to throw in his cards and yield all the tricks without a struggle, even
though he could see no possibility of winning even one. The Mudir
stroked his beard again; with his expressionless eyes he looked straight
at Hornblower, and straight through him, as he spoke.

'He must have been watching everything through a telescope from shore,
sir,' commented Turner, 'or it may have been those fishing boats. At any
rate, he knows about the gold and the silver, and it's my belief, sir,
that they've known there was treasure in the wreck for years. That
secret wasn't as well kept as they thought it was in London.'

'I can draw my own conclusions, Mr Turner, thank you.'

Whatever the Mudir knew or guessed, Hornblower was not going to admit
anything.

'Tell him we have been delighted with the pleasure of his company.'

The Mudir, when that was translated to him, allowed a flicker of a
change of expression to pass over his face. But when he spoke it was
with the same flatness of tone.

'He says that if we hand over all we have recovered so far the Vali will
allow us to remain here and keep whatever else we find,' reported
Turner.

Turner displayed some small concern as he translated, but yet in his old
man's face the most noticeable expression was one of curiosity; he bore
no responsibility, and he could allow himself the luxury--the
pleasure--of wondering how his captain was going to receive this demand.
Even in that horrid moment Hornblower found himself remembering
Rochefoucauld's cynical epigram about the pleasure we derive from the
contemplation of our friends' troubles.

'Tell him,' said Hornblower, 'that my master King George will be angry
when he hears that such a thing has been said to me, his servant, and
that his friend the Sultan will be angry when he hears what his servant
has said.'

But the Mudir was unmoved by any suggestion of international
complications. It would take a long, long time for a complaint to travel
from Marmorice to London and then back to Constantinople. And Hornblower
could guess that a very small proportion of a quarter of a million
sterling, laid out in the proper quarter, would buy the support of the
Vizier for the Vali. The Mudir's face was quite unrelenting--a
frightened child might have a nightmare about a face as heartless as
that.

'Damn it,' said Hornblower, 'I won't do it.'

There was nothing he wanted more in this world than to break through the
iron serenity of the Mudir.

'Tell him,' said Hornblower, 'I'll drop the gold back into the Bay
sooner than hand it over. By God, I will. I'll drop it down to the
bottom and they can fish for it themselves, which they can't do. Tell
him I swear that, by--by the Koran or the beard of the Prophet, or
whatever they swear by.'

Turner nodded in surprised approval; that was a move he had not thought
of, and he addressed himself eagerly to the task of translation. The
Mudir listened with his eternal patience.

'No, it's no good, sir,' said Turner, after the Mudir had replied. 'You
can't frighten him that way. He says----'

Turner was interrupted by a fresh sentence from the Mudir.

'He says that after this ship has been seized the idolaters--that's the
Ceylonese divers, sir--will work for him just as they work for us.'

Hornblower, desperate, thought wildly of cutting the divers' throats
after throwing the treasure overboard; that would be consonant with this
Oriental atmosphere, but before he could put the frightful thought into
words the Mudir spoke again, and at considerable length.

'He says wouldn't it be better to go back with _some_ treasure,
sir--whatever more we can recover--than to lose everything? He says--he
says--I beg your pardon, sir, but he says that if this ship is seized
for breaking the law your name would not be held in respect by King
George.'

That was phrasing it elegantly. Hornblower could well imagine what their
Lordships of the Admiralty would say. Even at the best, even if he
fought it out to the last man, London would not look with favour on the
man who had precipitated an international crisis and whose behaviour
necessitated sending a squadron and an army into the Levant to restore
British prestige at a moment when every ship and man was needed to fight
Bonaparte. And at worst--Hornblower could picture his little ship
suddenly overwhelmed by a thousand boarders, seized, emptied of the
treasure, and then dismissed with contemptuous indulgence for him to
take back to Malta with a tale possibly of outrage but certainly of
failure.

It took every ounce of his moral strength to conceal his despair and
dismay--from Turner as well as from the Mudir--and as it was he sat
silent for a while, shaken, like a boxer in the ring trying to rally
after a blow had slipped through his guard. Like a boxer, he needed time
to recover.

'Very well,' he said at length, 'tell him I must think over all this.
Tell him it is too important for me to make up my mind now.'

'He says,' translated Turner when the Mudir replied, 'he says he will
come to-morrow morning to receive the treasure.'




CHAPTER XVIII


In the old days, long ago, Hornblower as a midshipman had served in the
_Indefatigable_ on cutting-out expeditions more numerous than he could
remember. The frigate would find a coaster anchored under the protection
of shore batteries, or would chase one into some small harbour; then at
night--or even in broad day--the boats would be manned and sent in. The
coaster would take all the precautions she could; she could load her
guns, rig her boarding nettings, keep her crew on the alert, row guard
round the ship, but to no avail. The boarders would fight their way on
board, clear the decks, set sail, and carry off the prize under the nose
of the defences. Often and often had Hornblower seen it close, had taken
part. He had noted with small enough sympathy the pitiful precautions
taken by the victim.

Now the boot was on the other leg; now it was even worse, because
_Atropos_ lay in the broad Bay of Marmorice without even the protection
of shore batteries and with ten thousand enemies around her. To-morrow,
the Mudir had said, he would come for the treasure, but there was no
trusting the Turks. That might be one more move to lull the _Atropos_
into security. She might be rushed in the night. The _Mejidieh_, over
there, could put into her boats more men than _Atropos_ could boast
altogether, and they could be supplemented with soldiers crammed into
fishing boats from the shore. If she were attacked by twenty boats at
once, from all sides, by a thousand Moslem fanatics, what could she do
to defend herself?

She could rig her boarding nettings--they were already rigged. She could
load her guns--they were already loaded, grape on top of round shot,
depressed so as to sweep the surface of the Bay at close range round the
ship. She could keep anxious watch--Hornblower was going round the ship
himself, to see that the lookouts were all awake, the guns' crews dozing
no more deeply than the hard decks would allow as they lay at their
posts, the remainder of the hands stationed round the bulwarks with pike
and cutlass within easy reach.

It was a novel experience to be the mouse instead of the cat, to be on
the defensive instead of the offensive, to wait anxiously for the moon
to rise instead of hurrying to the attack while darkness endured. It
might be counted as another lesson in war, to know how the waiting
victim thought and felt--some day in the future Hornblower might put
that lesson to use, and, paralleling the thought of the ship he was
going to attack, contrive to circumvent the precautions she was taking.

That was one more proof of the levity and inconstancy of his mind, said
Hornblower to himself, bitterness and despair returning in overwhelming
force. Here he was thinking about the future, about some other command
he might hold, when there was no future. No future. To-morrow would see
the end. He did not know for certain yet what he would do; vaguely in
his mind he had the plan that at dawn he would empty the ship of her
crew--non-swimmers in the boats, swimmers sent to seek refuge in the
_Mejidieh_--while he went down below to the magazine, with a loaded
pistol, to blow the ship and the treasure, himself with his dead
ambitions, his love for his children and his wife, to blow it all to
fragments. But would that be better than bargaining? Would it be better
than returning not only with _Atropos_ intact but with whatever further
treasure McCullum could retrieve? It was his duty to save his ship if he
could, and he could. Seventy thousand pounds was far less than a quarter
of a million, but it would be a godsend to an England at her wits' ends
for gold. A Captain in the Navy should have no personal feelings; he had
a duty to do.

That might be so, but all the same he was convulsed with anguish. This
deep, dark sorrow which was rending him was something beyond his
control. He looked across at the dark shape of the _Mejidieh_, and
sorrow was joined to an intense hatred, like some ugly pattern of red
and black before his mind's eye. The vague shape of the _Mejidieh_ was
drawing back abaft the _Atropos'_ quarter--the soft night wind was
backing round, as might be expected at this hour, and swinging the ships
at their anchors. Overhead there were stars, here and there obscured by
patches of cloud whose presence could just be guessed at, moving very
slowly over the zenith. And over there, beyond the _Mejidieh_, the sky
was a trifle paler; the moon must be rising above the horizon beyond the
mountains. The loveliest night imaginable with the gentle breeze--this
gentle breeze! Hornblower glowered round in the darkness as if he feared
someone might prematurely guess the thought that was forming in his
mind.

'I am going below for a few minutes, Mr Jones,' he said, softly.

'Aye aye, sir.'

Turner, of course, had been talking. He had told the wardroom all about
the quandary in which their captain found himself. One could hear
curiosity in the tone of even those three words of Jones's. Resolution
came to lacquer over the pattern of red and black.

Down in the cabin the two candles he sent for lit the whole little
space, save for a solid shadow here and there. But the chart that he
laid out between them was brightly illuminated. He stooped over it,
peering at the tiny figures that marked the soundings. He knew them
already, as soon as he came to think about them; there was really no
need to refresh his memory. Red Cliff Point, Passage Island, Kaia Rock;
Point Sari beyond Kaia Rock--he knew them all. He could weather Kaia
Rock with this breeze if it should hold. God, there was need for haste!
He blew out the candles and felt his way out of the cabin.

'Mr Jones! I want two reliable bos'n's mates. Quietly, if you please.'

That breeze was still blowing, ever so gently, a little more fitful than
might be desired, and the moon had not cleared the mountains yet.

'Now, you two, pay attention. Go quietly round the ship and see that
every man is awake. Not a sound--you hear me? Topmen are to assemble
silently at the foot of the masts. Silently.'

'Aye aye, sir,' was the whispered reply.

'Carry on. Now, Mr Jones----'

The gentle patter of bare feet on the deck as the men assembled acted as
accompaniment to the whispered orders Hornblower was giving to Jones.
Over there was the vast bulk of the _Mejidieh_; two thousand ears which
might catch the slightest unusual noise--an axe being laid ready on the
deck, for instance, or capstan bars being gently eased into their
sockets. The boatswain came aft again to rejoin the little group of
officers round Hornblower and to make his report in a whisper that
accorded ill with his bulk and power.

'The capstan pawl's thrown out, sir.'

'Very good. Yours is the first move. Go back, count a hundred, and take
up on the spring. Six turns, and hold it. Understand?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Then off you go. You others are clear about your duties? Mr Carslake,
with the axe at the cable. I'll attend to the axe at the spring. Mr
Smiley, fore tops'l sheets. Mr Hunt, main tops'l sheets. Go to your
stations.'

The little ship lay there quietly. A tiny rim of the moon came up over
the mountains, and broadened momentarily, revealing her lying peacefully
at anchor. She seemed inert, incapable of action. Silent men had swarmed
up the rigging and were waiting for the signal. There was a gentle
creaking as the spring to the cable tightened, but there was no clank
from the capstan, for the pawl had been thrown out from the ratchet; the
men at the capstan bars walked silently round, and when their six turns
had been completed they stood, breasts against the bars, feet braced on
the deck, holding the ship steady. Under the pull of the spring she lay
at an angle to the breeze, so that when sail should be set not a moment
would be wasted gathering stern way and paying off. She would be under
command at once.

The moon had cleared the mountains; the seconds went slowly by.

Ting-ting went the ship's bell--two bells; the signal.

Feet pattered in unison. Sheaves squealed in blocks, but even as the ear
caught that sound topsail yards and forestay had blossomed into sail.
Forward and aft came brief sullen thumpings as axe blades cut through
cable and spring--with the sudden end of the resistance of the spring
the capstan spun round, precipitating the men at the bars to the deck.
There were bruises and grazes, but nobody paid attention to the
injuries; _Atropos_ was under way. In five seconds, without giving any
warning at all, she had transformed herself from something stationary
and inert to a living thing, gliding through the water towards the
entrance to the Bay. She was clear of the peril of the _Mejidieh's_
broadside, for the _Mejidieh_ had no spring on her cable to swing her
round. She would have to weigh her anchor, or cut or slip her cable; she
would have to set sail enough to give her steerage way, and then she
would have to yaw round before she could fire. With an alert crew, awake
and ready for the summons, it would be at least several minutes before
she could turn her broadside upon _Atropos_, and then it would be at a
range of half a mile or more.

As it was _Atropos_ had gathered speed, and was already more than clear
before _Mejidieh_ gave her first sign of life. The deep booming of a
drum came sounding over the water; not the high-pitched rattle of the
_Atropos'_ side-drum, but the far deeper and slower tone of a bass drum
monotonously beaten.

'Mr Jones!' said Hornblower. 'Rig in those boarding nettings, if you
please.'

The moon was shining brightly, lighting the water ahead of them.

'Starboard a point,' said Hornblower to the helmsman.

'Starboard a point,' came the automatic reply.

'You're taking the west pass, sir?' asked Turner.

As sailing master and navigator his station in action was on the
quarter-deck beside his captain, and the question he asked was strictly
within his province.

'I don't think so,' said Hornblower.

The booming of the _Mejidieh's_ drum was still audible; if the sound
reached the batteries the guns' crews there would be on the alert. And
when he reached that conclusion there was an orange flash from far
astern, as if momentarily a furnace door had been opened and then
closed. Seconds later came the heavy report; the _Mejidieh_ had fired a
gun. There was no sound of the passage of the shot--but if it had even
been a blank charge it would serve to warn the batteries.

'I'm going under Sari Point,' said Hornblower.

'Sari Point, sir!'

'Yes.'

It was surprise and not discipline that limited Turner's protests to
that single exclamation. Thirty years of service in the merchant navy
had trained Turner's mind so that nothing could induce him to
contemplate subjecting his ship voluntarily to navigational hazards; his
years of service as sailing master in the Royal Navy had done little to
change that mental attitude. It was his duty to keep the ship safe from
shoal and storm and let the captain worry about cannon-balls. He would
never have thought for a moment of trying to take _Atropos_ through the
narrow channel between Sari Point and Kaia Rock, not even by daylight,
and ten times never by night, and the fact that he had not thought of it
left him without words.

Another orange flash showed astern; another report reached their ears.

'Take a night glass and go for'rard,' said Hornblower. 'Look out for the
surf.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Take a speaking trumpet as well. Make sure I hear you.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The gunfire from _Mejidieh_ would have warned the garrisons of the
batteries; there would be plenty of time for the men to rouse themselves
to wakefulness at their guns, to get their linstocks well alight, so as
to sweep the channels with their salvos. Turkish gunners might not be
efficient, but the crossfire at East Pass could hardly miss. The West
Pass, between Kaia Rock and Passage Island, would not be so efficiently
swept; but on the other hand the range was negligible, and with the
double turn that had to be made (_Atropos_ would be like a sitting duck)
there would be no chance of coming through uninjured. Dismasted, or even
only crippled, _Atropos_ would fall an easy prey to _Mejidieh_ coming
down through East Pass at her leisure. And, crippled and out of control,
_Atropos_ might run aground; and she was only a little ship, her
scantlings were frail--a salvo from the huge stone cannon-balls that the
Turks favoured, plunging from a height, could tear her to pieces, tear
open her bottom and sink her in a minute. He would have to take her
under Sari Point; that would double, treble the range from the guns on
Passage Island; it would be a surprise move; and very likely the guns
there would be trained upon Kaia Rock, to sweep the narrowest
passage--their aim would have to be hurriedly changed and for a moment
at least he would have the rock itself to shelter him. It was his best
chance.

'Starboard a point,' he said to the quartermaster. That was the moment,
like playing his King as third player to the first trick in a hand of
whist; it was the best thing to do, taking all chances into
consideration, and so, the decision taken, there was no room for second
thoughts.

The moderate breeze was holding; that meant not merely that he had
_Atropos_ under full command, but also that wavelets would be breaking
at the foot of Kaia Rock and Sari Point, reflecting back the moonlight
visibly to Turner's night glass. He could see Ada Peninsula plainly
enough. At this angle it looked as if there was no exit at all from the
Bay; _Atropos_ seemed to be gliding down, unhurried, as though to
immolate herself upon an unbroken coast.

'Mr Jones, hands to the braces and head sail sheets, if you please.'

The gunners on Ada would be able to see the ship plainly enough now,
silhouetted against the moon; they would be waiting for her to turn.
Passage Island and Sari Point were still blended together. He held on.

'Breakers on the port bow!'

That was Turner hailing from forward.

'Breakers ahead!' A long pause, and then Turner's high, thin voice
again, sharpened with anxiety. 'Breakers ahead!'

'Mr Jones, we'll be wearing ship soon.'

He could see well enough. He carried the chart before his mental eyes,
and could superimpose it upon the shadowy landscape before him.

'Breakers ahead!'

The closer he came the better. That shore was steep-to.

'Now, Mr Jones. Quartermaster--hard a-starboard.'

She was coming round on her heel like a dancer. Too fast!

'Meet her! Steady!'

He must hold on for a moment; and it would be as well, too, for then
_Atropos_ could regain the way and handiness of which the sharp turn had
deprived her.

'Breakers ahead! Breakers on the starboard bow! Breakers to port!'

A chain of long, bright flashes over port quarter; a thunder-roll of
reports, echoing again from the hills.

'Hard a-starboard. Brace her up, Mr Jones. Full and by!'

Coming round now, with Sari Point close alongside; not merely alongside
but right ahead with the hollow curve of it.

'Keep your luff!'

'Sir--sir----'

The quartermaster at the wheel was croaking with anxiety; she would be
in irons in a moment. The headsails were flapping. From the feel of her
she was losing her way, sagging off to leeward; she would be aground
before long.

'Port a little.'

That would keep her going for a moment. The black bulk of Kaia was
plainly visible to port. Sari was ahead and to starboard, and the wind
was in their teeth. They were creeping forward to destruction. But there
must be--there _must_ be--a back lash of wind from Sari Point. It could
not be otherwise with that land formation. The headsails flapped again
as the quartermaster at the wheel vacillated between going aground and
being taken aback.

'Keep her going.'

'Sir----!'

It would be close under the land that that air would be found if at all.
Ah! Hornblower could feel the transition with the acute sensitivity of
the seaman; the cessation of wind and then the tiny gentle breath on the
other cheek. The headsails flapped again, but in a different mood from
before; before Hornblower could speak the quartermaster was turning the
wheel in agonized relief. It would only be a second or two that would be
granted them, small enough time in which to gather steerage way to get
the ship under command again, to gain distance from the cliffs.

'Stand by to go about!'

Steerage way so that the rudder would bite; that was what was wanted
now. A flash and a roar from Passage Island--Kaia Rock nearly
intercepted the flash; perhaps the shot was intercepted as well. That
would be the first gun to be reloaded. The others would undoubtedly
follow soon. Another flash, another roar, but no time to think about
them, for Hornblower's perceptions told him of the fresh alteration in
the feel of the ship. They were passing out into the wind again.

'Headsail sheets!'

One moment more. Now!

'Hard a-starboard!'

He could feel the rudder bite. She was coming round. She would not miss
stays. As she emerged into the wind she was on her new tack.

'Breakers right ahead!'

That was Kaia Rock, of course. But they must gather way again.

'Stand by to go about!'

They must hold on until the bowsprit was almost touching. Wait. Now!

'Hard over!'

The wheel spun. She was sluggish. Yes--no--yes. The fore staysail was
drawing. She was coming round. The yards turned as the hands came aft
with the lee-braces. One moment's hesitation, and then she gathered way
on the fresh tack, leaving Kaia close beside them, Sari Point ahead; no
chance of weathering it on this tack.

'Stand by to go about!'

Hold on as far as possible; this would be the last tack that would be
necessary. A howl close overhead. That was a cannon-ball from Passage
Island.

'Stand by! Hard over!'

Round she came, the rocks at the foot of Sari Point clearly visible as
she wheeled away from them. A flaw, an eddy in the wind again, but only
a second's hesitation as she caught the true breeze. Hold on for safety
a moment more, with Kaia close abeam. Now all was safe.

'Mr Jones! Course South by East.'

'Course South by East, sir!'

They were heading into the open sea, with Rhodes to starboard and Turkey
left behind, and with a King's ransom in the lazarette. They were
leaving behind a prince's ransom, so to speak, but Hornblower could
think of that with hardly a twinge.




CHAPTER XIX


His Majesty's sloop of war _Atropos_, admittedly, was the smallest ship
in the British Navy. There were brigs of war smaller then she was, and
schooners and cutters smaller still, but she was the smallest ship in
the technical sense, with three masts and a captain in command, that
King George owned, yet Hornblower was well content with her. There were
times when he looked at the captains' list, and saw below his name those
of the fifty captains junior to him, and when he noted above his name
the slowly dwindling number of captains senior to him--as captains died
or attained flag rank--and it occurred to him that some day, with good
fortune, he might be posted to a frigate or even a ship of the line, yet
at the moment he was content.

He had completed a mission and was entering upon another one. He had
discharged at Gibraltar two hundred thousand pounds sterling in gold and
silver coin, and he had left there the unpleasant Mr McCullum and his
Ceylonese divers. The money was to await shipment to London, where it
would constitute some part of the 'British gold' that sustained the
fainting spirits of England's allies and against which Bonaparte raved
so violently in his bulletins; McCullum and his men would wait for an
opportunity to travel in the opposite direction, round Africa back to
India. And _Atropos_ was running before a heavy westerly gale in a third
direction, back up the Mediterranean to rejoin Collingwood and the
Mediterranean Fleet.

She seemed to be lightheartedly free of her encumbrances as she heaved
and pitched on the quartering sea; after six months afloat, with hardly
six hours on land, Hornblower's seasickness was no longer apparent and
he was lighthearted on that account too, along with his ship.
Collingwood had seen fit to approve of his report on his proceedings at
Marmorice before sending him on to Gibraltar with the treasure, and had
given him, for his return journey, orders that an adventurous young
captain would approve of. He was to scour the Mediterranean coast of
southern Spain, disorganize the Spanish coasting trade, gather up any
information he could by personal observation of the harbours, and then
look in at Corsica before rejoining the Fleet off the Italian coast,
where it was damming back, at the water's edge, Bonaparte's new flood of
conquest. Naples had fallen, but Sicily was held intact; Bonaparte's
monstrous power ended when the salt water reached the saddle-girths of
his horse. His armies could march where they would, but his ships
cowered in port, or only ventured forth on furtive raids, while the
little _Atropos_, with her twenty-two tiny guns, had twice sailed the
whole length of the Mediterranean, from Gibraltar to Marmorice and back
again, without once seeing the tricolor flag.

No wonder Hornblower felt pleased with himself, standing on the plunging
deck without a qualm, looking over at the serrated skyline which, in the
clear Mediterranean air, indicated the mountains of Spain. He had sailed
boldly in within gunshot of the harbours and roadsteads of the coast; he
had looked into Malaga and Motril and Almeria; fishing boats and
coasters had fled before him like minnows before a pike. He had rounded
Cape de Gata and had clawed his way back to the coast again so as to
look into Cartagena. Malaga and Almeria had sheltered no ships of war.
That was negative information, but even negative information could be of
value to Collingwood as he directed the activities of his enormous
fleet, covering the ramifications of British commerce over two thousand
miles of sea, with his finger on the pulse of a score of international
enmities and alliances. Cartagena was the principal Spanish naval base.
An examination of it would reveal whether the bankrupt Spanish
government had made any effort to reconstitute the fleet shattered at
Trafalgar. Perhaps a French ship or two would be sheltering there, on
one stage of some adventurous cruise planned by Bonaparte to enable them
to strike at British convoys.

Hornblower looked up at the straining rigging, felt the heave and plunge
of the ship under his feet. There were two reefs in the topsails
already--it was more than half a gale that was blowing. He considered,
and then dismissed, the notion of a third reef. _Atropos_ could carry
that amount of canvas safely enough. Cape Cope lay on the port beam; his
glass revealed that a little cluster of coasters had taken refuge in the
shallows under its lee, and he looked at them longingly. But there were
batteries to protect them, and this wind made any attempt on them quite
impracticable--he could not send in boats in the teeth of half a gale.
He gave an order to the helmsman and the _Atropos_ went hurtling on
towards Cartagena. It was exhilarating to stand here by the taffrail
with the wind screaming round him and a creamy wake emerging from under
the stern beneath his feet. He smiled to watch Mr Turner's navigation
class at work; Turner had the midshipmen and master's mates around him
giving them instruction in coastwise navigation. He was trying to
ballast their feather-brains with good solid mathematics about the
'running fix' and 'doubling the angle on the bow' and the 'four-point
bearing,' but it was a difficult task to retain their attention in these
stimulating surroundings, with the wind setting the chart fluttering
wildly in Turner's hand and even making it hard for the young men to
hold their slates steady as it caught their inclined surfaces.

'Mr Turner,' said Hornblower. 'Report any case of inattention to me at
once and I will deal with it as it deserves.'

That steadied the young men to a noticeable extent and made them
restrain their animal spirits. Smiley checked himself in the midst of a
wink at the young Prince, and the Prince's embryo guffaw was stillborn
as a guilty grin. That boy was perfectly human now--it was a far cry
from the stuffy German court into which he had been born to the windy
deck of the _Atropos_. If ever he were restored to the throne of his
fathers he would be free of the thraldom of a sextant, but perhaps he
might remember these breezy days with regret. The great-nephew of King
George--Hornblower looked at him pretending to study the equilateral
triangle scrawled on his slate, and smiled to himself again, remembering
Dr Eisenbeiss's horror at the suggestion that perhaps corporal
punishment might come the way of a reigning Prince. It had not so far,
but it might.

Four bells sounded, the sand glass was turned, the wheel was relieved,
and Turner dismissed his class.

'Mr Smiley! Mr Horrocks!'

The released midshipmen turned to their captain.

'I want you at the mastheads now with your glasses.'

Sharp young eyes would be best for looking into Cartagena. Hornblower
noticed the appeal in the Prince's expression.

'Very well, Mr Prince. You can go too. Fore topmast head with Mr
Smiley.'

It was a frequent punishment to send a young officer up to the
discomforts of the masthead, but it was no punishment to-day, not with
an enemy's harbour to be examined, and reports made on the shipping
inside. Cartagena was fast coming into sight; the castle and the towers
of the churches were visible now beyond the sheltering island of La
Escombrera. With this westerly wind it was simple enough to stand right
in so that from the masthead a view could be had of the inner harbour.

'Deck, there! Captain, sir----'

Smiley was hailing down from the fore topmast head. Hornblower had to
walk forward to hear what he had to say, for the wind was sweeping away
his words.

'There's a ship of war in the outer bay, sir! Spanish, she looks like.
One of their big frigates. She's got her yards across.'

That was likely to be the _Castilla_, one of the survivors of Trafalgar.

'There's seven sail of coasters anchored close in, sir.'

They were safe enough from the _Atropos_ in these conditions.

'What about the inner harbour?'

'Four--no five ships moored there, sir. And two hulks.'

'What d'you make of them?'

'Four of the line, sir, and a frigate. No yards across. Laid up in
ordinary, I should say, sir.'

In past years the Spanish government had built fine ships, but under the
corruption and inefficiency of Godoy they were allowed to rot at their
moorings for want of crews and stores. Four of the line and a frigate
laid up at Cartagena was what had last been reported there, so there was
no change; negative information for Collingwood again, but useful.

'She's setting sail!'

That was the Prince's voice, high-pitched and excited, screaming down. A
moment later Horrocks and Smiley were supplementing the warning.

'The frigate, sir! She's getting sail on her!'

'I can see her cross, sir!'

Spanish ships of war had the habit of hoisting huge wooden crosses at
the mizzen peak when action seemed likely. The frigate must be intending
to make a sortie, to chase away this inquisitive visitor. It was high
time to beat a retreat. A big Spanish frigate such as the _Castilla_
carried forty-four guns, just twice as many as _Atropos_, and with three
times their weight of metal. If only over the horizon _Atropos_ had a
colleague to whom she could lure the _Castilla_! That was something to
bear in mind and to suggest to Collingwood in any case; this Spanish
captain was enterprising and energetic, and might be rash--he might be
smouldering with shame after Trafalgar, and he might be lured out to his
destruction.

'She's under way, sir!'

'Fore tops'l set! Main tops'l set, sir!'

No sense in courting danger, even though with this wind _Atropos_ had a
clear run to safety.

'Keep her away a point,' said Hornblower to the helmsman, and _Atropos_
turned a little to show a clean pair of heels to the Spaniard.

'She's coming out, sir!' reported Horrocks from the main topmast head.
'Reefed tops'ls. Two reefs, I think, sir.'

Hornblower trained his glass over the quarter. There it was, the white
oblong just showing above the horizon as _Atropos_ lifted--the reefed
fore topsail of the _Castilla_.

'She's pointing straight at us now, sir,' reported Smiley.

In a stern chase like this _Atropos_ had nothing to fear, newly coppered
as she was and with a pretty turn of speed. The high wind and the rough
sea would favour the bigger ship, of course. The _Castilla_ might
contrive to keep the _Atropos_ in sight even though she had no chance of
overtaking her. It would be a useful object lesson to officers and men
to see _Atropos_ making the best use of her potentiality for speed.
Hornblower looked up again at sails and rigging. Certainly now there
could be no question of taking in a third reef. He must carry all
possible sail, just as the _Castilla_ was doing.

Mr Still, as officer of the watch, was touching his hat to Hornblower
with a routine question.

'Carry on, Mr Still.'

'Up spirits!'

With a powerful enemy plunging along behind her the life of the
_Atropos_ went on quite normally; the men had their grog and went to
their dinners, the watch changed, the wheel was relieved. Palos Point
disappeared over the port quarter as _Atropos_ went flying on into the
open Mediterranean, and still that white oblong kept its position on the
horizon astern. The _Castilla_ was doing well for a Spanish frigate.

'Call me the moment there is any change, Mr Jones,' said Hornblower,
shutting his glass.

Jones was nervous--he might be imagining himself in a Spanish prison
already. It would do him no harm to be left on deck with the
responsibility, even though, down in his cabin, Hornblower found himself
getting up from his dinner table to peer aft through the scuttle to make
sure the _Castilla_ was not gaining on them. In fact, Hornblower was not
sorry when, with his dinner not yet finished, a knock at the door
brought a messenger from the quarter-deck.

'Mr Jones's respects, sir, and the wind is moderating a little, he
thinks, sir.'

'I'm coming,' said Hornblower, laying down his knife and fork.

In a moderate breeze _Atropos_ ought to be able to run _Castilla_
topsails-under in an hour or two, and any reduction in the wind was to
the advantage of _Atropos_ as long as she spread all the canvas she
could carry. But it would call for judgment to shake out the reefs at
the right time, without imperilling spars on the one hand or losing
distance on the other. When Hornblower arrived on deck a glance told him
that it was time.

'You are quite right, Mr Jones,' he said--no harm in giving him a pat on
the back--'we'll shake out a reef.'

The order sped along the deck.

'Hands make sail!'

Hornblower looked aft through his glass; as _Atropos_ lifted her stern
he could get the _Castilla's_ fore topsail right in the centre of the
field. The most painstaking thought could not bring a decision as to
whether or not it was any nearer. She must be exactly maintaining her
distance. Then as the topsail hung dizzily in the lens he saw--he was
nearly sure he saw--the oblong broaden into a square. He rested his eye
and looked again. No doubt about it. _Castilla_ had decided that was the
moment to shake out a reef too.

Hornblower looked up at the _Atropos'_ main topsail yard. The topmen,
bent over the yard at that dizzy height, had completed the untying of
the reef points. Now they came running in from the yard. Smiley had the
starboard yardarm, and His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau the
port. They were having their usual race, flinging themselves on to the
backstays and sliding down without a thought for their necks. Hornblower
was glad that boy had found his feet--of course he was wild with the
excitement of the flight and pursuit; Hornblower was glad that Smiley
had adopted that amused paternal attitude towards him.

With the letting out of the reef _Atropos_ increased her speed again;
Hornblower could feel the renewed thrust of the sail upon the fabric of
the ship under his feet; he could feel the more frantic leap of the
vessel on the wave crests. He directed a wary glance aloft. This would
not be the moment to have anything carry away, not with _Castilla_
tearing along in pursuit. Jones was standing by the wheel. The wind was
just over the starboard quarter, and the little ship was answering well
to her rudder, but it was as important to keep an eye on the helmsman as
it was to see that they did not split a topsail. It called for some
little resolution to leave Jones in charge again and go below to try to
finish his dinner.

When the message came down again that the wind was moderating it was
like that uncanny feeling which Hornblower had once or twice experienced
of something happening again even though it had not happened before--the
circumstances were so exactly similar.

'Mr Jones's respects, sir, and the wind is moderating a little, he
thinks, sir.'

Hornblower had to compel himself to vary his reply.

'My compliments to Mr Jones, and I am coming on deck.'

Just as before, he could feel that the ship was not giving her utmost.
Just as before, he gave the order for a reef to be shaken out. Just as
before, he swung round to train his glass on the _Castilla's_ topsail.
And just as before he turned back as the men prepared to come in from
the yard. But that was the moment when everything took a different
course, when the desperate emergency arose that always at sea lies just
over the horizon of the future.

Excitement had stimulated the Prince into folly. Hornblower looked up to
see the boy standing on the port yardarm, not merely standing but
dancing, taking a clumsy step or two to dare Smiley at the starboard
yardarm to imitate him, one hand on his hip, the other over his head.
Hornblower was going to shout a reprimand; he opened his mouth and
inflated his chest, but before he could utter a sound the Prince's foot
slipped. Hornblower saw him totter, strive to regain his balance, and
then fall, heavily through the air, and turning a complete circle as he
fell.

Later on Hornblower, out of curiosity, made a calculation. The Prince
fell from a height of a little over seventy feet, and without the
resistance of the air and had he not bounced off the shrouds he would
have reached the surface of the sea in something over two seconds. But
the resistance of the air could have been by no means negligible--it
must have got under his jacket and slowed his fall considerably, for the
boy was not killed and was in fact only momentarily knocked unconscious
by the impact. Probably it took as much as four seconds for the Prince
to fall into the sea. Hornblower was led to make the calculation when
brooding over the incident later, for he could remember clearly all the
thoughts that passed through his mind during those four seconds.
Momentary exasperation came first and then anxiety, and then followed a
hasty summing up of the situation. If he hove-to to pick up the boy the
_Castilla_ would have all the time needed to overhaul them. If he went
on the boy would drown. And if he went on he would have to report to
Collingwood that he had left the King's great-nephew without lifting a
finger to help him. He had to choose quickly--quickly. He had no right
to risk his ship to save one single life. But--but--if the boy had been
killed in battle by a broadside sweeping the deck it would be different.
To abandon him was another matter again. On the heels of that conclusion
came another thought, the beginnings of another thought, sprouting from
a seed that had been sown outside Cartagena. It did not have time to
develop in those four seconds; it was as if Hornblower acted the moment
the green shoot from the seed showed above ground, to reach its full
growth later.

By the time the boy had reached the sea Hornblower had torn the
emergency lifebuoy from the taffrail; he flung it over the port quarter
as the speed of the ship brought the boy nearly opposite him, and it
smacked into the sea close beside him. At the same moment the air which
Hornblower had drawn into his lungs to reprimand the Prince was expelled
in a salvo of bellowed orders.

'Mizzen braces! Back the mizzen-topsail! Quarter boat away!'

Maybe--Hornblower could not be sure later--everyone was shouting at
once, but everyone at least responded to orders with the rapidity that
was the result of months of drill. _Atropos_ flew up into the wind, her
way checked instantly. It was Smiley--Heaven only knew how he had made
the descent from the starboard main topsail yardarm in that brief
space--who got the jolly boat over the side, with four men at the oars,
and dashed off to effect the rescue, the tiny boat soaring up and
swooping down as the waves passed under her. And even before _Atropos_
was hove-to Hornblower was putting the next part of the plan into
action.

'Mr Horrocks! Signal "Enemy in sight to windward."'

Horrocks stood and gaped, and Hornblower was about to blare out with
'Blast you, do what I tell you,' but he restrained himself. Horrocks was
not a man of the quickest thought in the world, and he had failed
entirely to see any purpose in signalling to a vacant horizon. To swear
at him now would simply paralyse him with nervousness and lead to a
further delay.

'Mr Horrocks, kindly send up the signal as quickly as you can. "Enemy in
sight to windward." Quickly, please.'

The signal rating beside Horrocks was luckily quicker witted--he was one
of the dozen men of the crew who could read and write, naturally--and
was already at the halliards with the flag-locker open, and his example
shook Horrocks out of his amazement. The flags went soaring up to the
main topmast yardarm, flying out wildly in the wind. Hornblower made a
mental note that that rating, even though he was no seaman as
yet--lately a City apprentice who had come hurriedly aboard at Deptford
to avoid something worse in civilian life--was deserving of promotion.

'Now another signal, Mr Horrocks. "Enemy is a frigate distant seven
miles bearing west course east."'

It was the sensible thing to do to send up the very signals he would
have hoisted if there really were help in sight--the _Castilla_ might be
able to read them or might make at least a fair guess at their meaning.
If there had been a friendly ship in sight down to leeward (Hornblower
remembered the suggestion he had been going to make to Collingwood) he
would never have hove-to, of course, but would have gone on tearing down
to lure the _Castilla_ as near as possible, but the captain of the
_Castilla_ was not to know that.

'Keep that signal flying. Now send up an affirmative, Mr Horrocks. Very
good. Haul it down again. Mr Jones! Lay the ship on the starboard tack,
a good full.'

A powerful English ship down there to leeward would certainly order
_Atropos_ to close on _Castilla_ as quickly as possible. He must act as
if that were the case. It was only when Jones--almost as helpless with
astonishment as Horrocks had been--had plunged into the business of
getting _Atropos_ under way again that Hornblower had time to use his
telescope. He trained it on the distant topsail again; not so distant
now. Coming up fast, and Hornblower felt a sick feeling of
disappointment and apprehension. And then as he watched he saw the
square of the topsail narrow into a vertical oblong, and two other
oblongs appear beside it. At the same moment the masthead lookout gave a
hail.

'Deck there! The enemy's hauled his wind, sir!'

Of course he would do so--the disappointment and apprehension vanished
instantly. A Spanish frigate captain once he had put his bowsprit
outside the safety of a defended port would ever be a prey to fear.
Always there would be the probability in his mind that just over the
horizon lay a British squadron ready to pounce on him. He would chase a
little sloop of war eagerly enough, but as soon as he saw that sloop
sending up signals and swinging boldly round on a course that challenged
action he would bethink him of the fact that he was already far to
leeward of safety; he would imagine hostile ships only just out of sight
cracking on all sail to cut him off from his base, and once his mind was
made up he would not lose a single additional mile or minute before
turning to beat back to safety. For two minutes the Spaniard had been a
prey to indecision after _Atropos_ hove-to, but the final bold move had
made up his mind for him. If he had held on for a short time longer he
might have caught sight of the jolly boat pulling over the waves and
then would have guessed what _Atropos_ was doing, but as it was, time
was gained and the Spaniard, close-hauled, was clawing back to safety in
flight from a non-existent enemy.

'Masthead! What do you see of the boat?'

'She's still pulling, sir, right in the wind's eye!'

'Do you see anything of Mr Prince?'

'No, sir, can't say as I do.'

Not much chance in that tossing sea of seeing a floating man two miles
away, not even from the masthead.

'Mr Jones, tack the ship.'

It would be best to keep _Atropos_ as nearly straight down wind from the
boat as possible, allowing it an easy run to leeward when its mission
was accomplished. _Castilla_ would not be able to make anything of the
manoeuvre.

'Deck there! The boat's stopped pulling, sir. I think they're picking up
Mr Prince, sir.'

Thank God for that. It was only now that Hornblower could realize what a
bad ten minutes it had been.

'Deck there! Yes, sir, they're waving a shirt. They're pulling back to
us now.'

'Heave-to, Mr Jones, if you please. Doctor Eisenbeiss, have everything
ready in case Mr Prince needs treatment.'

The Mediterranean at midsummer was warm enough; most likely the boy had
taken no harm. The jolly boat came dancing back over the waves and
turned under _Atropos'_ stern into the little lee afforded by her
quarter as she rode with her starboard bow to the waves. Here came His
Serene Highness, wet and bedraggled but not in the least hurt, meeting
the concentrated gaze of all on deck with a smile half sheepish and half
defiant. Eisenbeiss came forward fussily, talking voluble German, and
then turned to Hornblower to explain.

'I have a hot blanket ready for him, sir.'

It was at that moment that the dam of Hornblower's even temper burst.

'A hot blanket! I know what'll warm him quicker than that. Bos'n's mate!
My compliments to the bos'n, and ask him to be kind enough to lend you
his cane for a few minutes. Shut your mouth, doctor, if you know what's
good for you. Now, young man----'

Humanitarians had much to say against corporal punishment, but in their
arguments, while pointing out the harm it might do to the one punished,
they omitted to allow for the satisfaction other people derived from it.
And it was some further training for the Blood Royal to display his
acquired British imperturbability, to bite off the howl that a
well-applied cane tended to draw forth, and to stand straight afterwards
with hardly a skip to betray his discomfort, with hardly a rub at the
smarting royal posterior, and with the tears blinked manfully back.
Satisfaction or not, Hornblower was a little sorry afterwards.




CHAPTER XX


There was everything to be said in favour of keeping _Castilla_ under
observation for a while at least, and almost nothing to be said against
it. The recent flight and pursuit had proved that _Atropos_ had the
heels of her even under reefed topsails, so that it could be taken for
granted that she was safe from her in any lesser wind--and the wind was
moderating. The _Castilla_ was now a full thirty miles dead to leeward
of Cartagena; it would be useful to know--Collingwood would certainly
want to know--whether she intended to beat back there again or would
fetch some easier Spanish port. Close-hauled she could make Alicante to
the north or perhaps Almeria to the south; she was close-hauled on the
starboard tack, heading south, at this moment. And there was the
possibility to be borne in mind that she did not intend to return to
Spain as yet, that her captain might decide to range through the
Mediterranean for a while to see what prizes he could snap up. On her
present course she could easily stretch over to the Barbary coast and
pick up a victualler or two with grain and cattle intended for the
Fleet.

Hornblower's orders were that he should rejoin Collingwood in Sicilian
waters after looking into Malaga and Cartagena; he was not the bearer of
urgent despatches, nor, Heaven knew, was _Atropos_ likely to be an
important addition to the strength of the Fleet; while on the other hand
it was the duty of every English captain, having once made contact with
a ship of the enemy in open water, to maintain that contact as long as
was possible. _Atropos_ could not hope to face _Castilla_ in battle, but
she could keep her under observation, she might warn merchant shipping
of danger, and she might with good fortune meet some big British ship of
war--in actual fact, not make-believe--to whom she could indicate the
enemy.

'Mr Jones,' said Hornblower. 'Lay her on the starboard tack again, if
you please. Full and by.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Jones, of course, showed some surprise at the reversal of the roles, at
the pursued becoming the pursuer, and that was one more proof that he
was incapable of strategic thought. But he had to engage himself on
carrying out his orders, and _Atropos_ steadied on a southerly course,
running parallel to _Castilla's_, far to windward; Hornblower trained
his glass on the topsails just visible over the horizon. He fixed the
shape of them firmly in his memory; a slight alteration in the
proportion of length to breadth would indicate any change of course on
the part of the _Castilla_.

'Masthead!' he hailed. 'Keep your eye on the enemy. Report anything you
see.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

_Atropos_ was like a terrier now, yapping at the heels of a bull in a
field--not a very dignified role--and the bull might turn and charge at
any moment. Eventually the captain of the _Castilla_ would make up his
mind that a trick had been played on him, that _Atropos_ had been
signalling to non-existent friends, and there was no guessing what he
might decide to do then, when he grew certain that there was no help
following _Atropos_ up just beyond the horizon. Meanwhile the wind was
still moderating, and _Atropos_ could set more canvas. When beating to
windward she behaved best under all the sail she could carry, and he
might as well keep as close to the enemy as the wind allowed.

'Try setting the mainsail, Mr Jones, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The main course was a big sail, and the little _Atropos_ seemed to take
wings under the tremendous pressure of it when it was sheeted home, with
the tack hauled forward to the chess-trees by the united strength of
half a watch. Now she was thrusting along bravely in the summer evening,
lying over to the wind, and shouldering off the hungry waves with her
starboard bow in great fountains of spray, through which the setting sun
gleamed in fleeting rainbows of fiery beauty, and leaving behind her a
seething wake dazzling white against the blue. It was a moment when it
was good to be alive, driving hard to windward like this, and with all
the potentiality of adventure at hand in the near unknown. War at sea
was a dreary business usually, with boredom and discomfort to be endured
day and night, watch and watch, but it had moments of high exaltation
like this, just as it had its moments of black despair, of fear, of
shame.

'You may dismiss the watch below, Mr Jones.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower glanced round the deck. Still would have the watch.

'Call me if there's any change, Mr Still. I want to set more sail if the
wind moderates further.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

A moment of exaltation, come and gone. He had been on his feet nearly
all day, since dawn, and his legs were weary, and if he stayed on deck
they would grow wearier still. Down below there were the two books he
had bought at Gibraltar for a badly needed guinea--Lord Hodge's
'Statement of the Present Political Condition of Italy,' and Barber's
'New Methods of Determining Longitude, with some Remarks on
Discrepancies in Recent Charts.' He wanted to inform himself on both
subjects, and it was better to do so now than to stay up on deck growing
more and more weary while the hours passed.

At sunset he emerged again; _Castilla_ was still holding the same
course, with _Atropos_ head-reaching upon her very slightly. He looked
at those distant topsails; he read the slate that recorded the day's
run, and he waited while the log was hove again. Surely if _Castilla_
intended to put back into Cartagena she would have gone about by now.
She had made a very long reach to the southward, and any backing of the
wind round to the north--a very likely occurrence at this season--would
nullify much of her progress so far. If she did not come about by the
time darkness set in it would be a strong indication that she had
something else in mind. He waited as the sunset faded from the western
sky, and until the first stars began to appear overhead; that was when
his aching eye, straining through the glass, could see no more of
_Castilla_. But at the last sight of her she was still standing to the
southward. All the more reason to keep her under observation.

It was the end of the second dogwatch and the hands were being called.

'I'll have the main-course taken in, Mr Turner,' he said.

He wrote his night orders by the faint light of the binnacle; the ship
to be kept close-hauled on the starboard tack; he was to be called if
the wind shifted more than two points, and in any event he was to be
called immediately before moonrise in the middle watch. The gloomy
little cabin when he retired into it was like a wild beast's lair with
its dark corners where the light of the lamp did not penetrate. He lay
down fully clothed, endeavouring to keep his tired mind from continuing
to try to solve the problem of what the _Castilla_ intended to do. He
had shortened sail, as she would probably do. If she did not, he had the
heels of her and might overtake her in daylight. If she did anything
else, if she tacked or wore, he was doing what was probably best to find
her again next day. His eyes closed with fatigue, and did not open again
until they came to tell him the middle watch had been called.

The west wind, dying away though it was, had brought a slight overcast
with it, enough to obscure the stars and deprive the small moon, almost
in its last quarter, of most of its light. _Atropos_, still
close-hauled, was now, in the lessening wind, only flirting with the
waves that came on to her starboard bow, meeting them elegantly like a
stage beauty extending her hand to a stage lover. The dark water all
around seemed to fall in with the mood and to murmur pretty
conventionalities. There seemed no imminence of blazing death. The
minutes passed in warm idleness.

'Deck there!' That was the masthead lookout hailing. 'I think I can see
something, sir. Right away on the starboard bow.'

'Get aloft with the night glass, youngster,' said Turner, who had the
watch, to the master's mate beside him.

A minute passed, two minutes.

'Yes, sir,' came the new voice from the masthead. 'It's the loom of a
ship. Three miles--four miles--fine on the starboard bow.'

The night glasses trained round more forward.

'Maybe,' said Turner.

There was a tiny patch of something darker than the surrounding night;
Hornblower's night glass could tell him no more than that. He watched it
painstakingly. The bearing of it seemed to be altering.

'Steer small!' he growled at the helmsman.

For a moment he wondered if the patch was really there; it might be
something his mind suggested to his eye--a whole ship's company could
sometimes imagine the same thing if the idea was once put in their
heads. No, it was undoubtedly there, and drawing across _Atropos'_ bows,
more than could be accounted for by any wavering of her course with bad
steering. It must be _Castilla_; she must have swung round at midnight
and come hurrying down wind in the hope of pouncing on her prey by
surprise. If he had not shortened sail she would be right on him. The
Spanish lookouts were not up to their work, for she was holding on her
course.

'Heave-to, Mr Turner,' he said, and walked across to the port side to
keep the _Castilla_ under observation as _Atropos_ came up into the
wind. _Castilla_ had already lost most of the advantage of the weather
gage, and in a few minutes would lose it all. The slowly-moving clouds
overhead were parting; there was a faint gleam of light through a thin
patch, further darkness, and then the moon shone through a gap. Yes,
that was a ship; that was the _Castilla_, already far down to leeward.

'Deck, there! I can see her plainly now, sir. On the port quarter.
Captain, sir! She's wearing round!'

So she was. Her sails gleamed momentarily bright in the moonlight as
they swung round. She had failed in her attempt to surprise her enemy,
and was making a fresh one.

'Lay her on the port tack, Mr Turner.'

The little _Atropos_ could play catch-as-catch-can with any big frigate
in this sort of weather. She swung round and headed into the wind, her
stern to her pursuer again.

'Masthead! What sail has the enemy set?'

'She's setting her royals, sir. All plain sail to the royals.'

'Call all hands, Mr Turner. Set all plain sail.'

There was still enough wind for the addition of courses and royals to
lay _Atropos_ over and send her flying once more. Hornblower looked back
at _Castilla's_ topsails and royals, silhouetted now against clear sky
below the moon. It did not take very long to determine that now
_Atropos_ was gaining fast. He was pondering a decision regarding
shortening sail when he was saved the trouble. The silhouettes narrowed
again abruptly.

'Deck there!' hailed the masthead. 'Enemy's hauled her wind, sir.'

'Very well! Mr Turner, wear ship, if you please. Point our bows right at
her, and take in the fore course.'

The terrier had evaded the bull's charge and was now yapping at its
heels again. It was easy to follow the _Castilla_ for the rest of the
night, keeping a sharp lookout during the periods of darkness lest she
should play on them the same trick as _Atropos_ had played once. Dawn,
rising ahead, revealed the _Castilla's_ royals and topsails an inky
black before they changed to ivory white against the blue sky.
Hornblower could imagine the rage of the Spanish captain at the sight of
his pertinacious pursuer, dogging him in this fashion with insolent
impunity. Seven miles separated the ships, but as far as the
_Castilla's_ big eighteen-pounders mattered it might as well be seventy,
and moreover the invisible wind, blowing direct from _Atropos_ to
_Castilla_, was an additional protection, guarding her from her enemy
like the mysterious glass shield that turned the hero's sword in one of
the Italian epics. _Atropos_, seven miles to windward, was as safe and
yet as visible as the Saracen magician.

Hornblower was conscious of weariness again. He had been on his feet
since midnight, after less than four hours' rest. He wanted,
passionately, to rest his legs; he wanted, hardly less, to close his
aching eyes. The hammocks had been brought up, the decks swabbed, and it
only remained now to cling to _Castilla's_ heels, but when any moment
might bring the need for a quick decision he dared not leave the
deck--odd that now he was safely to windward the situation was more
dynamic than yesterday when he had been to leeward, but it was true.
_Castilla_ might come to the wind at any unforeseen moment, and moreover
the two ships were driving into the blue Mediterranean where any
surprise might be over the horizon.

'I'll have a mattress up here,' said Hornblower.

They brought one up and laid it aft beside the weather scuppers. He
eased his aching joints down on to it, settled his head on his pillow,
and closed his eyes. The lift and send of the ship were soporific, and
so was the sound of the sea under the _Atropos'_ counter. The light
played backward and forward over his face as the shadows of sails and
rigging followed the movement of the ship. He could sleep--he could
sleep, heavily and dreamlessly, while the ships flew on up the
Mediterranean, while they called the watch, while they hove the log,
even while they trimmed the yards as the wind came a little northerly,
moving round ahead of the sun.

It was afternoon when he woke. He shaved with the aid of a mirror stuck
in the hammock nettings; he took his bath under the washdeck pump and
put on the clean shirt that he sent for; he sat on the deck and ate cold
beef and the last of the goodly soft bread taken on board at Gibraltar,
somewhat stale now but infinitely better than ship's biscuit; and the
fresh butter from the same source, kept cool so far in an earthenware
crock was quite delicious. It struck seven bells as he finished his last
mouthful.

'Deck there! Enemy's altering course.'

He was on his feet in a flash, his plate sliding into the scuppers, the
telescope in his hand without conscious volition on his part. No doubt
about it. _Castilla_ had altered to a more northerly course, with the
wind abeam. It was not very surprising for they had run a full two
hundred miles from Cartagena; unless the _Castilla_ was prepared to go
right up the Mediterranean far to leeward of all Spanish bases, it was
time for her to head north to fetch Minorca. He would follow her there,
the terrier harassing the bull, and he would give a final yap at the
bull's heels outside Port Mahon. Besides, the _Castilla's_ alteration of
course might not portend a mere flight to Minorca. They were right on
the track of convoys beating up the Mediterranean from Sicily and Malta.

'Port your helm, Mr Still, if you please. Maintain a parallel course.'

It was only sensible to stay up to windward of _Castilla_ as much as
possible. The intense feeling of wellbeing of five minutes ago was
replaced now by excitement, a slight tingling under the skin. Ten to one
the _Castilla's_ alteration of course meant nothing at all, but there
was the tenth chance. Eight bells; hands mustered for the first
dogwatch.

'Deck there! There's a sail ahead of the enemy, sir!'

That was it, then.

'Get aloft with you, Mr Smiley. You can go too, Mr Prince.'

That would show His Serene Highness that a punishment cleared the record
in the Navy, and that he was being trusted not to risk any more monkey
tricks. It was a detail that had to be borne in mind despite the flood
of excitement following the masthead report. There was no knowing what
that sail over there, invisible from the deck, might imply. But there
was a chance that it was a British ship of war, fair in _Castilla's_
path.

'Two sail! Three sail! Captain, sir, it looks like a convoy, dead to
leeward.'

A convoy could only be a British convoy, and a convoy meant the presence
of a British ship of war ahead there in _Castilla's_ path.

'Up helm and bear down on the enemy. Call all hands, Mr Still, if you
please. Clear for action.'

During all the long flight and pursuit he had not cleared for action. He
had not wanted action with the vastly superior _Castilla_, and had been
determined on avoiding it. Now he hoped for it--hoped for it with that
tremor of doubt that made him hate himself, all the more so as the
repeating of the order brought a cheer from the men, the watch below
pouring on deck for duty with expectant grins and schoolboy excitement.
Mr Jones came bustling up on deck buttoning his coat; apparently he had
been dozing comfortably through the afternoon watch. To Jones would fall
the command of the _Atropos_ if any accident should befall him, if a
shot should take off his leg or dash him into bloody fragments. Odd that
the thought of Jones becoming responsible for handling _Atropos_ was as
disturbing as the rest of it. But all the same Jones must be brought up
to date on the situation and told what should be done. He did it in
three sharp sentences.

'I see, sir,' said Jones, pulling at his long chin. Hornblower was not
so sure that he did see, but there was no more time to spare for Jones.

'Masthead! What of the convoy?'

'One sail has tacked, sir. She's standing towards us.'

'What d'you make of her?'

'She looks like a ship of war, sir. I can only see her royals, sir.'

'Mr Horrocks, make the private signal and our number.'

A ship standing towards _Castilla_ could only be a ship of war, the
escorting vessel. Hornblower could only hope she would be one of the
larger frigates, able to meet the big _Castilla_ on something like equal
terms. But he knew most of the frigates Collingwood had--_Sirius_,
_Naiad_, _Hermione_--thirty-two gun twelve-pounder frigates most of
them, hardly a match for _Castilla's_ forty-four eighteen-pounders
unless well handled, and unless _Castilla_ fought badly, and unless he
himself had a chance to intervene. He strained his eyesight staring
forward through his glass, but the British ship was not yet in sight
from the deck, and _Castilla_ was still running boldly down before the
wind. Clearing for action was nearly completed; they were casting loose
the guns.

'Signal, sir!'

Horrocks was ready with the book as the masthead reported the flags.

'Private signal correctly answered, sir. And her number. She's
_Nightingale_, sir, 28, Captain Ford, sir.'

Almost the smallest of the frigates, with only nine-pounders on her
maindeck. Please God Ford would have the sense not to close with
_Castilla_. He must out-manoeuvre her, keep her in play, and then when
_Atropos_ came up there could be some pretty tactics until they could
shoot away some of _Castilla's_ spars and take her at a disadvantage.
Then they could rake her and weaken her before closing in for the kill.
The captain of the _Castilla_ was showing proof of having grasped the
essentials of the situation; caught between two hostile ships so that he
could not avoid action if it were forced on him he was plunging down at
his best speed to the attack on the one most accessible to him; he was
still carrying all sail to bring him most quickly into action before
_Atropos_ could intervene. He could well hope to batter _Nightingale_
into a wreck and then turn on _Atropos_. If he succeeded--oh, if he
succeeded!--it would be a terrible problem for _Atropos_, to decide
whether or not to accept action.

'Ship cleared for action, sir,' reported Jones.

'Very well.'

Now his glass picked her up; the distant sail, far beyond _Castilla_. As
he looked, as the top gallants appeared below the royals, the royals
disappeared. _Nightingale_ was shortening down to 'fighting sails' ready
for action. Hornblower knew a little about Ford. He had the reputation
of a good fighting captain. Please God he had discretion as well. Ford
was far his senior in the Navy list; there was no possibility of giving
him orders to keep clear.

_Castilla_ was still hurtling down upon _Nightingale_.

'Signal, sir. Number 72. "Engage the enemy more closely!"'

'Acknowledge.'

Hornblower was conscious of Jones's and Turner's eyes upon him. There
might be an implied rebuke in that signal, a hint that he was not doing
his best to get into action. On the other hand it might be a mere signal
that action was imminent. _Nightingale's_ topsails were over the horizon
now; close-hauled, she was doing her best to come to meet _Castilla_. If
only Ford would hold off for half an hour--_Atropos_ was steadily
gaining on _Castilla_. No, he was still hurrying to the encounter before
_Atropos_ could arrive; he was playing _Castilla's_ game for her. Now
_Castilla_ was clewing up her courses; she was taking in her royals,
ready for the clash. The two ships were hastening together; white sails
on a blue sea under a blue sky. They were right in line from where
Hornblower stood staring at them through his glass; right in line so
that it was hard to judge the distance between them. Now they were
turning, _Nightingale_ paying off before the wind as _Castilla_
approached. All the masts seemed blended together. Ford _must_ keep
clear and try to shoot away a spar.

A sudden billowing of smoke round the ships; the first broadsides were
being fired. It looked as if the ships were already close-locked in
action--surely it could not be. Not time yet to take in courses and
royals; the sooner they got down into action the better. Now, heavily
over the blue water, came the sound of those first broadsides, like the
rumbling of thunder. The smoke was blowing clear of the fight, drifting
away from the ships in a long bank. More smoke billowing up; the guns
had been reloaded and were firing away, and still the masts were close
together--had Ford been fool enough to lock yardarms? Again the long
rumble of the guns. The ships were swinging round in the smoke cloud; he
could see the masts above it changing their bearing, but he could not
distinguish ship from ship. There was a mast falling, yards, sails and
all; it must be _Nightingale's_ main topmast, hideous though the thought
was. This seemed like a lifetime, waiting to get into action. Cannon
smoke and cannon thunder. He did not want to believe the glass was
really revealing the truth to him as he looked, the details becoming
clearer as he approached. The two ships were locked together, no doubt
about it. And that was _Nightingale_, main topmast gone. She was lying
at an angle to _Castilla's_ side, bows towards her. The wind was still
turning the two ships, and it was turning them as if they were one.
_Nightingale_ must be locked against _Castilla_, bowsprit or possibly
anchor hooked into _Castilla's_ fore chains. All _Castilla's_ guns could
bear, practically raking _Nightingale_ with every broadside, and
_Nightingale's_ fire must be almost ineffectual. Could she tear herself
loose? There went her foremast, everything, over the side; almost
impossible to tear herself loose now.

The men at the guns were yelling at the sight.

'Silence! Mr Jones, get the courses in.'

What was he to do? He ought to cross _Castilla's_ bows or stern and rake
her, come about and rake her again. Not so easy to fire into
_Castilla's_ bows without hitting _Nightingale_; not so easy to cross
her stern; that would put him to leeward and there would be delay in
getting back into action again. And the two ships were still swinging
considerably, not only with the wind but with the recoil of their guns.
Supposing that as he took _Atropos_ to lie a little clear they swung so
that _Nightingale_ intercepted his fire and he had to work back again to
windward to get back into action? That would be shameful, and other
captains hearing the story would think he had deliberately stayed out of
fire. He could lay his ship alongside _Castilla_ on her unoccupied side,
but her slender scantlings would bear little of _Castilla's_ ponderous
broadside; his ship would be a wreck in a few minutes. And yet
_Nightingale_ was already a wreck. He must bring her instant, immediate
relief.

Now they were only a mile from the locked ships and running down fast.
Years of experience at sea told him how rapidly those last few minutes
passed when ships needed each other.

'Muster the port side guns' crews,' he said. 'Every man, gun captains
and all. Arm them for boarding. Arm every idler in the ship. But leave
the hands at the mizzen braces.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Pikes, pistols and cutlasses, lads,' said Hornblower to the eager men
thronging round the arms chests. 'Mr Smiley, muster your topmen for'rard
by No. 1 gun. Starboard side. Stand by for a rush.'

Young Smiley was the best fighting man of them all, better than the
nervous Jones or the stupid Still or the aged Turner. It was best to
give him the command at the other end of the ship. Aft here he would
have things under his own eye. And he realized he was still unarmed
himself. His sword--the sword he had worn at the court of his King--was
a cheap one. He could guess its temper was unreliable; he had never been
able to afford a good sword. He stepped to the arms chest and took a
cutlass for himself, drawing it and dropping the scabbard discarded on
the deck; looping the knot over his wrist he stood with the naked blade
in his hand and the sunlight beating down in his face.

Now they were closing on _Castilla_; only a cable's length apart and it
looked closer. It called for accurate judgment to come close alongside.

'Starboard a point,' he said to the helmsman.

'Starboard a point,' came the repetition of the order.

Discipline kept the helmsman entirely attentive to his particular duty,
even though _Castilla's_ port side gun ports were opening, even though
at that close range the gun muzzles were glaring straight at them, and
the faces of the gunners could be seen through the ports looking along
the guns. Oh God, it was just coming!

'Now, starboard slowly. Bring her gently round.'

Like the end of the world that broadside came, ripping and smashing into
the ship; there were screams, there were frightful crashes, the sunlight
was full of dust particles flung up by the hurtling cannon-balls as the
splinters whizzed through the air, and then the ship sidled into the
powder smoke jutting forth from the gun muzzles. But he must think about
only one thing at this moment.

'Now! Hard a-port. Braces there! Back the mizzen tops'l!'

There was a tiny gap between the sides of the two ships, closing by
inches. If she struck violently she might rebound and open the gap
again; if her forward way was not checked she might scrape forward and
swing. In the loftier sides of the _Castilla_ the gun ports were above
the level of those of the _Atropos_. The dish-shaped _Atropos_ had no
'tumble-home' to her sides. Her bulwarks would make contact--he had been
counting on that.

'Starboard side! Fire!'

The infernal crash of the broadside; the smoke whirling round, the
orange-painted side of _Castilla_ torn by the carronade balls; but not a
moment to think about it.

'Come on!'

Up over _Castilla's_ side in the eddying smoke pierced by sunbeams; up
over the side, cutlass in hand, wild with fighting madness. A distorted
face looking up at him. Strike, swinging the heavy blade like an axe.
Wrench the blade free, and strike again at this new face. Plunge
forward. Gold lace here, a lean brown face gashed by a black moustache,
a slender blade lunging at him; beat it aside and strike and strike and
strike with every ounce of strength, with all the speed possible to him;
beat down the feeble guard and strike again without pity. Trip over
something and recover again. The terrified eyes of the men at the wheel
looking round at him before they ran from his fury. A uniformed soldier
with white cross-belts extending his arms in surrender; a pike appearing
from nowhere beside him and plunging into the soldier's unprotected
breast. The quarter-deck cleared but no time to breathe; shout 'Come on'
and plunge down on to the maindeck.

Something hit his cutlass blade and sent a numbing shock up his arm--a
pistol bullet, most likely. There was a crowd of men massed round the
mainmast, but before he could reach it a surge of pikes from the side
broke it up into fleeing fragments. Now a sudden rally on the part of
the enemy, pistols banging, and then suddenly opposition ceased and
Hornblower found himself glaring into a pair of wild eyes and realized
that it was an English uniform, an English face although unknown to
him--a midshipman from _Nightingale_, leading the boarding party which
had stormed into the _Castilla_ along _Nightingale's_ bowsprit.

He could stand there now amid the wreckage and the dead with the madness
ebbing out of him, sweat running into his eyes and blinding him; and yet
once more he had to clear his mind and brace himself. He had to stop the
killing that was still going on, he had to organize the disarming of the
prisoners and the herding of them against the ship's side. He had to
remember to say a word of thanks to Smiley, covered with blood and
smoke, when he met him on the gangway forward. Here was the huge hulk of
Eisenbeiss, chest heaving, the bloody cutlass like a toy in his vast
hand. The sight roused his wrath.

'What the hell are you doing here, doctor? Get back on board and attend
to the wounded. You've no business to neglect them.'

A smile for the Prince, and then his attention was demanded by a
thin-nosed, long-faced rat of a man.

'Captain Hornblower? My name's Ford.'

He was going to shake the proffered hand, but discovered that first he
must slip the cutlass lanyard from his wrist and transfer the weapon to
his other hand.

'All's well that ends well,' said Ford. 'You arrived in time, but only
just in time, captain.'

It was no use trying to point out to a senior the senior's errors. They
shook hands there, standing on the gangway of the captured _Castilla_,
looking round at the three ships clinging together, battered and
shattered. Far down to leeward, drifting over the blue sea, the long
trail of powder smoke was slowly dissipating under the blue heaven.




CHAPTER XXI


The church bells of Palermo were ringing, as always, in the drowsy heat
of the morning. The sound of them drifted over the water of the bay, the
Conca d'Oro, the golden shell which holds the pearl of Palermo in its
embrace. Hornblower could hear them as he brought _Atropos_ in, echoing
round from Monte Pellegrino to Zaffarano, and of all musical noises that
was the one that annoyed him most. He looked over at the senior ship,
impatient for her to start firing her salute to shatter this maddening
sound. If it were not for the church bells this would be almost a happy
moment, dramatic enough in all conscience. _Nightingale_ under her jury
rig, the clear water gushing out of her as the pumps barely kept her
afloat, _Atropos_ with the raw plugs in the shot holes in her sides, and
then _Castilla_, battered and shot-torn, too, and with the White Ensign
proudly flying over the red and gold of Spain. Surely even the Sicilians
must be struck by the drama of this entrance, and for additional
pleasure, there were a trio of English ships of war at anchor over
there; their crews at least would gape at the proud procession; they at
least would be sensitive to all that the appearance of the newcomers
implied; they would know of the din and the fury, the agony of the
wounded and the distressing ceremony of the burial of the dead.

Palermo looked out idly as the ships came to anchor, and as the boats
(even the boats were patched-up fabrics, hurriedly repaired after being
shattered by shot) were swung out and began new activities. The wounded
had to be carried ashore to hospital, boat-load after boat-load of them,
moaning or silent with pain; then the prisoners under guard--there was
pathos in those boat-loads of men, too, of a proud nation, going into
captivity within four gloomy walls, under all the stigma of defeat. Then
there was other ferrying to be done; the forty men that _Atropos_ had
lent to _Nightingale_ had to be replaced by another forty. The ones that
came back were gaunt and hollow-cheeked, bearded and dirty. They fell
asleep sitting on the thwarts, and they fell asleep again the moment
they climbed on board, falling like dead men between the guns, for they
had laboured for eleven days and nights bringing the shattered
_Nightingale_ in after the victory.

There was so much to do that it was not until evening that Hornblower
had leisure to open the two private letters that were awaiting him. The
second one was only six weeks old, having made a quick passage out from
England and not having waited long for _Atropos_ to come in to Palermo,
the new base of the Mediterranean Fleet. Maria was well, and so were the
children. Little Horatio was running everywhere now, she said, as lively
as a cricket, and little Maria was as good as gold, hardly crying at all
even though it seemed likely that she was about to cut a tooth, a most
remarkable feat at five months old. And Maria was happy enough in the
Southsea house with her mother, although she was lonely for her husband,
and although her mother tended to spoil the children in a way that Maria
feared would not be approved by her very dearest.

Letters from home; letters about little children and domestic squabbles;
they were the momentary lifting of a curtain to reveal another world,
utterly unlike this world of peril and hardship and intolerable strain.
Little Horatio was running everywhere on busy little legs, and little
Maria was cutting her first tooth, while here a tyrant's armies had
swept through the whole length of Italy and were massed at the Straits
of Messina for an opportunity to make another spring and effect another
conquest in Sicily, where only a mile of water--and the Navy--opposed
their progress. England was fighting for her life against all Europe
combined under a single tyrant of frightful energy and cunning.

No, not quite all Europe, for England still had allies--Portugal under
an insane queen, Sweden under a mad king, and Sicily, here, under a
worthless king. Ferdinand, King of Naples and Sicily--King of the Two
Sicilies--bad, cruel, selfish; brother of the King of Spain, who was
Bonaparte's closest ally; Ferdinand, a tyrant more bloodthirsty and more
tyrannical than Bonaparte himself, faithless and untrustworthy, who had
lost one of his two thrones and was only held on the other by British
naval might and who yet would betray his allies for a moment's
gratification of his senses, and whose gaols were choked with political
prisoners and whose gallows creaked under the weight of dead suspects.
Good men, and brave men, were suffering and dying in every part of the
world while Ferdinand hunted in his Sicilian preserves and his wicked
queen lied and intrigued and betrayed, and while Maria wrote simple
little letters about the babies.

It was better to think about his duties than to brood over these
insoluble anomalies. Here was a note from Lord William Bentinck, the
British Minister in Palermo. 'The latest advices from the Vice-Admiral
Commanding in the Mediterranean are to the effect that he may be
expected very shortly in Palermo with his flagship. His Excellency
therefore begs to inform Captain Horatio Hornblower that in His
Excellency's opinion it would be best if Captain Horatio Hornblower were
to begin the necessary repairs to _Atropos_ immediately. His Excellency
will request His Sicilian Majesty's naval establishment to afford
Captain Horatio Hornblower all the facilities he may require.'

Lord William might be--undoubtedly was--a man of estimable character and
liberal opinions unusual in a son of a Duke, but he knew little enough
about the workings of a Sicilian dockyard. In the three days that
followed Hornblower succeeded in achieving nothing at all with the help
of Sicilian authorities. Turner was voluble to them in lingua franca,
and Hornblower laid aside his dignity to plead with them in French with
o's and a's added to the words in the hope that in that manner he might
convey his meaning in Italian, but even when the requests were
intelligible they were not granted. Canvas? Cordage? Sheet lead for shot
holes? They might never have heard of them. After those three days
Hornblower warped _Atropos_ out into the harbour again and set about his
repairs with his own resources and with his own men, keeping them
labouring under the sun, and deriving some little satisfaction from the
fact that Captain Ford's troubles--he had _Nightingale_ over at the
careenage--were even worse than his own. Ford, with his ship heeled over
while he patched her bottom, had to put sentries over the stores he had
taken out of her, to prevent the Sicilians from stealing them, even
while his men vanished into the alleys of Palermo to pawn their clothing
in exchange for the heady Sicilian wine.

It was with relief that Hornblower saw _Ocean_ come proudly into
Palermo, vice-admiral's flag at the fore; he felt confident that when he
made his report that his ship would be ready for sea in all respects in
one day's time he would be ordered out to join the Fleet. It could not
happen too quickly.

And sure enough the orders came that evening, after he had gone on board
to give a verbal account of his doings and to hand in his written
reports. Collingwood listened to all he had to say, gave in return a
very pleasant word of congratulation, saw him off the ship with his
invariable courtesy, and of course kept his promise regarding the
orders. Hornblower read them in the privacy of his cabin when the
_Ocean's_ gig delivered them; they were commendably short. He was
'requested and required, the day after to-morrow, the 17th instant,' to
make the best of his way to the island of Ischia, there to report to
Commodore Harris and join the squadron blockading Naples.

So all next day the ship's company of _Atropos_ toiled to complete their
ship for sea. Hornblower was hardly conscious of the activity going on
around _Ocean_--it was what might be expected in the flagship of the
Commander-in-Chief in his ally's capital. He regretted the interruption
to his men's work when the admiral's barge came pulling by, and still
more when the royal barge, with the Sicilian colours and the Bourbon
lilies displayed, came pulling by to visit _Ocean_. But that was only to
be expected. When the flaming afternoon began to die away into the
lovely evening he found time to exercise his men in accordance with the
new station and quarter bills--so many had been the casualties that all
the organization had to be revised. He stood there in the glowing sunset
watching the men come running down from aloft after setting topsails.

'Signal from the flag, sir,' said Smiley, breaking in on his
concentrated thought. '"Flag to _Atropos_. Come on board!"'

'Call my gig,' said Hornblower. 'Mr Jones, you will take command.'

A desperate rush to change into his better uniform, and then he hurled
himself down the ship's side to where his gig awaited him. Collingwood
received him in the well-remembered cabin; the silver lamps were alight
now, and in the boxes under the great stern windows were strange flowers
whose names he did not know. And on Collingwood's face was a strange
expression; there was a hint of distress in it, and of sympathy, as well
as something of irritation. Hornblower stopped short at the sight of
him, with a sudden pounding of the heart. He could hardly remember to
make his bow properly. It flashed through his mind that perhaps Ford had
reported adversely on his behaviour in the recent action. He might be
facing court martial and ruin.

At Collingwood's shoulder stood a large elegant gentleman in full dress,
with the ribbon and star of an order.

'My lord,' said Collingwood, 'this is Captain Horatio Hornblower, I
believe you have already had correspondence with His Excellency,
Captain. Lord William Bentinck.'

Hornblower made his bow again, his feverish mind telling him that at
least this could not be anything to do with the action with the
_Castilla_--that would not be the Minister's business; on the other
hand, in fact, Collingwood would keep strangers out of any scandal in
the Service.

'How d'ye do, sir?' asked Lord William.

'Very well, thank you, my Lord.'

The two Lords went on looking at Hornblower, and Hornblower looked back
at them, trying to appear calm during those endless seconds.

'There's bad news for you, Hornblower, I fear,' said Collingwood at
last, sadly.

Hornblower restrained himself from asking 'What is it?' He pulled
himself up stiffer than ever, and tried to meet Collingwood's eyes
without wavering.

'His Sicilian Majesty,' went on Collingwood, 'needs a ship.'

'Yes, my lord?'

Hornblower was none the wiser.

'When Bonaparte conquered the mainland he laid hands on the Sicilian
Navy. Negligence--desertion--you can understand. There is no ship now at
the disposal of His Majesty.'

'No, my Lord.' Hornblower could guess now what was coming.

'While coming out to visit _Ocean_ this morning His Majesty happened to
notice _Atropos_, with her paint all fresh. You made an excellent
business of your refitting, Captain, as I noticed.'

'Thank you, my Lord.'

'His Majesty does not think it right that, as an island King, he should
be without a ship.'

'I see, my Lord.'

Here Bentinck broke in, speaking harshly.

'The fact of the matter, Hornblower, is that the King has asked for your
ship to be transferred to his flag.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

Nothing mattered now. Nothing was of any value.

'And I have advised His Lordship,' went on Bentinck, indicating
Collingwood, 'that for the highest reasons of state it would be
advisable to agree to the transfer.'

The imbecile monarch coveting the newly-painted toy. Hornblower could
not keep back his protest.

'I find it hard to believe it necessary, my Lord,' he said.

For a moment His Excellency looked down in astonishment at the abysmal
junior captain who questioned his judgment, but His Excellency kept his
temper admirably all the same, and condescended to explain.

'I have six thousand British troops in the island,' he said in his harsh
voice. 'At least, they call them British, but half of 'em are Corsican
Rangers and Chasseurs Brittaniques--French deserters in British
uniforms. I can hold the Straits against Bonaparte with them, all the
same, as long as I have the goodwill of the King. Without it--if the
Sicilian army turns against us--we're lost.'

'You must have heard about the King, Captain,' interposed Collingwood,
gently.

'A little, my Lord.'

'He'd ruin everything for a whim,' said Bentinck. 'Now Bonaparte finds
he can't cross the Straits he'd be willing to reach an agreement with
Ferdinand. He'd promise him his throne here in exchange for an alliance.
Ferdinand is capable of agreeing, too. He'd as lief have French troops
in occupation as British, and be a satellite--or so he thinks at
present--if it would mean paying off a score against us.'

'I see, my Lord,' said Hornblower.

'When I have more troops I'll talk to him in a different fashion,' said
Bentinck. 'But at present----'

'_Atropos_ is the smallest ship I have in the Mediterranean,' said
Collingwood.

'And I am the most junior captain,' said Hornblower. He could not
restrain himself from the bitter comment. He even forgot to say "my
Lord."

'That is true as well,' said Collingwood.

In a disciplined service an officer was only a fool if he complained
about treatment received on account of being junior. And it was clear
that Collingwood disliked the present situation intensely.

'I understand, my Lord,' said Hornblower.

'Lord William has some suggestions to make which may soften the blow,'
said Collingwood, and Hornblower shifted his glance.

'You can be retained in command of _Atropos_,' said Bentinck--what a
moment of joy, just one fleeting moment!--'if you transfer to the
Sicilian service. His Majesty will appoint you Commodore, and you can
hoist a broad pendant. I am sure he will also confer upon you an order
of high distinction as well.'

'No,' said Hornblower. That was the only thing he could possibly say.

'I thought that would be your answer,' said Collingwood. 'And if a
letter from me to the Admiralty carries any weight you can hope, on your
return to England, to be appointed to the frigate to which your present
seniority entitles you.'

'Thank you, my Lord. So I am to return to England?'

He would have a glimpse of Maria and the children then.

'I see no alternative, Captain, I am afraid, as of course you
understand. But if Their Lordships see fit to send you back here with
your new command, no one would be more delighted than I.'

'What sort of a man is your first lieutenant?' demanded Bentinck.

'Well, my Lord----' Hornblower looked from Bentinck to Collingwood. It
was hard to make a public condemnation even of the abject Jones. 'He is
a worthy enough man. The fact that he is John Jones the Ninth in the
lieutenants' list may have held him back from promotion.'

A wintry twinkle appeared in Bentinck's eye.

'I fancy he would be John Jones the First in the Sicilian Navy List.'

'I expect so indeed, my Lord.'

'Do you think he would take service as captain under the King of the Two
Sicilies?'

'I should be surprised if he did not.'

That would be Jones's only chance of ever becoming a captain, and most
likely Jones was aware of it, however he might excuse himself for it in
his own thoughts.

Collingwood entered the conversation again at this point.

'Joseph Bonaparte over in Naples has just proclaimed himself King of the
Two Sicilies as well,' he remarked. 'That makes four Sicilies.'

Now they were all smiling together, and it was a moment before
Hornblower's unhappiness returned to him, when he remembered that he had
to give up the ship he had brought to perfection and the crew he had
trained so carefully, and his Mediterranean station of honour. He turned
to Collingwood.

'What are your orders, my Lord?'

'You will receive them in writing, of course. But verbally you are under
orders not to move until you are officially informed of the transfer of
your ship to the Sicilian flag. I'll distribute your ship's company
through the Fleet--I can use them.'

No doubt about that; probably every ship under Collingwood's command was
undermanned and would welcome a contingent of prime seamen.

'Aye aye, my Lord.'

'I'll take the Prince into my flagship here--there's a vacancy.'

The Prince had had seven months in a sloop of war; probably he had
learned as much in that time as he would learn in seven years in an
Admiral's flagship.

'Aye aye, my Lord.' Hornblower waited for a moment; it was hard to go
on. 'And your orders for me personally?'

'The _Aquila_--she's an empty troop transport--sails for Portsmouth
immediately without convoy, because she's a fast ship. The monthly
convoy is assembling, but it's far from complete as yet. As you know, I
am only responsible for their escort as far as Gibraltar, so that if you
choose to go in a King's ship you will have to transfer there.
_Penelope_ will be the escorting vessel, as far as I can tell at
present. And when I can spare her--God knows when that will be--I shall
send the old _Temeraire_ to England direct.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'I would be glad if you would choose for yourself, Captain. I'll frame
my orders in accordance with your wishes. You can sail in _Aquila_, or
_Penelope_, or wait for _Temeraire_, whichever you prefer...

_Aquila_ was sailing for Portsmouth immediately, and she was a fast
ship, sailing alone. In a month, even in less with fair winds, he could
be setting foot on shore half an hour's walk from where Maria was living
with the children. In a month he might be making his request to the
Admiralty for further employment. He might be posted to that frigate
that Collingwood had mentioned--he did not want to miss any opportunity.
The sooner the better, as always. And he would see Maria and the
children.

'I would like orders for _Aquila_, if you would be so kind, my Lord.'

'I expected you would say that.'

So that was the news that Hornblower brought back to his ship. The
dreary little cabin which he had never had time to fit out properly
seemed sadly homelike when he sat in it again; the sailcloth pillow
supported once more a sleepless head, as so often before, when at last
he could force himself to go to bed. It was strangely painful to say
good-bye to the officers and crew, good characters and bad, even though
he felt a little spurt of amusement at sight of Jones, gorgeous in the
uniform of a captain in the Sicilian Navy, and another at sight of the
twenty volunteers from the ship's company whom Jones had been permitted
to recruit into the Sicilian service. They were the bad characters, of
course, laughed at by the others for exchanging the grog and hardtack of
old England for the pasta and the daily quart of wine of Sicily. But
even to the bad characters it was hard to say good-bye--a sentimental
fool, Hornblower called himself.

It was a dreary two days that Hornblower waited for _Aquila_ to make
ready to sail. Bentinck had advised him to see the Palace chapel, to
take a carriage out to Monreale and see the mosaics there, but like a
sulky child he would not. The dreamlike city of Palermo turns its back
upon the sea, and Hornblower turned his back upon Palermo, until
_Aquila_ was working her way out round Monte Pellegrino, and then he
stood aft, by the taffrail, looking back at _Atropos_ lying there, and
_Nightingale_ at the careenage, and the palaces of Palermo beyond. He
was forlorn and lonely, a negligible passenger amid all the bustle of
getting under way.

'By your leave, sir,' said a seaman, hastening to the peak halliards--a
little more, and he would have been elbowed out of the way.

'Good morning, sir,' said the captain of the ship, and instantly turned
to shout orders to the men at the main topsail halliards; the captain of
a hired transport did not want to offer any encouragement to a King's
captain to comment on the handling of the ship. King's officers would
only grudgingly admit that even admirals came between them and God.

_Aquila_ dipped her colours to the flagship, and _Ocean_ returned the
compliment, the White Ensign slowly descending and rising again. That
was the last memory Hornblower was to have of Palermo and of his voyage
in the _Atropos_. _Aquila_ braced round her sails and caught the first
of the land breeze, heading boldly northward out to sea, and Sicily
began to fade into the distance, while Hornblower tried to displace his
unaccountable sadness by telling himself that he was on his way to Maria
and the children. He tried to stimulate himself into excitement over the
thought that a new command awaited him, and new adventures.
Collingwood's flag lieutenant had passed on to him the gossip that the
Admiralty was still commissioning ships as fast as they could be made
ready for sea; there was a frigate, the _Lydia_, making ready, which
would be an appropriate command for a captain of his seniority. But it
was only slowly that he was able to overcome his sense of loss and
frustration, as slowly as the captain of the _Aquila_ made him welcome
when he was taking his noon sights, as slowly as the days passed while
_Aquila_ beat her way to the Straits and out into the Atlantic.

Autumn was waiting for them beyond the Straits, with the roaring
westerly gales of the equinox, gale after gale, when fortunately they
had made westing enough to keep them safe from the coast of Portugal
while they lay hove-to for long hours in the latitude of Lisbon, in the
latitude of Oporto, and then in the Bay of Biscay. It was on the tail of
the last of the gales that they drove wildly up the Channel,
storm-battered and leaky, with pumps going and topsails treble reefed.
And there was England, dimly seen, but well remembered, the vague
outline to be gazed at with a catch in the breath. The Start, and at
last St Catharine's, and the hour of uncertainty as to whether they
could get into the lee of the Wight or would have to submit to being
blown all the way up-channel. A fortunate slant of wind gave them their
opportunity, and they attained the more sheltered waters of Spithead,
with the unbelievable green of the Isle of Wight on their left hand, and
so they attained to Portsmouth, to drop anchor where the quiet and calm
made it seem as if all the turmoil outside had been merely imagined.

A shore boat took Hornblower to the Sally Port, and he set foot on
English soil again, with a surge of genuine emotion, mounting the steps
and looking round him at the familiar buildings of Portsmouth. A shore
loafer--an old, bent man--hurried away on twisted legs to fetch his
barrow while Hornblower looked round him; when he returned Hornblower
had to help him lift his chests on to the barrow.

'Thank'ee, cap'n, thank'ee,' said the old man. He used the title
automatically, without knowing Hornblower's rank.

No one in England knew as yet--Maria did not know--that Hornblower was
in England. For that matter no one in England knew as yet about the last
exploit of the _Atropos_ and the capture of _Castilla_. Copies of Ford's
and Hornblower's reports to Collingwood were on board _Aquila_, in the
sealed mailbag in the captain's charge, to be sent on to the Secretary
of the Admiralty 'for the information of Their Lordships.' In a day or
two they might be in the Gazette, and they might even be copied to
appear in the Naval Chronicle and the daily newspapers. Most of the
honour and glory, of course, would go to Ford, but a few crumbs might
come Hornblower's way; there was enough chance of that to put Hornblower
in a good temper as he walked along with the wooden wheels of the barrow
thumping and squeaking over the cobbles behind him.

The sadness and distress he had suffered when he parted from _Atropos_
had largely died away by now. He was back in England, walking as fast as
the old man's legs would allow towards Maria and the children, free for
the moment from all demands upon his patience or his endurance, free to
be happy for a while, free to indulge in ambitious dreams of the frigate
Their Lordships might give him, free to relax in Maria's happy and
indifferent chatter, with little Horatio running round the room, and
with little Maria making valiant efforts to crawl at his feet. The
thumping of the barrow wheels beat out a pleasant rhythm to accompany
his dreams.

Here was the house and the well-remembered door. He could hear the echo
within as he let the knocker fall, and he turned to help the old man
lift off the chests. He put a shilling into the shaky hand and turned
back quickly as he heard the door open. Maria was there with a child in
her arms. She stood beside the door looking at him without recognition
for a long second, and when at last she spoke it was as if she were
dazed.

'Horry!' she said. 'Horry!'

There was no smile on her bewildered face.

'I've come home, dearest,' said Hornblower.

'I--I thought you were the apothecary,' said Maria, speaking slowly,
'the--the babies aren't so well.'

She offered the child in her arms for his inspection. It must be little
Maria, although he did not know the flushed, feverish face. The closed
eyes opened, and then shut again with the pain of the light, and the
little head turned away fretfully but wearily, and the mouth opened to
emit a low cry.

'Sh--sh,' said Maria, folding the child to her breast again, bowing her
head over the wailing bundle. Then she looked up at Hornblower again.

'You must come in,' she said. 'The--the cold. It will strike the fever
inward.'

The remembered hall; the room at the side where he had asked Maria to
marry him; the staircase to the bedroom. Mrs Mason was there, her grey
hair untidy even in the curtained twilight of the room.

'The apothecary?' she asked from where she bent over the bed.

'No, mother. It's Horry come back again.'

'Horry? Horatio?'

Mrs Mason looked up to confirm what her daughter said, and Hornblower
came towards the bedside. A tiny little figure lay there, half on its
side, one hand outside the bedclothes holding Mrs Mason's finger.

'He's sick,' said Mrs Mason. 'Poor little man. He's so sick.'

Hornblower knelt beside the bed and bent over his son. He put out his
hand and touched the feverish cheek. He tried to soothe his son's
forehead as the head turned on the pillow. That forehead; it felt
strange; like small shot felt through velvet. And Hornblower knew what
that meant. He knew it well, and he had to admit the certainty to
himself before telling the women what it meant. Smallpox.

Before he rose to his feet he had reached another conclusion, too. There
was still duty to be done, his duty to his King and Country and to the
Service and to Maria. Maria must be comforted. He must always comfort
her, as long as life lasted.






[End of Hornblower and the Atropos, by C. S. Forester]
