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Title: Lord Hornblower
Author: Forester, C. S. [Cecil Scott]
   [Smith, Cecil Louis Troughton] (1899-1966]
Date of first publication: 1946
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Ryerson Press
Date first posted: 2 January 2018
Date last updated: 2 January 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1494

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.






LORD HORNBLOWER

by C. S. Forester






CHAPTER I


The chapel stall of carved oak on which Sir Horatio Hornblower was
sitting was most uncomfortable, and the sermon which the Dean of
Westminster was preaching was deadly dull. Hornblower fidgeted like a
child, and like a child he peered round the chapel and at the
congregation to distract his mind from his physical troubles. Over his
head soared the exquisite fan tracery of what Hornblower soberly decided
was the most beautiful building in the world; there was something
mathematically satisfactory in the way the spreading patterns met and
re-met, a sort of inspired logic. The nameless workmen who had done that
carving must have been far-sighted, creative men.

The sermon was still going on, and Hornblower feared that when it was
finished there would be some more singing, more of those high-pitched
noises from the surpliced choir-boys which would distress him painfully
again, more painfully than the sermon or the oaken stall. This was the
price he had to pay for having a ribbon and star to wear, for being a
Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath; as he was known to be
on sick leave in England--and fully convalescent--he could not possibly
evade attendance at this, the most important ceremonial of the Order.
Certainly the chapel looked effective enough, the dull sunshine which
made its way through the windows being reflected and multiplied into a
soul-stirring glow by the knights' crimson mantles and flashing orders.
There was at least this to be said for this pomp and vanity; it was
certainly beautiful in a strange, effective way, even without regard to
historical associations. Maybe the stall on which he sat had in earlier
years caused the same discomfort to Hawke or Anson; maybe Marlborough,
in crimson and white similar to his own, had fidgeted and fretted
through a similar sermon.

The important-looking person over there with a silver gilt crown on his
head and velvet tabard embroidered in the royal arms was merely Bath
King-at-Arms, some well-connected fellow who had this well-paid sinecure
and could doubtless comfort himself, while sitting through the sermon,
with the thought that he was earning his living by doing so once a year.
Beside him was the Prince Regent, the Sovereign of the Order, his
scarlet face at odds with the crimson of his mantle. And there were
soldiers, generals and colonels, with whose faces he was unfamiliar. But
elsewhere in the chapel there were men with whom he was proud to share
the brotherhood of the Order--Lord St. Vincent, huge and grim, the man
who took his fleet down into the heart of a Spanish squadron twice its
strength; Duncan, who destroyed the Dutch Navy at Camperdown; and a
dozen more of admirals and captains, some of them even junior to him in
the Navy List--Lydiard, who captured the _Pomona_ off Havannah; Samuel
Hood, who commanded the _Zealous_ at the Nile; and Yeo, who stormed the
fort at El Muro. There was something pleasant and heartwarming at being
a member of the same chivalrous Order as men like these--ridiculous, but
true. And there were three times as many heroes as these,
brother-knights also still at sea (for the ones present here were only
those with shore appointments or on leave) making the final desperate
effort to tear down the Napoleonic Empire. Hornblower felt a surge of
patriotic emotion within him; his spirit soared, and then he
incontinently began to analyse this wave of emotion and to wonder how
much of it was due to the romantic beauty of his surroundings.

A uniformed naval lieutenant had made his way into the chapel, and stood
hesitating for a moment before discovering Lord St. Vincent and
hastening to him, offering him the large despatch (whose seals were
already broken) which he held in his hand. No one was paying any
attention to the sermon now--the cream of the Royal Navy were all
craning round, peering at St. Vincent as he read the despatch, which had
clearly arrived from the Admiralty at the other end of Whitehall. The
Dean's voice wavered, and then he rallied gamely, droning on to deaf
ears, and ears which remained deaf for a long time, for St. Vincent,
having read the despatch through once without any change of expression
in his craggy face, immediately turned back to the beginning and read it
through again. St. Vincent, who had so boldly risked the fate of England
on a single prompt decision at the battle which gave him his title, was
nevertheless not a man to plunge hastily into action where there was
time to think.

He finished his second reading, folded the despatch, and then swept his
gaze round the chapel. Two score Knights of the Bath stiffened with
excitement and hoped to catch his eye. St. Vincent rose to his feet and
clasped his crimson cloak about him; he threw a word to the waiting
lieutenant, and then, seizing his plumed hat, proceeded to hobble
stiffly out of the chapel. Attention immediately transferred itself to
the lieutenant, who was watched by every eye as he walked across the
transept, and Hornblower stirred uncomfortably, his heart beating fast,
as he realised that the lieutenant was heading straight for him.

"His Lordship's compliments, sir," said the lieutenant, "and he would
like a word with you immediately."

Now it was Hornblower's turn to fasten his mantle and to remember to
pick up his plumed hat. He must at all costs appear nonchalant, and give
to the assembled Knights no chance to smile at him for appearing
flustered at this summons from the First Lord. He must look as if he was
accustomed to this sort of thing every day. He stepped negligently out
of his stall; his sword made its way between his legs and only by the
mercy of Providence was he saved from tumbling headlong. He recovered
himself with a clatter of spurs and scabbard, and set himself to stalk
with slow dignity down the aisle. Every eye was on him; the Army
officers present must be feeling merely a disinterested curiosity, but
the Navy--Lydiard and the others--must be wondering what new fantastic
turn the naval war had taken, and envying him the adventures and
distinction which must await him. At the back of the chapel, in the
seats reserved for the privileged public, Hornblower caught sight of
Barbara making her way out of her pew to meet him. He smiled nervously
at her--he could not trust himself to speak with all those eyes on
him--and gave her his arm. He felt the firm touch of her hand upon it,
and heard her clear, incisive voice; of course Barbara would not be awed
by the fact that everyone was watching them.

"Further trouble, I suppose, dear?" said Barbara.

"I suppose so," mumbled Hornblower.

Beyond the door St. Vincent was awaiting them, the little wind tossing
the ostrich feathers of his hat and ruffling the crimson cloak of silk.
His massive legs bulged the white silk trunk hose; and he was pacing up
and down on huge, gouty, deformed feet that distorted the white silk
shoes. But the fantastic costume in no way detracted from the grim
dignity of the man. Barbara slipped her arm out of Hornblower's and
discreetly dropped back to allow the two men to converse in private.

"Sir?" said Hornblower, and then, remembering--he was not used yet to
dealings with the peerage--"My lord?"

"You're ready for active service now, Hornblower?"

"Yes, my lord."

"You'll have to start tonight."

"Aye aye, sir--my lord."

"When they bring my coach up I'll take you to the Admiralty and give you
your orders." St. Vincent lifted his voice in a bellow that had hailed
the maintop in West Indian hurricanes. "Haven't they got those horses in
_yet_, Johnson?"

St. Vincent caught sight of Barbara over Hornblower's shoulder.

"Your servant, ma'am," he said; he took off the plumed hat and held it
across his breast as he bowed; age and gout and a lifetime at sea had
not deprived him of the courtly graces, but the business of the country
still had first call upon his attention, and he turned back immediately
to Hornblower.

"What is the service, my lord?" asked the latter.

"Suppression of mutiny," said St. Vincent grimly. "Bloody mutiny. It
might be '94 over again. Did you ever know Chadwick--Lieutenant
Augustine Chadwick?"

"Midshipman with me under Pellew, my lord."

"Well, he's--ah, here's my coach at last. What about Lady Barbara?"

"I'll take my own carriage back to Bond Street," said Barbara, "and I'll
send it back for Horatio at the Admiralty. Here it comes now."

The carriage, with Brown and the coachman on the box, drew up behind St.
Vincent's coach, and Brown sprang down.

"Very good, then. Come on, Hornblower. Your servant, ma'am, again."

St. Vincent climbed in heavily, with Hornblower beside him, and the
horses' hoofs clashed on the cobbles as the heavy vehicle crawled
forward. The pale sunlight flickered through the windows on St.
Vincent's craggy face as he sat stoop-shouldered on the leather seat;
some urchins in the street caught sight of the gaily attired individuals
in the coach and yelled "Hooray," waving their tattered caps.

"Chadwick had _Flame_, eighteen-gun brig," said St. Vincent. "The crew's
mutinied in the Bay of the Seine and are holding him and the other
officers hostage. They turned a master's mate and four loyal hands
adrift in the gig with an ultimatum addressed to the Admiralty. The gig
made Bembridge last night, and the papers have just reached me--here
they are."

St. Vincent shook in his gnarled hand the despatch and the enclosures
which he had clasped since he received them in Westminster Abbey.

"What's the ultimatum, my lord?"

"Amnesty--oblivion. And hang Chadwick. Otherwise they turn the brig over
to the French."

"The crazy fools!" said Hornblower.

He could remember Chadwick in the _Indefatigable_; old for a midshipman
then, twenty years ago. He must be in his fifties now, and only a
lieutenant. He had been a vile-tempered midshipman; after being passed
over continually for promotion he must be a worse-tempered lieutenant.
He could make a little vessel like the _Flame_, in which probably he was
the only commissioned officer, a perfect hell if he wanted to. That
might be the basis of the mutiny. After the terrible lessons of Spithead
and the Nore, after Pigott had been murdered in the _Hermione_, some of
the worst characteristics of the naval service had been eliminated. It
was still a hard, cruel life, but not one to drive men into the suicidal
madness of mutiny unless there were some special circumstances involved.
A captain both cruel and unjust, a determined and intelligent leader
among the men--that combination might make a mutiny. But whatever the
cause, mutiny must be suppressed instantly, visited with extreme
punishment. Smallpox or the plague were no more infectious and no more
fatal than mutiny in a fighting service. Allow one mutineer to escape
punishment, and he would be remembered by every next man with a
grievance, and his example followed.

And England was at the very climax of her struggle with the French
despotism. Five hundred ships of war at sea--two hundred of them ships
of the line--were striving to keep the seas clear of enemies. A hundred
thousand men under Wellington were bursting over the Pyrenees into
southern France. And all the motley armies of eastern Europe, Russians
and Prussians, Austrians and Swedes, Croats and Hungarians and Dutch,
were being clothed and fed and armed by England's exertions. It seemed
as if England could not put forth one single further effort in the
struggle; even as if she must falter and break down under the dreadful
strain. Bonaparte was fighting for his life, with all the cunning and
ferocity one might expect of him. A few more months of constancy, a few
more months of fierce exertion, might bring him crashing down and
restore peace to a mad world; a moment's wavering, a breath of doubt,
and tyranny might be clamped upon mankind for another generation, for
uncounted generations to come.

The coach was wheeling into the Admiralty yard, and two wooden-legged
naval pensioners were stumping out to open the doors. St. Vincent
climbed out, and he and Hornblower, in their brilliant crimson and white
silk, walked through to the First Lord's room.

"There's their ultimatum," said St. Vincent, throwing a paper upon the
desk.

Written in a poor hand, was Hornblower's first mental note--not the work
of some bankrupt tradesman or lawyer's clerk caught by the pressgang.

                                  On board H.M.S. _Flame_ off Havre
                                                  7th October 1813

    We are all loyal hearts and true here, but Lieutenant Augustine
    Chadwick has flogged us and starved us, and has turned up all
    hands twice a watch for a month. Yesterday he said that today he
    would flog every third man of us and the rest of us as soon as
    the others was healed. So we have him under lock and key in his
    cabin, and there's a whip rove at the fore yardarm waiting for
    him for he ought to be strung up after what he did to the boy
    James Jones, he killed him and we think he said in his report
    that he died of fever. We want their Lordships at the Admiralty
    to promise us to try him for his crimes and give us new officers
    and let bygones be bygones. We want to fight on for England's
    liberties for we are loyal hearts and true like we said but
    France is under our lee and we are all in this together and we
    are not going to be hanged as mutineers and if you try to take
    this vessel we shall run him up to the yardarm and go in to the
    French. We are all signing this.

                                   Humbly and respectfully yours,

All round the margin of the letter were the signatures, seven of them,
and several score of crosses, with a note against each cross--"Henry
Wilson, his mark"; "William Owen, his mark," and so on; they indicated
the usual proportion of literates and illiterates in an average ship's
company. Hornblower looked up at St. Vincent when he finished examining
the letter.

"Mutinous dogs," said St. Vincent.

Maybe they were, thought Hornblower. But they had a right to be, he also
thought. He could imagine perfectly well the sort of treatment to which
they had been subjected, the unending wanton cruelty added to the normal
hardship of life in a ship on blockading service; miseries which only
death or mutiny could bring to an end--no other way out at all.

Faced with the certainty of a flogging in the immediate future, they had
risen in mutiny, and he could not blame them. He had seen enough backs
cut to ribbons; he knew that he himself would do anything, literally
anything, to avoid such torture for himself if he were faced with the
prospect of it. His flesh crept as he made himself seriously consider
how he would feel if he knew he were to be flogged next week. The men
had moral right on their side; it was not a matter of justice, but one
of expediency, that they should be punished for their justifiable crime.
The national existence of the country depended greatly on seizing the
mutineers, hanging the ringleaders, flogging the rest; cauterising
before the disease could spread farther this new plague spot which had
appeared in England's right arm. They must be hanged, morally innocent
or not--it was a part of war, like the killing of Frenchmen who were
possibly admirable husbands and fathers. But it would be as well not to
let St. Vincent guess at his sentiments--the First Lord obviously hated
mutineers just as mutineers, without troubling to think more deeply
about their case.

"What orders do you have for me, my lord?" asked Hornblower.

"I'll give you _carte blanche_," replied St. Vincent. "A free hand.
Bring _Flame_ back safe and sound, and the mutineers along with her, and
you can set about it any way you choose."

"You will give me full powers--to negotiate, for instance, my lord?"

"I didn't mean that, damn it," replied St. Vincent. "I meant you could
have any force you asked for. I could spare you three ships of the line,
if you want them. A couple of frigates. Bomb-vessels. There's even a
rocket-vessel if you think you could use it--this fellow Congreve wants
to see his rockets in action again."

"It doesn't appear to be the kind of situation in which great force
would be of much use, my lord. Ships of the line would seem to be
superfluous."

"I know that too, damn it." The struggle in St. Vincent's mind was
evident in his massive face. "Those insolent rascals can slip into the
Seine's mouth in two shakes of a duck's tail at the first sign of danger
to themselves. It's brains that are needed here, I know. That's why I
sent for _you_, Hornblower."

A nice compliment. Hornblower preened himself a little; he was talking
here on terms almost of equality to one of the greatest admirals who had
ever hoisted his flag, and the sensation was extraordinarily pleasant.
And the internal pressure which was mounting inside the First Lord
suddenly forced out of him a yet more astonishing statement.

"And the men like you, Hornblower," exploded St. Vincent. "Damn it, I
don't know a man who doesn't. They'll follow you and listen to you.
You're one of the officers the men talk about among themselves. They
trust you and expect things of you--so do I, damn it, as you can see."

"But if I talk to the men it will imply that I am negotiating with them,
my lord."

"No negotiations with mutineers!" blared St. Vincent, striking the desk
with a fist like a leg of mutton. "We had enough of that in '94."

"Then the _carte blanche_ that you give me is no more than the usual
naval officer's orders, my lord," said Hornblower.

This was a serious matter; he was being sent out on an extremely
difficult task, and would have to bear all the odium of failure should
he be unsuccessful. He had never imagined himself bandying arguments
with a First Lord, yet here he was actually doing so, impelled by sheer
necessity. He realised in a moment of clairvoyance that he was not
arguing on behalf of himself, after all; he was not trying to safeguard
his own interests. He was debating purely impersonally; the officer who
was to be sent out to recapture _Flame_ and whose future might depend
upon the powers given him was not the Hornblower sitting in this carved
chair, dressed in crimson and white silk, but some poor devil, he was
sorry for and whose interests he had at heart because they represented
the national interests. Then the two beings merged together again, and
it was he, Barbara's husband, the man who had been at Lord Liverpool's
dinner-party last night and had a slight ache in the centre of his
forehead today in consequence, who was to go out on this unpleasant
task, where not a ha-porth of glory or distinction was to be won and the
gravest risk was to be run of a fiasco which might make him the
laughing-stock of the Navy and an object of derision through the
country.

He studied St. Vincent's expression again attentively; St. Vincent was
no fool and there was a thinking brain behind that craggy brow--he was
fighting against his prejudices, preparing to dispense with them in the
course of his duty.

"Very well then, Hornblower," said the First Lord at length. "I'll give
you full powers. I'll have your orders drawn up to that effect. You will
hold your appointment as Commodore, of course."

"Thank you, my lord," said Hornblower.

"Here's a list of the ship's company," went on St. Vincent. "We have
nothing here against any of them. Nathaniel Sweet, bos'un's mate--here's
his signature--was first mate of a Newcastle collier brig
once--dismissed for drinking. Maybe he's the ringleader. But it may be
any of 'em."

"Is the news of the mutiny public?"

"_No._ And please God it won't be until the court martial flag is
hoisted. Holden at Bembridge had the sense to keep his mouth shut. He
put the master's mate and the hands under lock and key the moment he
heard their news. _Dart's_ sailing for Calcutta next week--I'll ship 'em
out in her. It'll be months before the story leaks out."

Mutiny was an infection, carried by words. The plague spot must be
isolated until it could be cauterised.

St. Vincent drew a sheaf of papers to himself and took up his pen--a
handsome turkey-feather with one of the new-fangled gold nibs.

"What force do you require?"

"Something handy and small," said Hornblower.

He had not the remotest idea how he was going to deal with this problem
of recovering a vessel which had only to drop two miles to leeward to be
irrecoverable, but his pride made him assume an appearance of
self-confidence. He caught himself wondering if all men were like
himself, putting on a brave show of moral courage when actually they
felt weak and helpless--he remembered Suetonius' remark about Nero, who
believed all men to be privately as polluted as himself although they
did not admit it publicly.

"There's _Portia Coeli_," said St. Vincent, raising his white eyebrows.
"Eighteen-gun brig--sister to _Flame_, in fact. She's at Spithead, ready
to sail. Freeman's in command--he had the cutter _Clam_ under your
command in the Baltic. He brought you home, didn't he?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Would she serve?"

"I think so, my lord."

"Pellew's commanding the Mid-Channel squadron. I'll send him orders to
let you have any help you may request."

"Thank you, my lord."

Here he was, committing himself to a difficult--maybe an
impossible--enterprise without any attempt to leave himself an avenue of
retreat, neglecting utterly to sow any seed of future excuses which
might be reaped to advantage in case of failure. It was utterly reckless
of him, but that ridiculous pride of his, he knew, was preventing him.
He could not use "ifs" or "buts" to men like St. Vincent or to any man
at all, for that matter. He wondered if it was because the First Lord's
recent compliments had gone to his head, or maybe it was because of the
casual remark that he could "request" help of Pellew, a
Commander-in-Chief, who had been his captain twenty years ago when he
was a midshipman. He decided it was not either of these reasons. Just
his nonsensical pride.

"Wind's nor'westerly and steady," said St. Vincent, glancing up at the
dial which repeated the indications of the weather-vane on the Admiralty
room. "Glass is dropping, though. The sooner you're off the better. I'll
send your orders after you to your lodgings--take this chance to say
goodbye to your wife. Where's your kit?"

"At Smallbridge, my lord. Almost on the road to Portsmouth."

"Good. Noon now. If you leave at three; po'chaise to Portsmouth--you
can't ride post with your sea-chest. Eight hours--seven hours, the roads
aren't poached yet at this time o' year--you can be under way at
midnight. I'll send Freeman his orders by post this minute. I wish you
luck, Hornblower."

"Thank you, my lord."

Hornblower gathered his cloak round him, hitched up his sword, and took
his leave. Before he had quitted the room a clerk had entered at the
summons of St. Vincent's jangling bell to take dictation of his order.
Outside the northwesterly wind of which St. Vincent had spoken blew
freshly, and he felt chilled and forlorn in his gay crimson and white
silk. But the carriage was there waiting for him, as Barbara had
promised.




CHAPTER II


She was waiting for him when he arrived at Bond Street, steady of eye
and composed of feature, as was to be expected of one of a fighting
race. But she could only trust herself to say a single word.

"Orders?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Hornblower, and then gave vent to some of the powerful
mixed emotions within him. "Yes, dear."

"When?"

"I sail tonight from Spithead. They're writing my orders now--I must
leave as soon as they reach me here."

"I thought it would be like that, from the look on St. Vincent's face.
So I sent off Brown to Smallbridge to pack your kit. It'll be ready for
you when we get there."

Capable, far-sighted, level-headed Barbara! Yet "Thank you, dear," was
all he could say. There were often these difficult moments even now,
after all this time with Barbara; moments when he was overflowing with
emotion (maybe that was the reason) and yet could not find words.

"May I ask where you are going, dear?"

"I cannot tell you if you do," said Hornblower, forcing a smile. "I'm
sorry, dear."

Barbara would say no word to anyone, nor convey by any hint or sign upon
what kind of mission he was setting out, but, all the same, he could
tell her nothing. Then if news of the mutiny leaked out Barbara could
not be held responsible; but that was not the real reason. It was his
duty to keep silent, and duty allowed of no exceptions. Barbara smiled
back at him with the brightness that duty demanded. She turned her
attention to his silken cloak, and draped it more gracefully over his
shoulders.

"A pity," she said, "that in these modern days there are so few
opportunities for men to dress beautifully. Crimson and white sets off
your good looks, dear. You are a very handsome man--did you know that?"

Then the brittle artificial barrier between them broke and vanished as
utterly as a punctured soap bubble. His was a temperament that longed
for affection, for the proofs of love; but a lifetime of self-discipline
in an unrelenting world had made it difficult, almost impossible, for
him to let the fact appear. Within him there was always the lurking fear
of a rebuff, something too horrible to risk. He always was guarded with
himself, guarded with the world. And she; she knew those moods of his,
knew them even while her pride resented them. Her stoic English
upbringing had schooled her into distrusting emotion and into contempt
for any exhibition of emotion. She was as proud as he was; she could
resent being dependent on him for her life's fulfilment just as he could
resent feeling incomplete without her love. They were two proud people
who had made, for one reason or another, self-centred self-sufficiency a
standard of perfection to abandon which called for more sacrifice than
they were often prepared to make.

But in these moments, with the shadow of separation looming over them,
pride and resentment vanished, and they could be blessedly natural, each
stripped of the numbing armour the years had built about them. She was
in his arms, and her hands under his cloak could feel the warmth of his
body through the thin silk of his doublet. She pressed herself against
him as avidly as he grasped at her. In that uncorseted age she was
wearing only the slightest whalebone stiffening at the waist of her
gown; in his arms he could feel her beautiful body limp and yielding
despite the fine muscles (the product of hard riding and long walking)
which he had at last educated himself to accept as desirable in woman,
whom he had once thought should be soft and feeble. Warm lips were
against warm lips, and then eyes smiled into eyes.

"My darling! My sweet!" she said, and then lip to lip again she murmured
the endearment of the childless woman to her lover, "My baby. My dear
baby!"

The dearest thing she could say to him. When he yielded to her, when he
put off his protective armour, he wanted to be her child as well as her
husband; unconsciously he wanted the reassurance that, exposed and naked
as he was, she would be true and loyal to him like a mother to her
child, taking no advantage of his defenceless condition. The last
reserve melted; they blended one into the other in that extremity of
passion which they could seldom attain. Nothing could mar it now.
Hornblower's powerful fingers tore loose the silken cord that clasped
his cloak; the unfamiliar fastenings of his doublet, the ridiculous
strings of his trunk hose--it did not break into his mood to have to
deal with them. Some time Barbara found herself kissing his hands, the
long beautiful fingers whose memory sometimes haunted her nights when
they were separated, and it was a gesture of the purest passion without
symbolism. They were free for each other, untrammelled, unhindered, in
love. They were marvellously one, and one even when it was all over;
they were complete and yet not sated. They were one even when he left
her lying there, when he glanced into the mirror and saw his scanty hair
madly tousled.

His uniform hung on the dressing-room door; Barbara had thought of
everything during the time he had been with St. Vincent. He washed
himself in the hand-basin, sponging his heated body, and there was no
thought of washing away impurity--the act was one of simple pleasure.
When the butler knocked at the door he put his dressing-gown over his
shirt and trousers and came out. It was his orders; he signed the
receipt for them, broke the seal, and sat down to read them through to
make sure there were no misunderstandings which ought to be cleared up
before he left London. The old, old formula--"You are hereby requested
and required"; "You are therefore strictly charged"--the same ones under
whose authority Nelson had gone into action at Trafalgar and Blake at
Tenerife. The purport of the orders was plain, and the delegation of
power unequivocating. If read aloud to a ship's company--or to a court
martial--they would be readily understood. Would he ever have to read
them aloud? That would mean he had opened negotiations with mutineers.
He was entitled to do so, but it would be a sign of weakness, something
that would mean lifted eyebrows throughout the Navy, and which would
cast a shadow of disappointment over St. Vincent's craggy face. Somehow
or other he had to fool and trick a hundred English seamen into his
power, so that they could be hanged and flogged for doing something he
knew very well he would have done himself in the same circumstances. He
had a duty to do; sometimes it was his duty to kill Frenchmen, and
sometimes it might be another duty. He would prefer to have to kill
Frenchmen if someone had to be killed. And how in Heaven's name was he
to set about this present task?

The door to the bedroom opened and Barbara came in, radiant and smiling.
Their spirits rushed together as their eyes met; the imminence of
physical separation, and Hornblower's contemplation of his new
distasteful duty, were not sufficient to disrupt the mental accord
between them. They were more united than they had ever been before, and
they knew it, the fortunate pair. Hornblower rose to his feet.

"I shall be ready to leave in ten minutes," he said. "Will you come with
me as far as Smallbridge?"

"I was hoping you would ask me to do so," said Barbara.




CHAPTER III


It was the blackest imaginable night, and the wind, backing westerly,
was blowing half a gale and promising to blow harder. It blew round
Hornblower, flapping his trouser-legs about his knees above his
sea-boots and tugging at his coat, while all round and above him in the
blackness the rigging shrieked in an insane chorus, as though protesting
at the madness of mankind in exposing frail man-made equipment to the
violence of the world's forces. Even here, in the lee of the Isle of
Wight, the little brig was moving in lively fashion under Hornblower's
feet as he stood on the tiny quarter-deck. Somewhere to windward of
Hornblower someone--a petty officer, presumably--was cursing a seaman
for some unknown error; the filthy words reached Hornblower's ears in
gusts.

A lunatic, thought Hornblower, must know these mad contrasts, these
sudden changes of mood, these violent alterations in the world about
him; in the one case it was the lunatic who changed, but in his own case
it was his surroundings. This morning, hardly more than twelve hours
ago, he had been sitting in Westminster Abbey with the Knights of the
Bath, all dressed in crimson and white silk; he had dined with the Prime
Minister the night before. He had been in Barbara's arms; he had been
living in Bond Street luxury, with every whim that might arise ready to
be satisfied at the mere pulling of a bell-cord. It was a life of
self-indulgent ease; a score of servants would be genuinely shocked and
upset if the slightest thing occurred to disturb the even way of the
life of Sir Horatio--they ran those two words together, of course,
making a curious bastard word like Surroratio out of them. Barbara had
watched over him all through the summer, to make sure that the last
seeds of the Russian typhus which had brought him home sick were
eradicated. He had wandered in the sunshine through the gardens at
Smallbridge hand in hand with little Richard, with the gardeners backing
respectfully away and pulling at their hats. There had been that golden
afternoon when he and Richard had lain side by side on their bellies
beside the fish-pond, trying to catch golden carp with their hands;
returning to the house with the sunset glowing all about them, muddy and
wet and gloriously happy, he and his little child, as close together as
he had been with Barbara that morning. A happy life; too happy.

At Smallbridge this afternoon, while Brown and the post-boy were
carrying out his sea-chest to the chaise, he had said goodbye to
Richard, taking hold of his hand to shake it as man to man.

"Are you going back to fight, Father?" Richard asked.

He said one more goodbye to Barbara; it was not easy. If he had good
fortune, he might be home again in a week, but he could not tell her
that, for it might reveal too much about the nature of his mission. That
little bit of deception helped to shatter the mood of unity and union;
it made him a little cold and formal again. Hornblower had had a strange
feeling as he turned away from her of something lost for ever. Then he
had climbed into the chaise with Brown beside him and rolled away,
skirting the autumnal Downs to Guildford in the gathering evening, and
then down the Portsmouth Road--the road along which he had driven on so
many momentous occasions--through the night. The transition was brief
from luxury to hardship. At midnight he set foot in the _Porta Coeli_,
welcomed by Freeman, square, stocky, and swarthy as ever, with black
hair hanging to his cheeks, gipsy-fashion; one noted almost with
surprise that there were no rings in his ears. Not more than ten minutes
was necessary to tell Freeman, under seal of secrecy, the mission upon
which the _Porta Coeli_ was to be despatched; in obedience to his orders
received four hours earlier Freeman already had the brig ready for sea,
and at the end of that ten minutes the hands were at the capstan getting
in the anchor.

"It's going to be a dirty night, sir," said Freeman out of the darkness
beside him. "Glass is still dropping."

"I expect it will be, Mr. Freeman."

Freeman suddenly raised his voice to one of the loudest bellows that
Hornblower had ever heard--that barrel-shaped chest could produce a
surprising volume of sound.

"Mr. Carlow! Have all hands shorten sail. Get that maintopmast stays'l
in! Another reef in the tops'ls! S'utheast by south, quartermaster."

"Southeast by south, sir."

The deck under Hornblower's feet vibrated a little with the rush of the
hands over the planking; otherwise there was nothing to show him in the
darkness that Freeman's orders were being obeyed; the squeal of the
sheave-pulleys in the blocks was swept away in the wind or drowned in
the howling of the cordage, and he could see nothing of the rush of the
men up the rigging to reef the topsails. He was cold and tired after a
day which had begun--unbelievably, it seemed now--with the arrival of
the tailor to dress him in the ceremonial costume of a Knight of the
Bath.

"I'm going below, Mr. Freeman," he said. "Call me if necessary."

"Aye aye, sir."

Freeman slid back the sliding hatch that covered the
companion-way--_Porta Coeli_ was flush-decked--and a faint light
emerged, revealing the stair; a faint light, but dazzling after the
intense blackness of the night. Hornblower descended, bowing almost
double under the deck-beams. The door to his right opened into his
cabin, six feet square and four feet ten high; Hornblower had to crouch
down on his haunches to survey it by the wavering light of the lantern
swinging from the deck above. The crampedness of these, the finest
quarters in the brig, was nothing compared with the conditions in which
the other officers lived, he knew, and twenty times nothing compared
with the conditions in which the hands lived. Forward the height between
decks was just the same as this--four feet ten--and there the men slept
in two banks of hammocks, one suspended above the other, with the noses
of the men of the upper tier scraping the deck above and the tails of
the men in the lower tier bumping the deck below, and noses meeting
tails in the middle. The _Porta Coeli_ was the best fighting machine of
her tonnage that could sail the seas; she carried guns that could smash
any opponent of her own size; she had magazines that could supply those
guns during hours or days of fighting; she carried provisions enough to
enable her to keep the sea for months without touching land; she was
staunch and stout enough to face any weather that blew; the only thing
that was wrong with her was that to achieve these results in 190 tons
the human beings who lived in her had to be content with living
conditions to which no careful farmer would ever subject his livestock.
It was at the cost of human flesh and blood that England maintained the
countless small vessels which kept the seas safe for her under the
protecting shield of the ponderous ships of the line.

The cabin, small though it was, housed a prodigious stink. The first
thing the nostrils noticed was the sooty, stuffy smell of the lamp, but
they immediately became aware of a whole gamut of supplementary odours.
There was the flat bilge smell, tolerable, in fact almost unnoticed by
Hornblower, who had smelt bilge for twenty years. There was a
penetrating smell of cheese, and as if to set that off there was a
perceptible smell of rats. There was a smell of wet clothing, and
finally there was a mixture of human odours, the long-confined
body-odour of unwashed men predominating.

And all this mixture of smells was balanced by a battery of noises.
Every timber resonated the shrieking of the rigging; to be inside the
cabin was to be like a mouse inside a violin while it was being played.
Overhead the continual footfalls on the quarter-deck and the clatter of
ropes being thrown down made it seem--to continue the analogy--as if
someone else were tapping the body of the violin at the same time with
small mallets. The wooden sheathing of the brig creaked and crackled
with the vessel's motion in the water like a giant's knuckles rapping on
the exterior; and the shot in the racks rolled just a trifle with each
movement, too, thumping solemnly and unexpectedly just at the end of the
roll as they fetched up.

Hornblower had hardly entered his cabin when the _Porta Coeli_ suddenly
heeled over unexpectedly far; apparently as she was just emerging into
the open Channel the full force of the westerly breeze caught her and
laid her. Hornblower was taken by surprise--it always was a slow process
recovering his sea-legs after a long stay ashore--and was precipitated
forward, fortunately towards the cot, on which he was thrown face
downward, and as he lay spreadeagled upon the cot his ears caught the
assorted noises as the various loose objects always not properly secured
at the outset of a voyage cascaded to the decks at this, the first big
roll. Hornblower squirmed round onto the cot, bumped his head on the
deck-beams above as another roll took him by surprise again, and fell
back onto the coarse pillow, sweating in the wet stuffiness of the cabin
both as a result of his exertions and with the beginnings of
sea-sickness. He was cursing feebly and yet with all his heart; an
intense hatred for this war, the more bitter for being completely
hopeless, surged up inside him. What peace might be like he could hardly
imagine--he had been a mere child when last the world was at peace--but
he longed with uncontrollable yearning for peace as a cessation from
war. He was weary of war, overweary of it, and his weariness was
accentuated and embittered by the experiences of the last year. The news
of the complete destruction of Bonaparte's army in Russia had early
roused hopes of immediate peace; but France had shown no signs of
wavering, had raised new armies, and had stemmed the torrent of the
Russian counter-attack far from any vital point of the Empire. The
wiseacres had pointed to the severity and all-embracing nature of
Bonaparte's conscription, to the harshness of the taxation he exacted,
and predicted an early upheaval in the interior of the Empire, backed
maybe by a revolt of the generals. Ten months had elapsed since those
predictions began generally to be made, and there was not a sign as yet
of their coming true. When Austria and Sweden joined the ranks of
Bonaparte's enemies, men looked again for immediate victory. They hoped
that when Bonaparte's unwilling allies--Denmark, Holland, and the
rest--fell away from their allegiance, this presaged a prompt
breaking-up of the Empire, and they were disappointed each time. For
long it had been predicted by thoughtful men that when the tide of war
washed back into the Empire itself, when Bonaparte should be compelled
to make war support war on the soil of his subjects and not on that of
his enemies or tributaries, the struggle would end almost automatically.
Yet three months had elapsed since Wellington with a hundred thousand
men had swept over the Pyrenees within the sacred frontiers, and still
he was locked in a death grapple in the far south, still seven hundred
miles from Paris. There seemed to be no end to Bonaparte's resources of
determination.

To Hornblower in his present despairing mood it seemed as if the
struggle must continue until every last man in Europe was dead, until
the whole of England's substance was irrevocably consumed; and for
himself that until old age should set him free he would be condemned, on
account of the mad determination of one single man, to the loss of his
liberty, to spending his days and his nights in hideous surroundings
like the present, torn from his wife and his son, sea-sick and cold,
depressed and unhappy. For almost the first time in his life he began to
wish for a miracle, or for some unsought turn of good fortune--that a
stray bullet should kill Bonaparte, or that some prodigious mistake
would permit the gaining of an indisputable and decisive victory; that
the people of Paris should rise successfully against the tyrant, that
the French harvest should fail utterly, that the Marshals, to preserve
their fortunes, should declare against the Emperor and succeed in
inducing their soldiers to follow them. And none of these things, as he
knew, was in the least likely; the struggle must go on and on, and he
must remain a sea-sick prisoner in the chains of discipline until his
hair turned white.

He opened his tightly closed eyes to find Brown standing over him.

"I knocked, sir, but you didn't hear me."

"What is it?"

"Is there anything I can get for you, sir? They're just goin' to douse
the galley fire. A cup o' coffee, sir? Tea? A hot grog?"

A good stiff dose of liquor might put him to sleep, would drown his
morbid and gloomy thoughts, give him some respite from the black
depression which was engulfing him. Hornblower found himself actually
dallying with the temptation, and was genuinely shocked at himself. That
he, who had not drunk to make himself drunk for nearly twenty years, who
detested intoxication in himself even more than in other people, should
give even a moment's favourable consideration to such a thought startled
him in addition to appalling him. It was a new depravity that he had
never known existed in him, made worse by the knowledge that he was on a
secret mission of great importance, where a clear head and ready
judgment would be vitally necessary. He spurned himself in bitter
self-contempt.

"No," he said. "I shall go back on deck."

He swung his legs down from the cot; the _Porta Coeli_ was now well
clear of the land, and was rolling and plunging like a mad thing in the
choppy waters of the Channel. The wind on her quarter was laying her
over so that as Hornblower rose to his feet he would have slid down to
the opposite bulkhead if Brown had not put out a brawny hand and saved
him. Brown never lost his sea-legs; Brown was never sick; Brown had the
vast physical strength that Hornblower had always coveted. He stood on
his straddled legs like a rock, quite unmoved by the antics of the brig,
while Hornblower swayed uncertainly. He would have hit his hand against
the swinging lamp if Brown's firm hand on his shoulder had not deflected
him.

"A dirty night, sir, an' it'll be a long sight worse afore it's better."

Job had the same sort of comforters. Hornblower snarled sidelong at
Brown in pettish bad temper, and the bad temper was only made worse by
seeing Brown being philosophical about it. It was infuriating to be
treated like a child in a tantrum.

"Best wear that scarf Her Ladyship made you, sir," went on Brown,
unmoved. "'Twill be mortal cold by morning."

In a single movement he flipped open a drawer and produced the scarf. It
was a square of priceless silk, light and warm, maybe the most costly
thing Hornblower had ever owned, even taking into account his
hundred-guinea sword. Barbara had embroidered upon it, with infinite
pains--she detested fiddling with needle and thimble, and the fact that
she had done so was the prettiest compliment she could pay him.
Hornblower put it round his neck inside the collar of his pea-jacket,
and was reassured by it, by its warmth and softness, and by the memories
of Barbara that it conjured up. He steadied himself, and then plunged
for the door and up the five steps to the quarter-deck.

It was utterly dark up there, and Hornblower was blinded, emerging from
even the miserable light of his cabin. All round him the wind roared
hugely; he had to bend his head to meet it. The _Porta Coeli_ was lying
right over on her side, even though the wind was not abeam but over her
quarter. She was both rolling and pitching. Spray and spindrift mixed
with the rain that flew across her deck, stinging Hornblower's face as
he clawed his way up to the weather bulwarks. Even when his eyes had
grown accustomed to the darkness he could hardly make out the dim narrow
rectangle of the reefed maintopsail. The little vessel leaped under his
feet madly, like a horse; the sea was violent--even through the din of
the gale Hornblower could hear the groan of the tiller-ropes as the
quartermaster at the wheel fought to keep her from falling away into the
trough.

Hornblower sensed the presence of Freeman somewhere near him, and
ignored him. There was nothing to say, and even if there had been
anything to say the violence of the wind would have made it difficult.
He hitched his elbow on the hammock-netting to steady himself and gazed
into the darkness. Just overside the white top of each advancing wave
was momentarily visible before the _Porta Coeli_ lifted to it. Forward
the hands were at work on the pumps; Hornblower's ear could catch the
flat clatter of them at intervals. There was nothing surprising at that,
because with the violent working of the vessel in the waves the seams
must be gaping and closing like mouths. Somewhere in this black night
ships would be sailing, worn down by the gale; somewhere ships would be
driving ashore, and seamen would be dying in the surf with this pitiless
wind howling over them. Anchors would be dragging and lines parting. And
this wind would be blowing over the miserable bivouacs of embattled
Europe, too. The million anonymous peasant soldiers huddled round the
camp-fires which they could hardly keep alight would curse the wind and
the rain as they lay sleepless and hungry awaiting tomorrow's battle. It
was strange to think that upon them, upon these inconsiderable unknowns,
depended, to a large part, his release from his present thraldom. He
vomited excruciatingly into the scuppers as his sea-sickness reached a
climax.

Freeman was speaking to him with unintelligible words. He could not
understand them, and Freeman had to yell louder.

"It seems as if I shall have to heave-to, sir."

Freeman had spoken in a moderate tone at first, a trifle embarrassed. It
was a difficult position for Freeman; by the law and custom of the sea
he was captain of this ship and Hornblower, although so far superior in
rank, was no more than a passenger. Only an admiral could take command
out of the hands of the officer appointed for that purpose, without a
long and difficult process; a captain, even one who held Commodore's
rank as did Hornblower, could not do so. Legally, and under the rulings
of the Articles of War, Hornblower could only direct the _Porta Coeli's_
operations; Freeman was solely responsible for the manner in which
Hornblower's orders were carried out. Legally it was entirely for
Freeman to decide whether to heave-to or not; but no mere lieutenant
commanding an eighteen-gun brig could happily disregard the wishes of a
Commodore on board, especially when the Commodore happened to be
Hornblower, with his reputation of impatience of delay and eagerness to
set about the tasks before him--no lieutenant with a thought for his own
future could do so, at any rate. Hornblower grinned to himself through
his nausea at Freeman's dilemma.

"Heave-to if you wish, Mr. Freeman," he bellowed back, and as soon as he
had said the words Freeman was shouting his orders through his
speaking-trumpet.

"Heave-to! Get the foretops'l in! Set the maint'mast stays'l.
Quartermaster, bring her to."

"Bring her to, sir."

The furling of the foretopsail eased her, and the staysail steadied her,
and then she came to the wind. Until now she had fought against it; now
she yielded to it, like a woman giving way at last to an importunate
lover. She rose to an even keel, turning her starboard bow to the choppy
seas, rising and falling to them with something of rhythm instead of her
previous unpredictable plunges over the quartering waves. The starboard
main-shrouds gave something of a lee to Hornblower where he stood
against the starboard bulwark, so that even the force of the wind seemed
to be a little moderated.




CHAPTER IV


Everything was much more comfortable, no doubt, much safer. There was no
danger now of the _Porta Coeli_ losing spars or canvas or working her
seams considerably open. But it did not bring her any nearer to the
_Flame_ and her mutinous crew; on the contrary, it meant that every
moment she was drifting farther away, and to leeward. To leeward!
Hornblower's mind, like that of every sailor, was obsessed with the
importance of keeping to windward of one's destination. He grudged
bitterly every yard of leeway made, far more bitterly than any miser
grudged paying out his pieces of gold. Here in the Channel in the late
autumn, where westerly gales were to be expected daily, any drift to the
eastward might have to be bought back at compound interest. Every hour
of leeway would have to be regained when the wind moderated, by two or
three hours of beating back to windward, unless the wind should come
easterly, which one could not expect.

And every hour might count; no one could guess what might be the next
mad action of the desperate men on board _Flame_. At any moment they
might be led by panic to hand themselves over to the French; or the
ringleaders might abandon the vessel and seek refuge in France, never to
be regained for the hangman's rope. And at any moment the news might
begin to seep through the Navy that a king's ship had successfully
thrown off the bonds of discipline, that downtrodden seamen were
negotiating, as one power with another, with the Lords of the Admiralty.
Hornblower could guess only too well what might be the effect of that
news. The sooner _Flame_ was dealt with in exemplary fashion the better;
but he was still without any idea as to how to deal with her. This
present gale would hardly discommode her--she would be able to ride it
out in the lee of the Normandy peninsula. A vessel of her tonnage could
venture anywhere in the Bay of the Seine; on the one hand she could run
for Le Havre, on the other to Caen river.



The batteries of the Cotentin coast would protect her; the chasse-mares
and the Seine gunboats would be ready to come to her aid. Both at
Cherbourg and at Le Havre there were French frigates and ships of the
line, half manned and unready for sea, but always able at a pinch to
push out a few miles from port and cover the escape of the _Flame_. At
the approach of superior force she would certainly run; she might stand
and fight an equal, such as this _Porta Coeli_, but Hornblower found
himself hesitating at the prospect of meeting on equal terms a British
ship manned by English sailors filled with the courage of despair.
Victory would be dearly bought--with a triumphant clamour Bonaparte
would raise through Europe at the news of a battle between two British
ships! There would be many dead--what would be the effect on the Navy at
the news of British sailors killing each other? What would be the
results in Parliament? And the chances were certainly large that the two
brigs would cripple each other so badly as to fall easy victims to the
chasse-mares and gunboats. And worse than that, there was the chance of
defeat. Equal ships, equal crews; a chance as arbitrary as the spin of a
coin might decide the action. No, only as a last resort, perhaps not
even then, would he fight a simple action against the _Flame_. But what
the devil was he to _do_?

Hornblower shook himself into consciousness of the world about him,
backing out of the blind alley of thought in which he had found himself.
The wind was still shrieking round him, but it was no longer an
avalanche of darkness. Before his eyes the lean rectangle of the reefed
maintopsail was distinctly visible against the sky. There was a faint
grey light about him; the white-flecked waves over which the brig was
uneasily rising were plain to his sight. Morning was coming. Here he
lay, hove-to in mid-Channel, out of sight of land. And it was still less
than twenty-four hours since he had sat in silks amid the Knights of the
Bath in Westminster Abbey, and much less than twenty-four hours since
Barbara had--that was another line of thought from which he had hastily
to shake himself free. It was raining again, the chill drops blowing
into his face. He was cold through and through; as he moved he felt
Barbara's scarf about his neck sopping wet with the water that had run
down from his face. Freeman was beside him; the day-old beard that
sprouted on Freeman's cheeks was an additional convincing touch in his
gipsy appearance.

"The glass stays low, sir," said Freeman. "No sign of the weather
moderating."

"I can see none myself," said Hornblower.

There was scanty material for conversation, even if Hornblower had
wanted to enter into conversation with his subordinate. The grey sky and
the grey sea, the shrieking wind, the chill that enveloped them, the
pessimistic gloom which clouded Hornblower's thoughts, all these helped
Hornblower to maintain the deliberate taciturnity which he had so long
cultivated.

"Have me called at the first sign of a change, Mr. Freeman," he said.

He walked over to the hatchway; it was only with an effort that he could
set one foot before the other, and he could hardly bend at all to get
his hands on the hatch coaming as he descended. His joints groaned as he
crept under the threatening deck-beams into his cabin. He was utterly
numb with cold and fatigue and sea-sickness. He was just conscious,
resentfully, that he must not fall, as he longed to do, fully clothed
upon his cot--not for fear of rheumatism, but because there might be no
chance for days of drying the cot's bedding if once he made it wet. And
then here came Brown, materialising suddenly at his side--he must have
been alert in the wardroom pantry on the watch for him.

"Let me take your coat, sir," said Brown. "You're cold, sir. I'll untie
that scarf. Those buttons, sir. Sit down now and I'll be able to get
those boots off, sir."

Brown was stripping him of his wet clothes as if he were a baby. He
produced a towel as if by magic, and chafed Hornblower's ribs with it;
Hornblower felt life returning through his veins at the touch of the
coarse material. Brown slipped a flannel nightshirt over his head, and
then knelt on the swaying deck to chafe his legs and feet. Through
Hornblower's dazed mind there passed a momentary amazement at Brown's
efficiency. Brown was good at everything to which he turned his hand; he
could knot and splice, and he could drive a pair of horses; he could
carve model ships for Richard, and be tutor and nursemaid to the boy as
well; heave the lead, hand and reef, and wait at table; take a trick at
the wheel or carve a goose; undress a weary man and--just as
important--know when to cut off his flow of soothing remarks and lay him
down in silence and pull the blankets over him, leaving him alone
without any trite or irritating words about hoping he slept well. In
Hornblower's last tumultuous thoughts before exhaustion plunged him into
sleep he decided that Brown was a far more useful member of society than
he himself was; that if in his boyhood Brown had been taught his letters
and his figures, and if chance had brought him to the quarter-deck as a
king's letter-boy instead of to the lower deck as a pressed man, he
would probably be a captain by now. And, significantly, hardly a trace
of envy tinged Hornblower's thoughts of Brown; he was mellow enough by
now to admire without resentment. Brown would make some woman a fine
husband, as long as there was no other woman within reach. Hornblower
smiled at that, and went on smiling in his sleep, sea-sickness and the
plunging of the _Porta Coeli_ over the short seas notwithstanding.

He woke later feeling refreshed and hungry, listened benevolently to the
tumult of the noisy ship about him, and then poked his head out of the
blankets and shouted for Brown. The sentry outside the cabin door took
up the cry, and Brown came in almost immediately.

"What's the time?"

"Two bells, sir."

"In which watch?"

"Afternoon watch, sir."

He might have known that without asking. He had been asleep for four
hours, of course--nine years as a captain had not eradicated the habits
acquired during a dozen years as a watchkeeping officer. The _Porta
Coeli_ stood up first on her tail and then on her nose as an unusually
steep sea passed under her.

"The weather hasn't moderated?"

"Still blowin' a full gale, sir. Wes-sou'west. We're hove-to under
maintopmast stays'l and maintops'l with three reefs. Out o' sight o'
land, an' no sail visible neither, sir."

This was an aspect of war to which he should have grown used; endless
delay with peril just over the horizon. He felt marvellously fortified
by his four hours' sleep; his depression and his yearning for the end of
the war had disappeared, not eradicated but overlain by the regained
fatalism of the veteran. He stretched luxuriously in his heaving cot.
His stomach was decidedly squeamish still, but, rested and recumbent as
he was, it was not in active rebellion, whatever it might promise should
he become active. And there was no need to be active! There was nothing
for him to do if he should rise and dress. He had no watch to keep; by
law he was merely a passenger; and until this gale blew itself out, or
until some unforeseen danger should develop, there was nothing about
which he need trouble his head. He had still plenty of sleep to make up;
probably there were anxious and sleepless nights ahead of him when he
should come to tackle the duty to which he had been assigned. He might
just as well make the most of his present languor.

"Very good, Brown," he said, imparting to his voice the flat
indifference after which he always strove. "Call me when the weather
moderates."

"Breakfast, sir?" The surprise in Brown's voice was apparent and most
pleasurable to Hornblower; this was the one reaction on his restless
captain's part which Brown had not anticipated. "A bite o' cold beef an'
a glass o' wine, sir?"

"No," said Hornblower. His stomach would not keep them down, he feared,
in any case.

"Nothing, sir?"

Hornblower did not even deign to answer him. He had shown himself
unpredictable, and that was really something gained. Brown might at any
time grow too proprietorial and too pleased with himself. This incident
would put him in his place again, make him not quite so sure of his
acquaintance with all his captain's moods. Hornblower believed he could
never be a hero to Brown; he could at least be quirky. He gazed placidly
up at the deck-beams over his nose until the baffled Brown withdrew, and
then he snuggled down again, controlling an expostulatory heave of his
stomach. Contented with his lot, he was satisfied to lie and doze and
daydream. At the back of the west wind a brig full of mutineers awaited
him. Well, although he was drifting away from them at a rate of a mile
or two in the hour, he yet was approaching them as fast as it was in his
power to do so. And Barbara had been so sweet.

He was sleeping so lightly at the end of the watch that he was roused by
the bos'un's calls turning out the watch below, a sound to which he
should have been thoroughly used by now. He shouted for Brown and got
out of bed, dressing hurriedly to catch the last of the daylight.
Plunging out on deck, his eyes surveyed the same desolate scene as he
had expected--an unbroken grey sky, a grey sea flecked with white,
furrowed into the short steep rollers of the Channel. The wind still
blew with gale force, the officers of the watch bending into it with
their sou'westers pulled low over their eyes, and the watch crouching
for shelter under the weather bulwarks forward.

Hornblower was aware, as he looked about him, of the commotion aroused
by his appearance on deck. It was the first opportunity the ship's
company of the _Porta Coeli_ had had of seeing him in daylight. The
midshipman of the watch, at a nudge from the master's mate, dived below,
presumably to report his appearance to Freeman; there were other nudges
observable among the hands forward. The huddle of dark tarpaulins showed
a speckling of white as faces turned towards him. They were discussing
him; Hornblower, who sank the _Natividad_ in the Pacific, and fought the
French fleet in Rosas Bay, and last year held Riga against all Boney's
army.

Nowadays Hornblower could contemplate with a certain equanimity the
possibility of being discussed by other people. There were undeniable
achievements on his record, solid victories for which he had borne the
responsibility and therefore deservedly wore the laurels. His
weaknesses, his sea-sickness and his moodiness, could be smiled at now
instead of being laughed at. The gilded laurels were only tarnished to
his own knowledge, and not to that of others. They did not know of his
doubts and his hesitations, not even of his actual mistakes--they did
not know, as he did, that if he had only called off the bomb-vessels at
Riga five minutes earlier--as he should have done--young Mound would be
still alive and a distinguished naval officer. Hornblower's handling of
his squadron in the Baltic had been described in Parliament as "the most
perfect example in recent years of the employment of a naval force
against an army"; Hornblower knew of the imperfections, but apparently
other people could be blind to them. He could face his brethren in the
profession, just as he could face his social equals. Now he had a wife
of beauty and lineage, a wife with taste and tact, a wife to be proud of
and not a wife he could only gloweringly dare the world to
criticise--poor Maria in her forgotten grave in Southsea.

Freeman came climbing out of the hatchway, still fastening his oilskins;
the two of them touched their hats to each other.

"The glass has begun to rise, sir," shouted Freeman, his hands making a
trumpet before his mouth. "This'll blow itself out soon."

Hornblower nodded, even while at that moment a bigger gust flogged his
oilskins against his legs--the gustiness itself was a sign that the gale
was nearing its end. The light was fast fading out of the grey sky; with
sunset perhaps the wind would begin to moderate.

"Will you come round the ship with me?" yelled Hornblower, and this time
it was Freeman's turn to nod. They walked forward, making their way with
difficulty over the plunging, dripping decks, with Hornblower looking
keenly about him. Two long guns forward--six-pounders; the rest of the
armament twelve-pounder carronades. The breachings and preventer tackles
were in good shape. Aloft, the rigging, both standing and running, was
properly set up and cared for; but the best proof that the vessel was in
good order lay in the fact that nothing had carried away during the
weather of the last twenty-four hours. Freeman was a good captain;
Hornblower knew that already. But it was not the guns, not even the
vessel's weatherly qualities, which were of first importance in the
present expedition. It was the human weapons that most mattered;
Hornblower darted quick glances from side to side under his brows as he
inspected the material of the brig--taking pains to observe the
appearance and demeanour of the men. They seemed patient, not sullen,
thank God. They were alert, seemingly ready for any duty. Hornblower
dived down the fore hatchway into the unspeakable din and stink of the
battened-down 'tween-decks. There were sailors asleep in the fantastic
fashion of the British tarpaulin--snoring heavily as they lay on the
bare deck, despite the din about them. There were men huddled in gaming
groups. He saw sleeves tugged and thumbs pointed as men caught sight of
him--their first sight of the almost legendary Hornblower. An exchange
of a nod and a wink. Hornblower, shrewdly estimating the feeling about
him, guessed with pleasure that there was expectancy rather than
resignation or reluctance.

It was an odd fact, but one whose existence could not be doubted, that
men were pleased at the prospect of serving under him, Hornblower; the
Hornblower, that is (qualified Hornblower), whom they thought existed,
not the real actual Hornblower who wore the coat and trousers he was
wearing. They hoped for victory, excitement, distinction, success; the
poor fools. They did not stop to think that men died where Hornblower
took command. The clear-headedness resulting from sea-sickness and an
empty stomach (Hornblower could not remember when last he had eaten)
allowed free play to a whole conflict of emotions within him; pleasure
at being so gladly followed, pity for the thoughtless victims; a thrill
of excitement at the thought of future action, and a wave of doubt
regarding his ability to pluck success this time from the jaws of
chance; pleasure, reluctantly admitted, at finding himself at sea and in
command again, and regret, bitter and soul-searching, for the life he
had just left, for Barbara's love and little Richard's trusting
affection. Hornblower, noting his inward turmoil, cursed himself for a
sentimental fool at the very moment when his sharp eye picked out a
seaman who was knuckling his forehead and bobbing and grinning with
embarrassed pleasure.

"I know you," said Hornblower, searching feverishly through his memory.
"Let me see now. It must have been in the old _Indefatigable_."

"That's right, sir. We was shipmates then, sir. And you worn't more'n a
nipper, then, sir, beggin' your pardon, sir. Midshipman of the foretop,
you was, sir."

The seaman wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers before gingerly
accepting the hand which Hornblower held out to him.

"Harding's your name," said Hornblower, his memory coming to his rescue,
with a tremendous effort. "You taught me long splicing while we were off
Ushant."

"That's right, sir. 'Deed you're right, sir. That was '92, or wore it
'93?"

"Ninety-three. I'm glad to know you're on board, Harding."

"Thank you kindly, sir, I'm sure. Thank you kindly."

Why should the whole vessel buzz with pleasure because he had recognised
an old shipmate of twenty years back? Why should it make a ha'porth of
difference? But it did; Hornblower knew it and felt it. It was hard to
say whether pity or affection for his weak fellow-men held first place
in the new complex of emotions which the incident aroused. Bonaparte
might be doing the same thing at that same moment, recognising in some
German bivouac some old comrade in arms in the ranks of the Guard.

They had reached the after part of the brig now, and Hornblower turned
to Freeman.

"I am going to dine now, Mr. Freeman," he said. "Perhaps after that we
may be able to make some sail on the brig. I shall come on deck to see,
in any case."

"Aye aye, sir."

Dinner; eaten seated on the small locker against the bulkhead. Cold salt
beef--quite a good cut, tasty to a palate long accustomed to it and yet
deprived of it for the last eleven months. "Rexam's Superfine Ships'
Biscuits" from a lead-lined box discovered and provided by Barbara--the
best ships' bread which Hornblower had ever tasted, costing maybe twenty
times as much as the weevily stuff he had eaten often enough before. A
bite of red cheese, tangy and seasoned, admirably suited to accompany
the second glass of claret. It was quite absurd that he should feel any
satisfaction at having to lead this sort of life again, and yet he did.
Undeniably, he did.

He wiped his mouth on his napkin, climbed into his oilskins, and went up
on deck.

"The wind's dropped a little, Mr. Freeman, I fancy."

"I fancy it has, sir."

In the darkness the _Porta Coeli_ was riding to the wind almost easily,
with a graceful rise and swoop. The seas overside could not be nearly as
steep as they had been, and this was rain, not spray, in his face, and
the feel of the rain told him that the worst of the storm was over.

"With the jib and the boom-mains'l both reefed, we can put her on the
wind, sir," said Freeman, tentatively.

"Very well, Mr. Freeman. Carry on."

There was a special skill about sailing a brig, especially of course, on
a wind. Under jib and staysails and the boom-mainsail she could be
handled like a fore-and-aft rigged vessel; Hornblower knew it all
theoretically, but he also knew that his practice would be decidedly
rusty, especially in the dark and with a gale blowing. He was well
content to remain in the background and let Freeman do what he would.
Freeman bellowed his orders; with a mighty creaking of blocks the reefed
boom-mainsail rose up the mast while men on the dizzy yard got in the
maintopsail. The brig was hove-to on the starboard tack, and as the
effect of the jib made itself felt she began to pay off a little.

"Mains'l sheets!" bellowed Freeman, and to the man at the wheel "Steady
as you go!"

The rudder met and counteracted the tendency of the _Porta Coeli_ to
fall off, and the boom-mainsail caught the wind and forced her forward.
In a moment the _Porta Coeli_ changed from something quiescent and
acquiescent into something fierce and desperate. She ceased to yield to
wind and sea, ceased to let them hurtle past her; now she met them, she
fought against them, battled with them. She was like some tigress
previously content to evade the hunters by slinking from cover to cover,
but now hurling herself on her tormentors mad with fighting fury. The
wind laid her over, the spray burst in sheets across her bows. Her
gentle rise and swoop were transformed into an illogical jerky motion as
she met the steep waves with immovable resolution; she lurched and she
shuddered as she battered her way through the waves. The forces of the
world, the old primitive powers that had ruled earth and water since the
creation, were being set at defiance by man, weak, mortal man, who by
virtue of the brain inside his fragile skull was able not merely to face
the forces of the world but to bend them to his will, compel them to
serve him. Nature sent this brisk westerly gale up the Channel; subtly
and insidiously the _Porta Coeli_ was making use of it to claw her way
westward--a slow, painful, difficult way, but westward all the same.
Hornblower, standing by the wheel, felt a surge of exultation as the
_Porta Coeli_ thrashed forward. He was like Prometheus stealing fire
from the gods; he was the successful rebel against the blind laws of
nature; he could take pride in being a mere mortal man.




CHAPTER V


Freeman bent over the tallow that armed the bottom of the lead; a seaman
held a lantern at his shoulder so as to let the light fall upon it. The
master's mate and midshipman of the watch completed the group, a
vignette of blackness and light in the massive darkness all around.
Freeman was not hasty in reaching his decision; he peered at the sample
brought up from the bottom of the sea first from one angle and then from
another. He sniffed at it; he applied a forefinger to it and then
carried the finger to his tongue.

"Sand and black shell," he mused to himself.

Hornblower held back from the group; this was something Freeman could do
better than he, although it would be nearly blasphemy to say so in
public, seeing that he was a captain and Freeman a mere lieutenant.

"Maybe we're off Antifer," said Freeman at length. He looked out of the
light into the darkness towards where Hornblower was standing.

"Lay her on the other tack, if you please, Mr. Freeman. And keep the
lead going."

Creeping about in the night off the treacherous Normandy coast was a
nervous business, even though in the past twenty-four hours the wind had
moderated to nothing more than a strong breeze. But Freeman knew what he
was about; a dozen years spent in handling vessels in the soundings
round the fringes of Europe had given him knowledge and insight
obtainable in no other way. Hornblower had to trust Freeman's judgment;
he himself with compass and lead and chart might do a good workmanlike
job, but to rate himself above Freeman as a Channel pilot would be
ridiculous. "Maybe," Freeman had said; but Hornblower could value that
"maybe" at its true worth. Freeman was confident about it. The _Porta
Coeli_ was off Cape Antifer, then, a trifle farther to leeward than he
wished to be when dawn should come. He still had no plan in his head
about how to deal with the _Flame_ when he met her; there was no way
round, as far as he could see, the simple geometrical difficulty that
the mutineers, with Le Havre open to them on one side and Caen on the
other, could not be cut off from taking refuge with the French if they
wished to; for that matter, there were a dozen other inlets on the
coast, all heavily protected by batteries, where the _Flame_ could find
a refuge. And any forcing of the matter might result easily enough in
Chadwick being hoisted up to his yardarm, to dangle there as a dead
man--the most horrible and dangerous incident in the history of the Navy
since the murder of Pigott. But contact had to be made with the
mutineers--that was clearly the first thing to do--and there was at
least no harm in trying to make that contact at a point as advantageous
as possible. Some miracle might happen; he must try and put himself
across the course of wandering miracles. What was that Barbara had said
to him once? "The lucky man is he who knows how much to leave to
chance." Barbara had too good an opinion of him, even after all this
time, but there was truth in what she said.

The _Porta Coeli_ went smartly about, and reached to the north-westward,
close-hauled to the southwesterly wind.

"The tide starts to make about now, Sir Horatio," said Freeman, beside
him.

"Thank you."

That was an additional bit of data in the problem of the morrow which
was not yet fully revealed to him. War was as unlike spherical
trigonometry as anything could be, thought Hornblower, grinning at the
inconsequence of his thoughts. Often one approached a problem in war
without knowing what it was one wanted to achieve, to prove, or
construct, and without even knowing fully what means were available for
doing it. War was generally a matter of slipshod, makeshift, hit-or-miss
extemporisation. Even if it were not murderous and wasteful it would
still be no trade for a man who enjoyed logic. Yet maybe he was taking
too flattering a view of himself; maybe some other officer--Cochrane,
say, or Lidyard--would, if in his position, already have a plan worked
out for dealing with the mutineers, a plan that could not fail to bring
satisfactory results.

Four bells rang out sharply; they had been over half an hour on this
tack.

"Kindly go about on the other tack, Mr. Freeman. I don't want to get too
far from land."

"Aye aye, sir."

If it was not for the war, no captain in his senses would dream for a
moment of plunging about in the darkness on this shoal coast, especially
when he was extremely doubtful of his exact position--their present
estimate was the sum of a series of guesses, guesses about the leeway
made while hove-to, guesses at the effects of the tides, guesses at the
correspondence between soundings taken overside and soundings marked on
the chart.

"What do you think the mutineers will do, sir, when they sight us?"
asked Freeman.

The fact that Hornblower had unbent enough to give an explanation of why
he wanted to go about must have encouraged Freeman to this familiarity;
Hornblower was irritated, but most of all because he had no thoughts on
the matter.

"There's no profit in asking questions which time will surely answer,
Mr. Freeman," he said, tartly.

"Yet speculation is a fascinating thing, Sir Horatio," replied Freeman,
so unabashed that Hornblower stared at him in the darkness. Bush, if
Hornblower had spoken to him in that fashion, would have retired wounded
into his shell.

"You may indulge yourself in it if you so desire, Mr. Freeman. I have no
intention to doing so."

"Thank you, Sir Horatio."

Now was there, or was there not, a hint of mockery behind the hint of
subservience in that reply? Was it possible that Freeman could actually
be smiling inwardly at his superior officer? If so, he was running a
fearful risk; a suggestion of dissatisfaction in Hornblower's future
report to the Admiralty would put Freeman on the beach for life. But
Hornblower knew, the moment the thought came into his head, that he
would do no such thing. He could never blast an ableman's career just
because that man had not treated him with slavish respect.

"Water's shoaling fast, sir," said Freeman, suddenly--both he and
Hornblower had subconsciously been listening to the cry of the leadsman
in the chains. "I should like to go about again."

"Certainly, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower, formally.

They were creeping round Cape de la Hve, the northerly point of the
Seine estuary, just within which lies Le Havre. There was a chance, a
tiny one, that they might find themselves at dawn both to leeward of the
_Flame_ and between her and France so that she would have no means of
escape at all. And the night was wearing on; it would not be long now
before daylight.

"You have a good man at the masthead, Mr. Freeman?"

"Yes, Sir Horatio."

He would have to tell the hands about the mission on which they had been
sent, even though that meant violating the secrecy surrounding the
mutiny. Normally there would be little enough need to confide in the
hands; British seamen, fatalistic after twenty years of war, would fire
into Frenchmen or Americans or Dutchmen without much thought about the
rights or wrongs; but to ask them to fight against a sister-ship, to
fire into a British vessel, which might, for all he knew, still be
wearing her commissioning pendant and her White Ensign, might cause
hesitation if he called upon them to do so without some preliminary
warning. A careful officer would in ordinary circumstances never breathe
the word "mutiny" to his men; no lion-tamer would ever remind the lion
that the lion was stronger than he. It was almost daylight.

"Would you be so good as to turn up the hands, Mr. Freeman? I wish to
address them."

"Aye aye, sir."

The pipes wailed through the brig, and the watch below came streaming up
through the hatchway, pouring sleepily aft; the poor devils were losing
an hour of sleep because of the inconsiderate way in which dawn did not
correspond with the end of the watch. Hornblower looked round for some
point of vantage from which he could address them; in a flush-decked
vessel like the _Porta Coeli_ he had not the advantage of speaking down
into a waist from a quarter-deck. He swung himself up onto the weather
bulwark, balancing himself with a hand on the mainbackstay.

"Men," he said, "are you wondering what has sent you out here?"

Maybe they were, but the rather sleepy, apathetic, breakfastless lines
before him showed little sign of it.

"Are you wondering what has sent me out to sea with you?"

By God, they _were_ wondering that. There must have been speculation on
the lower deck as to why a full commodore--and not only a commodore, but
Hornblower of the legendary past--should have been sent to sea in a mere
eighteen-gun brig. It was flattering to see a movement of interest in
the lines, a lifting of heads, even while Hornblower cursed at fate for
having to make use of rhetorical tricks, and more for having to exploit
his own personal renown.

"There is villainy afloat," said Hornblower. "British seamen have
disgraced themselves. They have mutinied in the very presence of the
enemy."

He had the men's interest now, without a doubt. He had said the word
"mutiny" to these slaves of the lash and the whistle. Mutiny, the remedy
for all their ills, which would give them freedom from the hardship of
their lives, the cruelty and the danger, the foul food and the severance
from all the amenities of life. One crew had mutinied. Why should not
they do so too? He would have to tell them about the _Flame_, remind
them that close at hand by the shores of France, where Bonaparte would
gladly heap wealth and luxury upon any British seaman who brought a
British ship of war over to him. Hornblower let a note of contempt creep
into his voice.

"The crew of the _Flame_, our own sister-ship, has done this thing. Now
they are sheltering here in this very bay of the Seine. Every man's hand
is against them. The French have no use for mutineers, and it is our
mission to dig these rats from their holes. They have betrayed England,
forgotten their duty to King and Country. I expect most of them are
honest but stupid, led astray by a few designing villains. It is those
villains who must pay the price of their villainy, and we must see they
have no chance of escape. If they are mad enough to offer fight, then we
must fight them. If they surrender without bloodshed, that fact will be
remembered in their favour when they are brought to trial. I want no
bloodshed if I can help it--you know as well as I do that a cannon-shot
will kill a man without stopping to ask whether he is a villain or just
a fool. But if they want bloodshed, then we shall let them have it."

Hornblower ended his speech, and looked over to Freeman to dismiss the
men. It was a cheerless business making a speech to hungry men in a grey
dawn, but Hornblower, darting glances at the men as they went about
their business, saw that there was nothing to fear from the ship's
company. They were buzzing with talk, of course, but news of mutiny
would set any crew a-buzz, just as a village would be set a-buzz by news
of a local murder. But it was only gossipy talk, he could see; the men
were not making any deductions from the news. He had presented the case
to them in such a way as to make it obvious to them that he expected
them to obey his orders for dealing with the mutineers, and he had let
no hint creep into his speech of his fear that they should be tempted to
follow their example. That had not occurred to them yet--but it might,
if they were allowed to ruminate over it. He must see that they were
kept busy; the ordinary ship's routine was attending to that at the
moment, for they were at work on the opening business of every naval
day, washing down the decks before being piped to breakfast.

"Land!" yelled a voice from the masthead. "Land on the port bow."

It was rather thick weather, typical Channel weather for the end of the
year, but in the growing light Hornblower could see the dark line
against the grey. Freeman was scrutinising the coast through his glass.

"That's the south shore of the Bay," said Freeman. "There's the Cane
river."

Hornblower was only just beginning to realise that Freeman was
anglicising the pronunciation of "Caen" when Freeman trained his
telescope round and gave a string of more surprising examples still of
what an Englishman can do to French names.

"Yes, there's Cape dee lay Heave, and Harbour-Grace," he said.

The growing light revealed the _Porta Coeli's_ position, over towards
the southern shore of the estuary of the Seine.

"That was an excellent piece of navigation last night, Mr. Freeman."

"Thank you, Sir Horatio."

Hornblower would have added more words of warmer praise, if it had not
been for Freeman's rather chilling manner; he supposed Freeman was
entitled to be short-tempered before breakfast if he wished. And any
capable lieutenant was entitled to be jealous of a captain; in the
opinion of every ambitious lieutenant a captain was just a lieutenant
who had been lucky and who would continue to be lucky, drawing three
times a lieutenant's pay and prize-money, reaping the harvest of the
lieutenant's labours, and secure in the knowledge that time would make
an admiral of him in the end while the lieutenant's promotion still
depended on the whims of his superiors. Hornblower could remember
feeling just the same when he was a lieutenant; for Freeman to show it
was natural even though foolish.

The leadsman's cry in the chains indicated that the water was shoaling
again; they had left the middle ground far behind them and had now
crossed the southerly channel of the estuary. There was still plenty of
water for the _Porta Coeli_; she had been expressly designed for this
very purpose of penetrating into inlets and estuaries, carrying the war
as close to Bonaparte's shores as might be. Bonaparte's dominion stopped
short at the line which the shot from his shore batteries could reach,
and beyond that line England ruled supreme and unchallenged.

"Sail on the lee bow!" yelled the lookout.

Freeman swung himself up to the lee main-shrouds with the agility of an
ape; braced against the ratlines, he trained his glass forward.

"A brig, sir," he sailed down to Hornblower, and a few seconds later,
"That's _Flame_ all right, sir."

"Put the helm up and we'll bear down on her, Mr. Freeman, if you
please."

_Flame_ was exactly where one would expect to find her, close up under
the lee of the land, sheltered from any gale from northwest round to
east; and free to consult her own safety whether attacked by British or
French. Soon Hornblower's own glass picked her out from the grey murk. A
trim, beautiful little vessel, lying hove-to on the edge of the shoals.
She showed no signs, at that distance at least, of any disorder on
board. Hornblower wondered how many telescopes there were being trained
upon the _Porta Coeli_, what anxious debate was being held on board by
men recognising the new arrival as the first move on the part of their
Lordships of the Admiralty in reply to their suicidal ultimatum. Those
men had ropes round their necks.

"She's waiting for us to come down to her," said Freeman.

"I wonder for how long?" answered Hornblower.

"What are your men standing chattering there for?" suddenly blared out
Freeman, addressing a group of excited seamen lining the bulwark
forward. "Master-at-arms! Master-at-arms! Take those men's names and
bring them to me at the end of the watch! You bos'un's mate, there!
Collier! Keep those men of yours at work! This is a King's ship, not a
blasted school for young ladies!"

A thin beam of watery sunshine broke through the greyness and lit up the
_Flame_ as she lay in the circle of Hornblower's glass. He suddenly saw
her yards swing round; she put herself before the wind and began to move
in the direction of Honfleur. Her foretopsail was conspicuously
patched--a light cross against the darker material, as if she were some
Crusading ship.

"They won't stand and wait for us," said Freeman.

"Sail-ho!" yelled the lookout again. "Sail on the lee quarter!"

Telescopes swung round as if all were actuated by a single machine. A
big ship with all plain sail set to the royals had appeared out of the
mist beyond the middle ground, on a course rapidly diverging from that
of the _Porta Coeli_. Hornblower recognised her instantly for what she
was, and did not need Freeman's identification.

"French West Indiaman," said Freeman. "With a clear run to
Harbour-Grace."

One of the rare ships to run the continental blockade, bearing an
invaluable cargo of grain and sugar to ease Bonaparte's distress; she
had taken advantage of the recent gale, which had blown the blockading
squadrons from their stations, to dash up the Channel. A cargo delivered
into the Seine, where centred the Imperial power, and whence diverged
the whole road and canal system, was worth two brought into some
isolated inlet on the Biscay coast. The small British vessels of war,
like the _Porta Coeli_ and the _Flame_, had been constructed and
stationed to prevent this very thing.

"There'll be no catching her before she reaches Harbour-Grace," muttered
Freeman.

"Let her go, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower, loudly. "Our duty's with
_Flame_ at present. There goes ten pounds a man prize-money."

There were enough hands within earshot to hear that speech; they would
repeat it to the rest of the crew. No one who thought of the lost
prize-money would feel any better disposed towards the mutineers.

Hornblower turned his attention back to the _Flame_; she was standing
steadily and without hesitation on a course which would take her into
Honfleur. It would not be long before she was in French power, and it
would be foolish to press matters to such an extreme, even though it was
a bitter pill to swallow, to admit a check.

"Oh, heave-to, Mr. Freeman, please. Let's see what she does then."

The _Porta Coeli_ came up into the wind in response to sail and helm,
Hornblower training round his glass to keep _Flame_ under observation.
The moment the _Porta Coeli's_ manoeuvre became apparent, the _Flame_
imitated it, coming up into the wind and lying motionless, the white
cross conspicuous on her foretopsail.

"Try bearing down on them again, Mr. Freeman."

_Flame_ turned away instantly towards France.

"A wink's as good as a nod, Mr. Freeman. Heave-to again."

Clearly the mutineers had no intention of allowing the _Porta Coeli_ to
come any nearer than she was at present, well beyond cannon shot. She
would hand herself over to the French sooner than permit any closer
approach.

"Mr. Freeman, will you be so good as to have a boat hoisted out for me?
I'll go and parley with the villains."

That would be a sign of weakness, but the mutineers could be in no doubt
about the weakness of his position and the corresponding strength of
their own. It would be telling them nothing they did not know already,
that they held Hornblower and the Lords of the Admiralty and the British
Empire itself in a cleft stick. Freeman showed no signs of his doubts
regarding the advisability of a valuable captain putting himself in the
power of mutineers. Hornblower went below to pocket his orders; it might
even be necessary to show the mutineers the full powers with which he
had been entrusted--but it would be only in the last resort that he
would do so; that would be letting the mutineers too much into their
Lordships' confidence. The boat was overside with Brown at the tiller
when Hornblower came on deck again; Hornblower went down the side and
settled himself into the sternsheets.

"Give way!" ordered Brown; the oars bit the water and the boat began to
crawl towards the _Flame_, dancing over the little waves of the estuary.

Hornblower watched the brig as they approached; she lay hove-to, but
Hornblower could see that her guns were run out and her
boarding-nettings rigged, and she had clearly no intention of being
taken by surprise. The hands were at their guns, there were lookouts
aloft, a warrant officer aft with a telescope under his arm--not a sign
in the world of mutiny on board.

"Boat ahoy!" came the hail across the water.

Brown held up his four fingers, the universal signal that there was a
captain in the boat--four fingers for the four side-boys demanded by
ceremonial.

"Who are ye?" hailed the voice.

Brown looked round at Hornblower, received a nod from him, and hailed
back.

"Commodore Sir Horatio Hornblower, K.B."

"We'll allow Commodore Hornblower on board, but no one else. Come
alongside, and we've cold shot here to drop into you if you play any
tricks."

Hornblower reached for the mainchains and swung himself up into them; a
seaman raised the boarding-nettings so that he could struggle under them
to the deck.

"Kindly tell your boat to sheer off, Commodore. We're taking no risks,"
said a voice.

It was a white-haired old man who addressed him, the telescope under his
arm marking him out as officer of the watch. White hair fluttered about
his ears; sharp blue eyes in a wrinkled face looked at Hornblower from
under white brows. The only thing in the least bizarre about his
appearance was a pistol stuck in his belt. Hornblower turned and gave
the required order.

"And now may I ask your business here, Commodore?" asked the old man.

"I wish to speak to the leader of the mutineers."

"I am captain of this ship. You can address yourself to me, Nathaniel
Sweet, sir."

"I have addressed myself to you as far as I desire, unless you are also
the leader of the mutineers."

"Then if you have done so, you can call back your boat and leave us,
sir."

An impasse already. Hornblower kept his eyes on the blue ones of the old
man. There were several other men within earshot, but he could sense no
wavering or doubt among them; they were prepared to support their
captain. Yet it might be worth while speaking to them.

"Men!" said Hornblower, raising his voice.

"Belay that!" rapped out the old man. He whipped the pistol out of his
belt and pointed it at Hornblower's stomach. "One more word out of turn
and you'll get an ounce of lead through you."

Hornblower looked steadily back at him and his weapon; he was curiously
unafraid, feeling as if he were watching move and counter-move in some
chess game, without remembering that he himself was one of the pawns in
it with his life at stake.

"Kill me," he said with a grim smile, "and England won't rest until
you're swinging on a gallows."

"England has sent you here to swing me on a gallows as it is," said
Sweet, bleakly.

"No," said Hornblower. "I am here to recall you to your duty to King and
Country."

"Letting bygones be bygones?"

"You will have to stand a fair trial, you and your confederates."

"That means the gallows, as I said," replied Sweet. "The gallows for me,
and I should be fortunate compared with some of these others."

"A fair and honest trial," said Hornblower, "with every mitigating
circumstance taken into consideration."

"The only trial I would attend," replied the old man, "would be to bear
witness against Chadwick. Full pardon for us--a fair trial for Chadwick.
Those are our terms, sir."

"You are foolish," said Hornblower. "You are throwing away your last
chance. Surrender now, with Mr. Chadwick unbound and the ship in good
order, and those circumstances will weigh heavily in your favour at your
trial. Refuse, and what have you to look for? Death. That is all. Death.
What can save you from our country's vengeance? Nothing."

"Begging your pardon, Captain, but Boney can," interposed the old man,
dryly.

"You trust Bonaparte's word?" said Hornblower, rallying desperately
before this unexpected counter-attack. "He'd like to have this ship, no
doubt. But you and your gang? Bonaparte won't encourage mutiny--his
power rests too much on his own army. He'll hand you back for us to make
an example of you."

It was a wild shot in the dark, and it missed its bull's-eye by an
unmeasurable distance. Sweet stuck his pistol back into his belt and
produced three letters from his pocket, waving them tauntingly in front
of Hornblower.

"Here's a letter from the Military Governor of Harbour-Grace," he said.
"That only promises us welcome. And here's a letter from the Prefect of
the Department of the Inferior Seine. That promises us provisions and
water should we need them. And here's a letter from Paris, sent down to
us by post. It promises us imm-immunity from arrest, civil rights in
France, and a pension for every man from the age of sixty. That is
signed 'Marie Louise, Empress, Queen, and Regent.' Boney won't go back
on his wife's word, sir.

"You've been in communication with the shore?" gasped Hornblower. It was
quite impossible for him to make any pretence at composure.

"We have," said the old man. "And if you had the chance before you,
Captain, of being flogged round the fleet, you would have done the
same."

It was hopeless to continue the present discussion. At least at the
moment, the mutineers were unassailable. The only terms to which they
would listen would be their own. There was no sign of doubt or
dissension on board. But maybe if they were allowed more time to think
about it, maybe if they had a few hours in which to consider the fact
that Hornblower himself was on their trail, doubt might creep in. A
party might form determined to save their necks by recapturing the ship;
they might get at the liquor--Hornblower was completely puzzled by the
fact that a mutinous British crew was not all roaring drunk--_something_
might happen. But he must make a fighting retreat, not ignominiously
crawl overside with his tail between his legs.

"So you are traitors as well as mutineers?" he blared. "I might have
expected it. I might have guessed what kind of curs you are. I won't
foul my lungs by breathing the same air as you."

He turned to the side and hailed for his boat.

"We're the kind of curs," said the old man, "who will let you go when we
could clap you down below in the orlop with Chadwick. We could give you
a taste of the cat, Commodore Sir Horatio Hornblower. How would you like
_that_, sir? Remember, tomorrow, that the flesh is still on your ribs
because _we_ spared you. Good morning to you, Captain."

There was sting and venom in those last words; they called up pictures
in Hornblower's imagination that made his flesh creep. He did not feel
in the least dignified as he wriggled under the boarding-netting.

The _Flame_ still rode peacefully to the wind as the boat danced back
over the waves. Hornblower gazed from the _Flame_ to the _Porta Coeli_,
the two sister-ships, identical in appearance save for the white
cross-shaped patch on the _Flame's_ foretopsail. It was ironical that
not even a trained eye could see any difference in appearance between
the brig that was loyal to the King and the brig that was in open
rebellion against him. The thought increased his bitterness; he had
failed, utterly and completely, in his first attempt to win over the
mutineers. He did not think there was the least possibility of their
abating their terms; he would have to choose between agreeing to them,
between promising the mutineers a free pardon and driving them into the
hands of Bonaparte. In either case he would have failed in his mission;
the merest least experienced midshipman in the Navy could have done as
much. There was still some time to spare, for there was still little
chance of news of the mutiny leaking out, but unless time brought
dissension among the mutineers--and he saw no chance of that--it would
be merely wasted time as far as he could see.

The boat was now half-way between the two brigs; with those two vessels
under his command he could wage a lively war against the Normandy coast;
he felt in his bones that he could set the whole Seine estuary in an
uproar. His bitterness surged up stronger still, and then abruptly
checked itself. An idea had come to him, and with the idea all the
well-known old symptoms, the dryness in his throat, the tingling in his
legs, the accelerated heartbeat. He swept his glance back and forth
between the two brigs, excitement welling up inside him; calculations of
wind and tide and daylight already formulating themselves, unsummoned,
in his mind.

"Pull harder, you men," he said to the boat's crew, and they obeyed him,
but the gig could not possibly travel fast enough to satisfy him in his
new mood.

Brown was looking at him sidelong, wondering what plan was evoking
itself in his captain's brain; Brown himself--as well aware of the
circumstances as Hornblower was--could see no possible way out of the
situation. All he knew was that his captain looked back over his
shoulder time and time again at the mutinous brig.

"Oars!" growled Brown to the boat's crew, as the officer of the watch
gave the signal to the boat to come alongside; the bowman hooked onto
the chains, and Hornblower went up the brig's side with a clumsy
impetuosity that he could not restrain. Freeman was waiting for him on
the quarter-deck, and Hornblower's hand was still at his hat when he
gave his first order.

"Will you pass the word for the sailmaker, Mr. Freeman? And I shall want
his mates, and every hand who can use a needle and palm."

"Aye aye, sir."

Orders were orders, even when they dealt with such extraneous matters as
making sails while negotiating with a mutinous crew. Hornblower stared
over at the _Flame_, still lying hove-to out of gunshot. The mutineers
held a strong, an unassailable position, one which no frontal attack
could break, and whose flanks were impregnable. It would be a very
roundabout route that could turn such a position; maybe he had thought
of one. There were some odd circumstances in his favour, fortunate
coincidences. It was his business to seize upon those, exploit them to
the utmost. He would have to take reckless chances, but he would do
everything in his power to reduce the chances against him. The lucky man
is he who knows how much to leave to chance.

A stoop-shouldered seaman was awaiting his attention, Freeman at his
side.

"Swenson, sailmaker's mate, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Freeman. You see that patched foretops'l? Swenson, look
at it well through this glass."

The Swedish sailmaker took the telescope in his gnarled hands and
levelled it to his eye.

"Mr. Freeman, I want _Porta Coeli_ to have a foretops'l just like that,
so that no eye can see any difference between the two. Can that be
done?"

Freeman looked at Swenson.

"Aye aye, sir, I can do that," said Swenson, glancing from Freeman to
Hornblower and back again. "There's a bolt o' white duck canvas, an'
with the old foretops'l--I can do it, sir."

"I want it finished and ready to bend by four bells in the afternoon
watch. Start work on it now."

A little group had formed behind Swenson, those members of the crew whom
inquiry had ascertained to have sailmaking experience. There were broad
grins on some of their faces; Hornblower seemed to be conscious of a
little wave of excitement and anticipation spreading through the crew
like a ripple over a pond set up by the stone dropped into it in the
form of Hornblower's unusual request. No one could see clearly as yet
what was in Hornblower's mind, but they knew that he intended some
devilment. The knowledge was a better tonic to discipline and the
happiness of the ship than any ordinary ship's routine.

"Now see here, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower, moving towards the rail.
"What I propose is this--_Flame_ and _Porta Coeli_ are as like as two
peas and they'll be liker yet as soon as we have that foretops'l set.
The mutineers have been in communication with the shore; they told me
so, and, what's more, Mr. Freeman, the place they've had dealings with
is Le Havre--Harbour-Grace, Mr. Freeman. Boney and the governor have
promised them money and immunity to bring the _Flame_ in. We'll go in
instead. There's that West Indiaman we saw coming in this morning."

"We'll bring her out, sir!"

"Maybe we will. God knows what we'll find inside, but we'll go in ready
for anything. Pick twenty men and an officer, men you can rely on. Give
each one his orders about what he is to do if we have a chance to take a
prize--heads'ls, tops'ls, wheel, cutting the cable. You know about all
that as well as I do. It'll be just at dusk that we stand in, if the
wind doesn't change, and I don't think it will. It'll be strange if in
the dark we don't contrive something to annoy the Frogs."

"By God, sir, an' they'll think it's the mutineers! They'll think the
mutiny was just a sham! They'll--"

"I hope they will, Mr. Freeman."




CHAPTER VI


It was late afternoon when the _Porta Coeli_, apparently unable to reach
any decision, stood away from the _Flame_ and crossed the broad estuary
with the wind blowing briskly on her port beam. The thick weather still
persisted; she was far enough both from _Flame_ and from Le Havre for
the details to be quite obscure when she took in her foretopsail and
substituted for it the patched one which an enthusiastic gang of toilers
had made ready on deck abaft the foremast. Hurried work with paintbrush
and paint erased one name and substituted the other; Hornblower and
Freeman wore their plain pea-jackets over their uniforms, concealing
their rank. Freeman kept his glass trained on the harbour as they stood
in.

"That's the Indiaman, sir. At anchor. And there's a lighter beside her.
O' course, they wouldn't unload her at the quay. Not here, sir. They'd
put her cargo into lighters an' barges, and send 'em up the river, to
Rouen and Paris. O' course they would. I ought to ha' thought o' that
before."

Hornblower had already thought of it. His glass was sweeping the
defences of the town; the forts of Ste. Adresse and Tourneville on the
steep cliff above the town; the twin lighthouses on Cape de la
Hve--which for a dozen years had not shown a light--the batteries on
the low ground beside the old jetty. These last would be the great
danger to the enterprise; he hoped that the big forts above would not
know of what was going on down below in time to open fire.

"There's a lot of shipping farther in, sir," went on Freeman. "Might
even be ships of the line. They haven't their yards crossed. I've never
been in as close as this before."

Hornblower turned to look at the western sky. Night was fast falling,
and the thick weather on the horizon showed no signs of clearing. He
wanted light enough to find his way, and darkness enough to cover him on
his way out.

"Here's the pilot lugger standing out, sir," said Freeman. "They'll
think we're _Flame_ all right."

"Very good, Mr. Freeman. Set the men to cheering at the ship's side.
Secure the pilot when he comes on board. I'll con her in."

"Aye aye, sir."

It was just the sort of order to suit the temperament of British seamen.
They entered whole-heartedly into the spirit of the thing, yelling like
lunatics along the bulwarks, waving their hats, dancing exuberantly,
just as one would expect of a horde of mutineers. The _Porta Coeli_
backed her maintopsail, the lugger surged alongside, and the pilot swung
himself into the mainchains.

"Lee braces!" roared Hornblower, the maintopsail caught the wind again,
the wheel went over, and the _Porta Coeli_ stood into the harbour, while
Freeman put his shoulder between the pilot's shoulderblades and shot him
neatly down the hatchway where two men were waiting to seize and pinion
him.

"Pilot secured, sir," he reported.

He, too, was obviously carried away by the excitement of the moment,
infected even by the din the hands were making; his pose of amused irony
had completely disappeared.

"Starboard a little," said Hornblower to the helmsman. "Meet her! Steady
as you go!"

It would be the last word in ignominy if all their high hopes were to
come to an end on the sandbanks guarding the entrance. Hornblower
wondered if he would ever feel cool again.

"A cutter standing out to us, sir," reported Freeman.

That might be a committee of welcome, or orders telling them where to
berth--both at once, probably.

"Set the hands to cheering again," ordered Hornblower. "Have the
boarding-party secured as they come on board."

"Aye aye, sir."

They were nearing the big Indiaman; she lay, her sails loose, swinging
to a single anchor. There was a lighter beside her, but obviously little
enough had been done so far towards unloading her. In the fading light
Hornblower could just make out a dozen of her seamen standing at the
ship's side gazing curiously at them. Hornblower backed the maintopsail
again, and the cutter came alongside, and half a dozen officials climbed
onto the _Porta Coeli's_ deck. Their uniforms proclaimed their
connection with the navy, the army, and the customs service, and they
advanced slowly towards Hornblower, looking curiously about them as they
did so. Hornblower was giving the orders that got the _Porta Coeli_
under way again, and as she drew away from the cutter in the gathering
darkness he wore her round and headed her for the Indiaman. Cutlasses
suddenly gleamed about the new arrivals.

"Make a sound and you're dead men," said Freeman.

Somebody made a sound, beginning to protest volubly. A seaman brought a
pistol butt down on his head and the protests ended abruptly as the
protester clattered on the deck. The others were hustled down the
hatchway, too dazed and startled to speak.

"Very well, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower, drawling the words so as to
convey the impression that he felt perfectly at home here in the middle
of a hostile harbour. "You may hoist out the boats. Maintops'l aback!"

The shore authorities would be watching the brig's movements by what
little light was left. If the _Porta Coeli_ did anything unexpected,
they would wonder idly what unknown condition on board had caused the
harbourmaster's representative--now gagged and bound under hatches--to
change his plans. The _Porta Coeli's_ motion died away; the sheaves
squealed as the boats dropped into the water, and the picked crews
tumbled down into them. Hornblower leaned over the side.

"Remember, men, don't fire a shot!"

The oars splashed as the boats pulled over to the Indiaman. It was
practically dark by now; Hornblower could hardly follow the boats to the
Indiaman's side fifty yards away, and he could see nothing of the men as
they swarmed up her side. Faintly he heard some startled exclamations,
and then one loud cry; that might puzzle the people on shore, but would
not put them on their guard. Here were the boats returning, each pulled
by the two men detailed for the work. The tackles were hooked on and the
boats swayed up; as the sheaves squealed again Hornblower heard a
crunching sound from the Indiaman, and a dull thump or two--the hand
detailed to cut the cable was doing his work, and had actually
remembered to carry the axe with him when he went up the ship's side.
Hornblower felt the satisfaction of a job well done; his careful
instruction of the boarding-party in the afternoon, his methodical
allocation of duties to each individual man, and his reiteration of his
orders until everyone thoroughly understood the part he had to play were
bearing fruit.

Against the misty sky he saw the Indiaman's topsails changing shape: the
men allotted to the task were sheeting them home. Thank God for a few
prime seamen who, arriving in darkness in a strange ship, could find
their way to the right places and lay their hands on the right lines
without confusion. Hornblower saw the Indiaman's yards come round; in
the darkness he could just see a black blur detach itself from her side,
the lighter, cut adrift and floating away.

"You can square away, Mr. Freeman, if you please," he said. "The
Indiaman will follow us out."

The _Porta Coeli_ gathered way and headed for the southeastern exit of
the harbour, the Indiaman close at her stern. For several long seconds
there was no sign of any interest being taken in these movements. Then
came a hail, apparently from the cutter which had brought the officials
aboard. It was so long since Hornblower had heard or spoken French that
he could not understand the words used.

"_Comment?_" he yelled back through the speaking-trumpet.

An irascible voice asked him again what in the name of the devil he
thought he was doing.

"Anchorage--mumble--current--mumble--tide," yelled Hornblower in reply.

This time the unknown in the cutter invoked the name of God instead of
that of the devil.

"Who in God's name is that?"

"Mumble mumble mumble," bellowed Hornblower back again, and quietly to
the helmsman, "Bring her slowly round to port."

Carrying on a conversation with the French authorities while taking a
vessel down an involved channel--however well he had memorized the
latter on the chart--taxed his resources.

"Heave-to!" yelled the voice.

"Pardon, Captain," yelled Hornblower back.
"Mumble--anchor-cable--mumble--impossible."

Another loud hail from the cutter, full of menace.

"Steady as you go," cried Hornblower to the helmsman. "Mr. Freeman, a
hand at the lead, if you please."

He knew there was no chance of gaining any more precious seconds; by the
time the leadsman was calling the depths and revealing the brig's design
of evasion the shore authorities would be fully alert. A pinpoint of
light stabbed the thin mist and the sound of a musket-shot came over the
water; the cutter was taking the quickest method of attracting the
attention of the shore batteries.

"Stand by to go about!" rasped Hornblower; this was the most ticklish
moment of the outward passage.

The brig's canvas volleyed as she came round, and simultaneously there
was a bigger tongue of red flame in the darkness and the sound of the
cutter's six-pounder bow chaser, cleared away and loaded at last.
Hornblower heard no sound of the ball. He was busy looking back at the
Indiaman, dimly showing in the minute light of the brig's wake. She was
coming about neatly. That master's mate--Calverly--whom Freeman had
recommended for the command of the boarding-party was a capable officer,
and must be highly praised when the time should come to send in a
report.

And then from the jetty came a succession of flashes and a rolling roar;
the big thirty-two pounders there had opened fire at last. The sound of
the last shot was instantly followed by the noise of a ball passing
close by; Hornblower had time somehow to note how much he hated that
noise. They were having to round the jetty, and would be within range
for several minutes. There was no sign of damage either to the brig or
the Indiaman as yet--and there was nothing in favour of returning the
fire, for the brig's little six-pounders would make no impression on the
solid battery, while the flashes would reveal the vessel's position. He
took note of the cry of the leadsman; it would be some minutes before he
could tack again and stand directly away from the jetty. It was a long
time, on the other hand, before the battery fired again. Bonaparte must
have stripped his shore defences of seasoned gunners in order to man the
artillery of his army in Germany; untrained recruits, called upon
suddenly to man their guns, and working in darkness, would naturally be
unhandy. Here it came, the flash and the roar, but this time there was
no sound of any shot passing--maybe the gunners had lost all sense of
direction and elevation, which was easy enough in the darkness. And the
flashes from the guns were convenient in enabling Hornblower to check
his position.

A yell came from the lookout in the bows, and Hornblower, looking
forward, could just make out the dark square of the top of the
pilot-lugger's mainsail, close in on their starboard bow. They were
making an effort to impede the brig's escape.

"Steady!" said Hornblower to the helmsman.

Let the weakest go to the wall; there was a shattering crash as brig and
lugger met, starboard bow to starboard bow. The brig shuddered and
lurched and drove on, the lugger rasping down her side. Something caught
and tore loose again, and there came, as the vessels parted, a thin
despairing yell from the lugger. The little vessel's bows must have been
smashed in like an eggshell by that shock, and the water must be pouring
in. The cries died away; Hornblower distinctly heard one wailing voice
abruptly cut short, as if water was pouring into the mouth of the
despairing swimmer. The Indiaman was still holding her course in the
brig's wake.

"By the mark eight!" called the leadsman.

He could lay her on the other tack now, and as he gave the order the
battery at the jetty again roared harmlessly. They would be out of range
by the time the gunners could reload.

"A very good piece of work, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower, loudly. "All
hands did their duty admirably."

Somebody in the darkness began to cheer, and the cry was taken up
throughout the brig. The men were yelling like madmen.

"Horny! Good old Horny!" yelled somebody, and the cheering redoubled.

Even from astern they could hear the exiguous prize crew of the Indiaman
joining in; Hornblower felt a sudden smarting of the eyes, and then
experienced a new revulsion of feeling. He felt a little twinge of shame
at being fond of these simpletons. Besides----

"Mr. Freeman," he said, harshly, "kindly keep the hands quiet."

The risk he had run had been enormous. Not merely the physical danger,
but the danger to his reputation. Had he failed, had the _Porta Coeli_
been disabled and captured, men would not have stopped to think about
his real motive, which was to make the French authorities believe that
the _Flame's_ mutiny was merely a ruse to enable the brig to enter the
harbour. No; men would have said that Hornblower had tried to take
advantage of the mutiny to feather his own nest, had thrown away the
_Porta Coeli_ and had left the mutineers unmolested merely to grab at an
opportunity to acquire prize-money. That was what they would have
said--and all the appearances would have borne out the assumption--and
Hornblower's reputation would have been eternally tarnished. He had
risked his honour as well as his life and liberty. He had gambled
everything in hare-brained fashion, thrown colossal stakes on the board
for a meagre prize, like the fool he was.

Then the wave of black reaction ebbed away. He had taken a calculated
risk, and his calculation had proved exact. It would be a long time
before the mutineers could clear up their misunderstanding with the
French authorities--Hornblower could imagine the messengers hurrying at
this moment to warn the coastal defences at Honfleur and Caen--even if
eventually they should succeed in doing so. He had turned the mutineers'
position, cut off their retreat. He had bearded Bonaparte under the
batteries of his own capital river. And there was the prize he had
taken; at least a thousand pounds, his share would be, when the
prize-money came to be reckoned up, and a thousand pounds was a welcome
sum of money, a gratifying sum. Barbara and he would find it useful.

Emotion and excitement had left him tired. He was about to tell Freeman
that he was going below, and then he checked himself. It would be an
unnecessary speech; if Freeman could not find him on deck he would know
perfectly well that he was in his cabin. He dragged himself wearily down
to his cot.




CHAPTER VII


"Mr. Freeman's respects, sir," said Brown, "an' he said to tell you that
day's just breaking, fairly clear, sir. Wind's backed to sou'-by-west,
sir, during the night, blowin' moderate. We're hove-to, us an' the
prize, an' it's the last of the floodtide now, sir."

"Very good," said Hornblower, rolling out of his cot. He was still heavy
with sleep, and the tiny cabin seemed stuffy, as well as chilly,
although the stern window was open.

"I'll have my bath," said Hornblower, reaching a sudden decision. "Go
and get the wash-deck pump rigged."

He felt unclean; although this was November in the Channel he could not
live through another day without a bath. His ear caught some surprised
and jocular comments from the hands rigging the pump as he came up
through the hatchway, but he paid them no attention. He threw off his
dressing-gown, and a puzzled and nervous seaman, in the half-light,
turned the jet of the canvas hose upon him while another worked the
pump. The bitterly cold sea-water stung as it hit his naked skin, and he
leaped and danced and turned about grotesquely, gasping. The seamen did
not realise it when he wanted the jet stopped, and when he tried to
escape from it they followed him up across the deck.

"Avast, there!" he yelled in desperation, half frozen and half drowned,
and the merciless stream stopped.

Brown threw the big towel round him, and he scrubbed his tingling skin,
while he jumped and shivered with the stimulus of the cold.

"I'd be frozen for a week if I tried that, sir," said Freeman, who had
been an interested spectator.

"Yes," said Hornblower, discouraging conversation.

His skin glowed delightfully as he put on his clothes in his cabin with
the window shut, and his shivering ceased. He drank thirstily of the
steaming coffee which Brown brought him, revelling in the pleasant and
unexpected feeling of well-being that filled him. He ran light-heartedly
on deck again. The morning was already brighter; the captured Indiaman
could now be made out, hove-to half a gunshot to leeward.

"Orders, Sir Horatio?" said Freeman, touching his hat.

Hornblower swept his glance round, playing for time. He had been
culpably negligent of business; he had given no thought to his duty
since he woke--since he went below to sleep, for that matter. He should
order the prize back to England at once, but he could not do that
without taking the opportunity of sending a written report back with
her, and at this moment he simply hated the thought of labouring over a
report.

"The prisoners, sir," prompted Freeman.

O God, he had forgotten the prisoners. They would have to be
interrogated and note made of what they had to say. Hornblower felt
bone-lazy as well as full of well-being--an odd combination.

"They might have plenty to say, sir," went on Freeman, remorselessly.
"The pilot talks some English, and we had him in the wardroom last
night. He says Boney's been licked again. At a place called Leipzig, or
some name like that. He says the Russians'll be over the Rhine in a
week. Boney's back in Paris already. Maybe it's the end of the war."

Hornblower and Freeman exchanged glances; it was a full year since the
world had begun to look for the end of the war, and many hopes had
blossomed and wilted during that year. But the Russians on the Rhine!
Even though the English army's entrance upon the soil of France in the
south had not shaken down the Empire, this new invasion might bring that
about. Yet there had been plenty of forecasts--Hornblower had made
some--to the effect that the first defeat of Bonaparte in the open field
would bring to an end at the same time both his reputation for
invincibility and his reign. These forecasts about the invasion of the
Empire might be as inaccurate.

"Sail-ho!" yelled the lookout, and in the same breath: "She's the
_Flame_, sir."

There she was, as before; the parting mist revealed her for only a
moment before closing round her again, and then a fresh breath of wind
shredded the mist and left her in plain sight. Hornblower reached the
decision he had so far been unable to make.

"Clear the ship for action, Mr. Freeman, if you please. We're going to
fetch her out."

Of course, it was the only thing to do. During the night, within an hour
of the cutting-out of the French Indiaman, the word would be sent flying
round warning all French ports in the neighbourhood that the British
brig with the white cross on her foretopsail was playing a double game,
and only masquerading as a mutinous vessel. The news must have reached
this side of the estuary by midnight--the courier could cross on the
ferry at Quilleboeuf or elsewhere. Everyone would be on the watch for the
brig to attempt another coup, and this bank of the river would be the
obvious place. Any delay would give the mutineers a chance to reopen
communication with the shore and to clear up the situation; if the
authorities on shore were once to discover that there were two brigs,
sister-ships, in the Bay of the Seine the mutineers might be saved that
trouble. Not an hour ought to be lost.

It was all very clear and logical, yet Hornblower found himself gulping
nervously as he stood on the quarter-deck. It could only mean a
hammer-and-tongs battle--he would be in the thick of it in an hour. This
deck which he trod would be swept by the grapeshot of the _Flame's_
carronades; within the hour he might be dead; within the hour he might
be shrieking under the surgeon's knife. Last night he had faced
disaster, but this morning he was facing death. That warm glow which his
bath had induced in him had vanished completely, so that he found
himself on the point of shivering in the chill of the morning. He
scowled at himself in frantic self-contempt, and forced himself to pace
brightly and jerkily up and down the tiny quarter-deck. His memories
were unmanning him, he told himself. The memory of Richard trotting
beside him in the sunset, holding his finger in an unbreakable clutch;
the memory of Barbara; the memory even of Smallbridge or of Bond
Street--he did not want to be separated from these things, to "leave the
warm precincts of the cheerful day." He wanted to live, and soon he
might die.

_Flame_ had set more sail--boom-mainsail and jibs; close-hauled she
could fetch Honfleur without ever coming within range of the _Porta
Coeli's_ guns. Hornblower's fears withdrew into the background as his
restless mind, despite itself, interested itself in the tactical aspects
of the problem before it.

"See that the hands have some breakfast, if you please, Mr. Freeman," he
said. "And it would be best if the guns were not run out yet."

"Aye aye, sir."

It might be a long, hard battle, and the men should have their breakfast
first. And running out the guns would tell the people in _Flame_ that
the _Porta Coeli_ expected a fight, and that would warn them that maybe
their escape into French protection might not be easy. The more perfect
the surprise, the greater the chance of an easy victory. Hornblower
glowered at the _Flame_ through his glass. He felt a dull, sullen rage
against the mutineers who had caused all this trouble, whose mad action
was imperilling his life. The sympathy he had felt towards them when he
was seated in the safety of the Admiralty was replaced now by a fierce
resentment. The villains deserved hanging--the thought changed his mood
so that he could smile as he met Freeman's eyes when the latter reported
the brig cleared for action.

"Very good, Mr. Freeman."

His eyes were dancing with excitement; he looked over at _Flame_ again
just as a fresh hail came from the masthead.

"Deck, there! There's a whole lot of small craft putting out from the
beach, sir. Headin' for _Flame_ it looks like, sir."

The mutineers' brig was going through the same performance as yesterday,
heading towards the French coast just out of gunshot of the _Porta
Coeli_, ready to take refuge sooner than fight; the mutineers must think
the small craft a welcoming deputation, coming to escort them in. And
there was thick weather liable to close in on them again at any moment,
_Flame_ was spilling the wind from her mainsail, her every action
denoting increasing hesitation. Probably on her quarter-deck there was a
heated argument going on, one party insisting on keeping out of range of
the _Porta Coeli_ while another hesitated before such an irrevocable
action as going over to the French. Maybe there was another party
clamouring to turn and fight--that was quite likely; and maybe even
there was a party of the most timid or the least culpable who wished to
surrender and trust to the mercy of a court martial. Certainly counsel
would be divided. She was hauling on her sheet again now, on a straight
course for Honfleur and the approaching gunboats; two miles of clear
water separated her from the _Porta Coeli_.

"Those gunboats are closing in on her, sir," said Freeman, glass to eye.
"And that chasse-mare lugger's full of men. Christ! There's a gun."

Someone in the _Flame_ had fired a warning shot, perhaps to tell the
French vessels to keep their distance until the debate on her deck had
reached a conclusion. Then she wore round, as if suddenly realising the
hostile intent of the French, and as she wore the small craft closed in
on her, like hounds upon a deer. Half a dozen shots were fired, too
ragged to be called a broadside. The gunboats were heading straight at
her, their sweeps out, six a side, giving them additional speed and
handiness. Smoke spouted from their bows, and over the water came the
deep-toned heavy boom of the twenty-four-pounders they mounted--a sound
quite different from the higher-pitched, sharper bang of the _Flame's_
carronades. The lugger ran alongside her, and through his glass
Hornblower could see the boarders pouring onto the _Flame's_ deck.

"I'll have the guns run out, Mr. Freeman, if you please," he said.

The situation was developing with bewildering rapidity--he had foreseen
nothing like this. There was desperate fighting ahead, but at least it
would be against Frenchmen and not against Englishmen. He could see
puffs of smoke on the _Flame's_ deck--some, at least, of the crew were
offering resistance.

He walked forward a few yards, and addressed himself to the gunners.

"Listen to me, you men. Those gunboats must be sunk when we get in among
'em. One broadside for each will do that business for 'em if you make
your shots tell. Aim true, at the base of their masts. Don't fire until
you're sure you'll hit."

"Aye aye, sir," came a few voices in reply.

Hornblower found Brown beside him.

"Your pistols, sir. I loaded 'em afresh, an' primed 'em with new caps."

"Thank you," said Hornblower. He stuck the weapons into his belt, one on
each side, where either hand could grasp them as necessary. It was like
a boy playing at pirates, but his life might depend on those pistols in
five minutes' time. He half drew his sword to see that it was free in
its sheath, and he was already hastening back to take his stand by the
wheel as he thrust it in again.

"Luff a little," he said. "Steady!"

_Flame_ had flown up into the wind and lay all aback--apparently there
was no one at the helm at the moment. The lugger was still alongside
her, and the four gunboats, having taken in their sails, were resting on
their oars, interposing between the _Porta Coeli_ and the pair of ships.
Hornblower could see the guns' crews bending over the
twenty-four-pounders in their bows.

"Hands to the sheets, Mr. Freeman, please. I'm going between
them--there. Stand to your guns, men! Now, hard down!"

The wheel went over, and the _Porta Coeli_ came about on the other tack,
handily as anyone could desire. Hornblower heard the thunder of a shot
close under her bows, and then the deck erupted in a flying shower of
splinters from a jagged hole close to the mainmast bitts--a
twenty-four-pound shot, fired upwards at close elevation, had pierced
the brig's frail timbers, and, continuing its flight, had burst through
the deck.

"Ready about! Hard over!" yelled Hornblower, and the _Porta Coeli_
tacked again into the narrow gap between two gunboats. Her carronades
went off in rapid succession on both sides. Looking to starboard,
Hornblower had one gunboat under his eye. He saw her there, half a dozen
men standing by the tiller aft, two men at each sweep amidships tugging
wildly to swing her round, a dozen men at the gun forward. A man with a
red handkerchief round his head stood by the mast, resting his hand
against it--Hornblower could even see his open mouth as his jaw dropped
and he saw death upon him. Then the shots came smashing in. The man with
the red handkerchief disappeared--maybe he was dashed overboard, but
most likely he was smashed into pulp. The frail frame of the
gunboat--nothing more than a big rowing-boat strengthened forward for a
gun--disintegrated; her side caved in under the shots as though under
the blows of some vast hammer. The sea poured in even as Hornblower
looked; the shots, fired with extreme depression, must have gone on
through the gunboat's bottom after piercing her side. The dead weight of
the gun in her bows took charge as her stability vanished, and her bows
surged under while her stern was still above water. Then the gun slid
out, relieving her of its weight, and the wreck righted itself for an
instant before capsizing. A few men swam among the wreckage. Hornblower
looked over to port; the other gunboat had been as hard hit, lying at
that moment just at the surface with the remains of her crew swimming by
her. Whoever had been in command of those gunboats had been a reckless
fool to expose the frail vessels to the fire of a real vessel of
war--even one as tiny as the _Porta Coeli_--as long as the latter was
under proper command. Gunboats were only of use to batter into
submission ships helplessly aground or dismasted.

The chasse-mare and the _Flame_, still alongside each other, were close
ahead.

"Mr. Freeman, load with canister, if you please. We'll run alongside the
Frenchman. One broadside, and we'll board her in the smoke."

"Aye aye, sir."

Freeman turned to bellow orders to his crew.

"Mr. Freeman, I shall want every available hand in the boarding-party.
You'll stay here----"

"Sir!"

"You'll stay here. Pick six good seamen to stay with you to work the
brig out again if we don't come back. Is that clear, Mr. Freeman?"

"Yes, Sir Horatio."

There was still time for Freeman to make the arrangements as the _Porta
Coeli_ surged up towards the Frenchman. There was still time for
Hornblower to realise with surprise that what he had said about not
coming back was sincere, and no mere bombast to stimulate the men. He
was most oddly determined to conquer or die, he, the man who was afraid
of shadows. The men were yelling madly as the _Porta Coeli_ drew up to
the Frenchman, whose name--the _Bonne Celestine_ of Honfleur--was now
visible on her stern. Blue uniforms and white breeches could be seen
aboard her; soldiers--it was true, then, that Bonaparte's need for
trained artillerymen had forced him to conscript his seamen, replacing
them with raw conscript soldiers. A pity the action was not taking place
out at sea, for then they would most of them be sea-sick.

"Lay us alongside," said Hornblower to the helmsman. There was confusion
on the decks of the _Bonne Celestine_; Hornblower could see men running
to the guns on her disengaged port side.

"Quiet, you men!" bellowed Hornblower. "Quiet!"

Silence fell on the brig; Hornblower had hardly to raise his voice to
make himself heard on the tiny deck.

"See that every shot tells, you gunners," said Hornblower. "Boarders,
are you ready to come with me?"

Another yell answered him. Thirty men were crouching by the bulwarks
with pikes and cutlasses; the firing of the broadside and the dropping
of the mainsail would set free thirty more, a small enough force unless
the broadside should do great execution and the untrained landsmen in
the _Bonne Celestine_ should flinch. Hornblower stole a glance at the
helmsman, a grey-bearded seaman, who was coolly gauging the distance
between the two vessels while at the same time watching the mainsail as
it shivered as the _Porta Coeli_ came to the wind. A good seaman,
that--Hornblower made a mental note to remember him for commendation.
The helmsman whirled the wheel over.

"Down mains'l," roared Freeman.

The _Bonne Celestine's_ guns bellowed deafeningly, and Hornblower felt
powder grains strike his face as the smoke eddied, round him. He drew
his sword as the _Porta Coeli's_ carronades crashed out, and the two
vessels came together with a squealing of timber. He sprang upon the
bulwark in the smoke, sword in hand; at the same moment a figure beside
him cleared the bulwark in a single motion and dropped upon the _Bonne
Celestine's_ deck--Brown, waving a cutlass. Hornblower leaped after him,
but Brown stayed in front of him, striking to left and right at the
shadowy figures looming in the smoke. Here there was a pile of dead and
wounded men, caught in the blast of canister from one of the _Porta
Coeli's_ carronades. Hornblower stumbled over a limb, and recovered
himself in time to see a bayonet on the end of a musket lunging at him.
A violent twisting of his body evaded the thrust. There was a pistol in
his left hand, and he fired with the muzzle almost against the
Frenchman's breast. Now the wind had blown the cannon-smoke clear.
Forward some of the boarders were fighting with a group of the enemy
cornered in the bow--the clash of the blades came clearly to
Hornblower's ears--but aft there was not a Frenchman to be seen.
Gibbons, master's mate, was at the halliards running down the tricolour
from the masthead. At the starboard side lay the _Flame_, and over her
bulwarks were visible French infantry shakoes; Hornblower saw a man's
head and shoulders appear, saw a musket being pointed. It shifted its
aim from Gibbons to Hornblower, and in that instant Hornblower fired the
other barrel of his pistol, and the Frenchman fell down below the
bulwarks, just as a fresh wave of boarders came pouring on board from
the _Porta Coeli_.

"Come on!" yelled Hornblower--it was desperately important to make sure
of the _Flame_ before a defence could be organised.

The brigs stood higher out of the water than did the chasse-mare; this
time they had to climb upward. He got his left elbow over the bulwark,
and tried to swing himself up, but his sword hampered him.

"Help me, damn you!" he snarled over his shoulder, and a seaman put his
shoulder under Hornblower's stern and heaved him up with such surprising
goodwill that he shot over the bulwarks and fell on his face in the
scuppers on the other side, his sword slithering over the deck. He
started to crawl forward towards it, but a sixth sense warned him of
danger, and he flung himself down and forward inside the sweep of a
cutlass, and cannoned, against the shins of the man who wielded it. Then
a wave of men burst over him, and he was kicked and trodden on and then
crushed beneath a writhing body with which he grappled with desperate
strength. He could hear Brown's voice roaring over him, pistols banging,
sword-blades clashing before sudden silence fell round him. The man with
whom he was struggling went suddenly limp and inert, and then was
dragged off him. He rose to his feet.

"Are you wounded, sir?" asked Brown.

"No," he answered. Three or four dead men lay on the deck; aft a group
of French soldiers with a French seaman or two among them stood by the
wheel, disarmed, while two British soldiers, pistol in hand, stood guard
over them. A French officer, blood dripping from his right sleeve, and
with tears on his cheeks--he was no more than a boy--was sitting on the
deck, and Hornblower was about to address him when his attention was
suddenly distracted.

"Sir! Sir!"

It was an English seaman he did not recognize, in a striped shirt of
white and red, his pigtail shaking from side to side as he gesticulated
with the violence of his emotion.

"Sir! I was fightin' against the Frogs. Your men saw me. Me an' these
other lads here."

He motioned behind him to an anxious little group of seamen who had
heretofore hung back, but now came forward, some of them bursting into
speech, all of them nodding their heads in agreement.

"Mutineers?" asked Hornblower. In the heat of battle he had forgotten
about the mutiny.

"I'm no mutineer, sir. I did what I had to or they'd 'a killed me. Ain't
that so, mates?"

"Stand back, there!" blared Brown; there was blood on the blade of his
cutlass.

A vivid prophetic picture suddenly leaped into Hornblower's mind's
eye--the court martial, the semicircle of judges in glittering full
dress, the tormented prisoners, tongue-tied, watching, only half
understanding, the proceedings which would determine their lives or
deaths, and he himself giving his evidence, trying conscientiously to
remember every word spoken on both sides; one word remembered might make
the difference between the lash and the rope.

"Arrest those men!" he snapped. "Put them under confinement."

"Sir! Sir!"

"None o' that!" growled Brown.

Remorseless hands dragged the protesting men away.

"Where are the other mutineers?" demanded Hornblower.

"Down below, sir, I fancies," said Brown. "Some o' the Frenchies is down
there, too."

Odd how a beaten crew so often scuttled below. Hornblower honestly
believed that he would rather face the fighting madness of the victors
on deck than surrender ignominiously in the dark confines of the
'tween-decks.

A loud hail from the _Porta Coeli_ came to his ears.

"Sir Horatio!" hailed Freeman's voice. "We'll be all aground if we don't
get way on the ships soon. I request permission to cast off and make
sail."

"Wait!" replied Hornblower.

He looked round him; the three ships locked together, prisoners under
guard here, there, and everywhere. Below decks, both in the _Bonne
Celestine_ and in the _Flame_, there were enemies still unsecured,
probably many more in total than he had men under his orders. A
shattering crash below him, followed by screams and cries; the _Flame_
shook under a violent blow. Hornblower remembered the sound of a
cannon-shot striking on his inattentive ears a second before; he looked
round. The two surviving gunboats were resting on their oars a couple of
cables' lengths away, their bows pointing at the group of ships.
Hornblower could guess they were in shoal water, almost immune from
attack. A jet of smoke from one of the gunboats, and another frightful
crash below, and more screams. Those twenty-four-pounder balls were
probably smashing through the whole frail length of the brig, whose
timbers could resist their impact hardly better than paper. Hornblower
plunged into the urgency of the business before him like a man into a
raging torrent which he had to swim.

"Get those hatches battened down, Brown!" he ordered. "Put a sentry over
each. Mr. Gibbons!"

"Sir?"

"Secure your hatches. Get ready to make sail."

"Aye aye, sir."

"What topmen are there here? Man the halliards. Who can take the wheel?
What, none of you? Mr. Gibbons! Have you a quartermaster to spare? Send
one here immediately. Mr. Freeman! You can cast off and make sail.
Rendezvous at the other prize."

Another shot from those accursed gunboats crashed into the _Flame's_
stern below him. Thank God the wind was off shore and he could get clear
of them. The _Porta Coeli_ had set her boom-mainsail again and had got
clear of the _Bonne Celestine_; Gibbons was supervising the setting of
the latter's lug-mainsail while half a dozen hands boomed her off from
the _Flame_.

"Hoist away!" ordered Hornblower as the vessels separated. "Hard
a-starboard, Quartermaster."

A sound overside attracted his attention. Men--mutineers or
Frenchmen--were scrambling out through the shot-holes and hurling
themselves into the sea, swimming towards the gunboats. Hornblower saw
the white hair of Nathaniel Sweet trailing on the surface of the water
as he struck out, twenty feet away from him. Of all the mutineers he was
the one who most certainly must not be allowed to escape. For the sake
of England, for the sake of the service, he must die. The seaman acting
as sentry at the after hatchway did not look as if he were a capable
marksman.

"Give me your musket," said Hornblower, snatching it.

He looked at priming and flint as he hurried back to the taffrail. He
trained the weapon on the white head, and pulled the trigger. The smoke
blew back into his face, obscuring his view only for a moment. The long
white hair was visible for a second at the surface when he looked again,
and then it sank, slowly, out of sight. Sweet was dead. Maybe there was
an old widow who would bewail him, but it was better that Sweet was
dead. Hornblower turned back to the business of navigating the _Flame_
back to the rendezvous.




CHAPTER VIII


This fellow Lebrun was an infernal nuisance, demanding a private
interview in this fashion. Hornblower had quite enough to do as it was;
the gaping shot-holes in _Flame's_ side had to be patched sufficiently
well to enable her to recross the Channel; the exiguous crew of the
_Porta Coeli_--not all of them seamen by any means--had to be
distributed through no fewer than four vessels (the two brigs, the
Indiaman, and the chasse-mare), while at the same time an adequate
guard must be maintained over more than a hundred prisoners of one
nationality or another; the mutineers must be supervised so that nothing
could happen to prejudice their trial; worst of all, there was a long
report to be made out. Some people would think this last an easy task,
seeing that there was a long string of successes to report, two prizes
taken, the _Flame_ recaptured, most of the mutineers in irons below
decks and their ringleader slain by Hornblower's own hand. But there was
the physical labour of writing it out, and Hornblower was very weary.
Moreover, the composition of it would be difficult, for Hornblower could
foresee having to steer a ticklish course between the Scylla of open
boastfulness and the Charybdis of mock-modesty--how often had his lip
wrinkled in distaste when reading the literary efforts of other
officers! And the killing of Nathaniel Sweet by the terrible Commodore
Hornblower, although it would look well in a naval history, and
although, from the point of view of the discipline of the service, it
was the best way in which the affair could have ended, might not appear
so well in Barbara's eyes. He himself did not relish the memory of that
white head sinking beneath the waves, and he felt that Barbara, with her
attention forcibly called to the fact that he had shed blood, had taken
a human life, with his own hands (those hands which she said she loved,
which she had sometimes kissed), might feel a repulsion, a distaste.

Hornblower shook himself free from a clinging tangle of thoughts and
memories, of Barbara and Nathaniel Sweet, to find himself still staring
abstractedly at the young seaman who had brought to him Freeman's
message regarding Lebrun's request.

"My compliments to Mr. Freeman, and he can send this fellow in to me,"
he said.

"Aye aye, sir," said the seaman, his knuckles to his forehead, turning
away with intense relief. The Commodore had been looking through and
through him for three minutes at least--three hours, it seemed like, to
the seaman.

An armed guard brought Lebrun into the cabin, and Hornblower looked him
keenly over. He was one of the half-dozen prisoners taken when the
_Porta Coeli_ came into Le Havre, one of the deputation which had
mounted her deck to welcome her under the impression that she was the
_Flame_ coming in to surrender.

"Monsieur speaks French?" said Lebrun.

"A little."

"More than a little; if all the tales about Captain Hornblower are
true," replied Lebrun.

"What is your business?" snapped Hornblower, cutting short this
Continental floweriness. Lebrun was a youngish man, of olive complexion,
with glistening white teeth, who conveyed a general impression of
oiliness.

"I am _adjoint_ to Baron Momas, Mayor of Le Havre."

"Yes?" Hornblower tried to show no sign of interest, but he knew that
under the Imperial rgime the mayor of a large town like Le Havre was a
most important person, and that his _adjoint_--his assistant, or
deputy--was a very important permanent official.

"The firm of Momas Frres is one you must have heard of. It has traded
with the Americas for generations--the history of its rise is identical
with the history of the development of Le Havre itself."

"Yes?"

"Similarly, the war and the blockade have had a most disastrous effect
upon the fortunes both of the firm of Momas and upon the city of Le
Havre."

"Yes?"

"The _Caryatide_, the vessel that you so ingeniously captured two days
ago, monsieur, might have restored the fortunes of us all--a single
vessel running the blockade, as you will readily understand, is worth
ten vessels arriving in peacetime."

"Yes?"

"M. le Baron and the city of Le Havre will be desperate, I have no
doubt, as the result of her capture before her cargo could be taken
out."

"Yes?"

The two men eyed each other, like duellists during a pause, Hornblower
determined to betray none of the curiosity and interest that he felt,
and Lebrun hesitating before finally committing himself.

"I take it, monsieur, that anything further I have to say will be
treated as entirely confidential."

"I promise nothing. In fact, I can only say that it will be my duty to
report anything you say to the Government of His Majesty of Great
Britain."

"They will be discreet for their own sake, I expect," ruminated Lebrun.

"His Majesty's ministers can make their own decisions," said Hornblower.

"You are aware, monsieur," said Lebrun, obviously taking the plunge,
"that Bonaparte has been defeated in a great battle at Leipzig?"

"Yes."

"The Russians are on the Rhine."

"That is so."

"The Russians are on the Rhine!" repeated Lebrun, marvelling. The whole
world, pro-Bonaparte or anti-Bonaparte, was marvelling that the massive
Empire should have receded half across Europe in these few short months.

"And Wellington is marching on Toulouse," added Hornblower--there was no
harm in reminding Lebrun of the British threat in the south.

"That is so. The Empire cannot much longer endure."

"I am glad to hear your opinion in the matter."

"And when the Empire falls there will be peace, and when peace comes
trade will recommence."

"Without a doubt," said Hornblower, still a little mystified.

"Profits will be enormous during the first few months. All Europe has
for years been deprived of foreign produce. At this moment genuine
coffee commands a price of over a hundred francs a pound."

Now Lebrun was showing his hand, more involuntarily than voluntarily.
There was a look of avarice in his face which told Hornblower much.

"All this is obvious, monsieur," said Hornblower, non-committally.

"A firm which was prepared for the moment of peace, with its warehouses
gorged with colonial produce ready to distribute, would greatly benefit.
It would be far ahead of its competitors. There would be millions to be
made. Millions." Lebrun was obviously dreaming of the possibility of
finding some of those millions in his own pocket.

"I have a great deal of business to attend to, monsieur," said
Hornblower. "Have the goodness to come to the point."

"His Majesty of Great Britain might well allow his friends to make those
preparations in advance," said Lebrun, the words coming slowly; well
they might, for they could take him to the guillotine if Bonaparte ever
heard of them. Lebrun was offering to betray the Empire in exchange for
commercial advantages.

"His Majesty would first need undeniable proof that his friends _were_
his friends," said Hornblower.

"A _quid pro quo_," said Lebrun, thereby for the first time during the
conversation putting Hornblower at a loss--the Frenchman's pronunciation
of Latin being quite unlike anything he was accustomed to, so that he
had to grope about in his mind wondering what unaccustomed word Lebrun
was using before at length he understood.

"You may tell me the nature of your offer, monsieur," said Hornblower
with solemn dignity, "but I can make no promises of any sort in return.
His Majesty's Government will probably refuse to bind themselves in any
way whatsoever."

It was curious how he found himself aping the ministerial manner and
diction--it might have been his solemn brother-in-law, Wellesley,
speaking. Maybe high politics had that effect on everyone; it was useful
in this particular case, because it helped him to conceal his eagerness.

"A _quid pro quo_," said Lebrun, again, thoughtfully. "Supposing the
city of Le Havre declared itself against the Empire, declared itself for
Louis XVIII?"

The possibility had occurred to Hornblower, but he had put it aside as
being potentially too good to be true.

"Supposing it did?" he said cautiously.

"It might be the example for which the Empire is waiting. It might be
infectious. Bonaparte could not survive such a blow."

"He has survived many blows."

"But none of this sort. And if Le Havre declared for the King the city
would be in alliance with Great Britain. The blockade could not continue
to apply. Or if it did a licence to import could be granted to the house
of Momas Frres, could it not?"

"Possibly. Remember, I make no promises."

"And when Louis XVIII was restored to the throne of his fathers he would
look with kindness upon those who first declared for him," said Lebrun.
"The _adjoint_ to Baron Momas might expect to find a great career open
to him."

"No doubt of that," agreed Hornblower. "But--you have spoken of your own
sentiments. Can you be sure of those of M. le Baron? And whatever may be
M. le Baron's sentiments, how can he be sure that the city would follow
him should he declare himself?"

"I can answer for the Baron, I assure you, sir. I know--I have certain
knowledge of his thoughts."

Probably Lebrun had been spying on his master on behalf of the Imperial
Government, and had no objection to applying his knowledge in another
and more profitable cause.

"But the city? The other authorities?"

"The day you took me prisoner, sir," said Lebrun, "there arrived from
Paris some sample proclamations and advance notice of some Imperial
decrees. The proclamations were to be printed--my last official act was
to give the order--and next Monday the proclamations were to be posted
and the decrees made public."

"Yes?"

"They are the most drastic in the drastic history of the Empire.
Conscription--the last of the Class of 1815 is to be called, and the
classes all the way back to that of 1802 are to be revised. Boys of
seventeen, cripples, invalids, fathers of families, even those who have
purchased exemption; they are all to be called."

"France must have grown used to conscription."

"France has grown weary of it, rather, sir. I have official knowledge of
the number of deserters and the severity of the measures directed
against them. But it's not merely the conscription, sir. The other
decrees are more drastic still. The taxes! The direct imposts, the
indirect imposts, the _droits runis_, and the others! Those of us who
survive the war will be left beggars."

"And you think publication of these decrees will rouse sufficient
discontent to cause rebellion?"

"Perhaps not. But it would constitute an admirable starting-point for a
determined leader."

Lebrun was shrewd enough--this last remark was acute and might be true.

"But the other authorities in the town? The military governor? The
Prefect of the Department?"

"Some of them would be safe. I know their sentiments as well as I know
Baron Momas'. The others--a dozen well-timed arrests, carried out
simultaneously, an appeal to the troops in the barracks, the arrival of
British forces (_your_ forces, sir), a heartening proclamation to the
people, the declaration of a state of siege, the closing of the gates,
and it would be all over. Le Havre is well fortified, as you know, sir.
Only an army and a battering train could retake it, and Bonaparte has
neither to spare. The news would spread like wildfire through the
Empire, however Bonaparte tried to stop it."

This man Lebrun had ideas and vision, whatever might be thought of his
morals. That was a neat thumbnail sketch he had drawn of a typical _coup
d'tat_. If the attempt were successful the results would be profound.
Even if it were to fail, loyalty throughout the Empire would be shaken.
Treason was infectious, as Lebrun had said. Rats in a sinking ship were
notoriously quick in following an example in leaving it.

There would be little enough to risk losing in supporting Lebrun's
notions, and the gains might be immense.

"Monsieur," said Hornblower, "so far I have been patient. But in all
this time you have made me no concrete proposal. Words--nebulous
ideas--hopes--wishes, that is all, and I am a busy man, as I told you.
Please be specific. And speedy, if that is not too much trouble to you."

"I shall be specific, then. Set me on shore--as an excuse I could be
sent to arrange a cartel for the exchange of prisoners. Let me be able
to assure M. le Baron of your instant support. In the three days before
next Monday I can complete the arrangements. Meanwhile, you remain close
in the vicinity with all the force you can muster. The moment we secure
the citadel we shall send up the white flag, and the moment you see that
you enter the harbour and overawe any possible dissentients. In return
for this--a licence to Momas Frres to import colonial produce, and your
word of honour as a gentleman that you will inform King Louis that it
was I, Hercule Lebrun, who first suggested the scheme to you."

"Ha--h'm," said Hornblower. He hardly ever made use of that sound now,
after his wife had teased him about it, but it escaped from him at this
moment of crisis. He had to think. He had to have time to think. The
long conversation in the French which he was not accustomed to using had
been exhausting. He lifted his voice in a bellow to the sentry outside
the door.

"Pass the word for the armed guard to take this prisoner away."

"Sir!" protested Lebrun.

"I will give you my decision in an hour," said Hornblower. "Meanwhile
for appearance's sake you must be treated harshly."

"Sir! Remember to be secret! Remember not to utter a word! For God's
sake--!"

Lebrun had a very proper sense of the necessity for secrecy in planning
a rebellion against such a potentate as Bonaparte. Hornblower took that
into consideration as he went up on deck, there to pace up and down,
thrusting the minor administrative problems out of his mind as he
debated this, the greatest problem of all.




CHAPTER IX


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

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

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

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

"Keep a sharp lookout for any signal from the _Porta Coeli_," he said
sharply to the midshipman of the watch.

"Aye aye, sir."

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

It was late afternoon before the expected interruption came.

"Signal from _Porta Coeli_, sir! Eighteen--fifty-one--ten. That's
friendly ships in sight, bearing nor'west."

"Very good. Ask their numbers."

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

"_Nonsuch_, 74, Captain Bush, sir."

"Bush, by God!"

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

"_Camilla_, 36, Captain Howard, sir."

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

"Very good. Reply--'Commodore to--'"

"_Porta's_ still signalling, begging your pardon, sir. '_Nonsuch_ to
Commodore. Have--on board--three hundred--marines--above--complement.'"

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

"Very good. Make 'Commodore to _Nonsuch_ and _Camilla_. Delighted to
have you under my command.'"

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

"Make 'Commodore to all vessels. Join me here after dark. Night signal
two lanterns horizontally at fore yardarms.'"

"--fore yardarms. Aye aye, sir," echoed the midshipman, scribbling on
his slate.

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

"You've been busy, sir, since you came to sea again."

"Of course," said Hornblower.

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

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

"Nonsense," protested Hornblower. "I had almost a year's leave."

"Sick leave, sir. After typhus. And since then--"

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

Hornblower felt suddenly irritated.

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

They quailed before his anger.

"No, sir," said Bush.

"Then be so good as to keep your opinions to yourselves."

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

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

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

"You all understand what I want done tomorrow--if tomorrow is the day?"
Hornblower went on.

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

"No questions?"

"No, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So should I, sir," said Freeman.

"I don't want to see you go," protested Hornblower.

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

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

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

"Tell Sir Horatio's," said Bush.

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

"Cut three times, sir."

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

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

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

"And there's an illness, sir," he concluded, "a very serious illness,
ending only a short time back."

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

"Amazing's the word, sir," said Bush.

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

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

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

He rearranged the pattern.

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

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

"And here there is more danger. Danger and a fair woman. The two go
together. Danger because of a fair woman--danger _with_ a fair woman.
There's all kinds of danger here, sir. I'd advise you to beware of fair
women."

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

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

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

"That's all that I can read, sir," said Freeman, sweeping the cards
together.

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

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

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




CHAPTER X


It was as misty as might be expected of that season and place when day
broke, or rather when the grey light crept almost unnoticed into one's
consciousness. The _Porta Coeli_ was dimly visible, an almost
unnoticeable dense nucleus in the fog. Hailing her at the top of his
lungs, Hornblower received the faint reply that _Nonsuch_ was in sight
astern of her, and a few seconds later the additional information that
_Camilla_ was in sight of _Nonsuch_. He had his squadron in hand, then,
and there was nothing to do but wait, and to ponder for the hundredth
time over the question as to how the hands, barefooted with the icy
water surging round their feet, could possibly bear their morning duty
of washing down the decks. But they were laughing and skylarking as they
did it; the British seaman was of tough material. Presumably the lower
deck guessed that there was something in the wind, that this
concentration of force portended fresh action, and they found the
prospect exhilarating. Partly Hornblower knew, it was because they felt
assured of success in the unknown enterprise before them. It must be
amazingly pleasant to be able to put one's trust in a man and have no
further doubts. Hornblower watched the men at work with envy as well as
pity.

He himself was in a fever of anxiety, turning over in his mind the
arrangements he had finally made with Lebrun before sending him ashore.
They were simple enough; absurdly simple, it seemed to him now. The
whole plan seemed a feeble thing with which to overturn an Empire that
dominated Europe. Yet a conspiracy should be simple--the more elaborate
the machinery the greater the chance of its breaking down. That was one
reason why he had insisted on daylight for his part of the business. He
had dreaded the possible mishaps if he had plunged ashore in darkness
into an unknown town with his little army. Daylight doubled the chances
of success while it doubled at least the possible loss in case of
failure.

Hornblower looked at his watch--for the last ten minutes he had been
fighting down the urge to look at it.

"Mr. Crawley," he said, to the master's mate who was his new first
lieutenant in the _Flame_, "beat to quarters and clear the brig for
action."

The wind was a light air from the east, as he had expected. Fetching
into Le Havre would be a ticklish business, and he was glad that he had
resolved to lead in the small and hardy _Flame_ so as to show the way to
the ponderous old _Nonsuch_.

"Ship cleared for action, sir," reported Crawley.

"Very good."

Hornblower looked at his watch--it was fully a quarter-hour yet before
he should move in. A hail to the _Porta Coeli_ astern brought him the
information that all the other vessels had cleared for action, and he
smiled to himself. Freeman and Bush and Howard had no more been able to
wait the time out than he had been.

"Remember, Mr. Crawley," he said, "if I am killed as we go in, the
_Flame_ is to be laid alongside the quay. Captain Bush is to be informed
as soon as possible, but the _Flame_ is to go on."

"Aye aye, sir," said Crawley. "I'll remember."

Damn his eyes, he need not be so infernally ordinary about it. From the
tone of Crawley's voice one might almost assume that he expected
Hornblower to be killed. Hornblower turned away from him and walked the
deck briskly to shake off the penetrating cold. He looked along at the
men at their stations.

"Skylark, you men," he ordered. "Let's see how you can jump."

There was no use going into action with men chilled to numbness. The men
at the guns and waiting at the sheets began to caper at their posts.

"Jump, you men, jump!"

Hornblower leaped grotesquely up and down to set them an example; he
wanted them thoroughly warmed up. He flapped his arms against his side
as he leaped, the epaulettes of the full-dress uniform he was wearing
pounded on his shoulders.

"Higher than that! Higher!"

His legs were beginning to ache, and his breath came with difficulty,
but he would not stop before the men did, although he soon came to
regret the impulse which had made him start.

"Still!" he shouted at last, the monosyllable taking almost the last
breath from his body. He stood panting, the men grinning.

"Horny for ever!" yelled an unidentifiable voice forward, and a ragged
cheer came from the men.

"Silence!"

Brown was beside him with his pistols, a twinkle in his eye.

"Take that grin off your face!" snapped Hornblower.

There would be another Hornblower legend growing up in the Navy, similar
to the one about the hornpipe danced on the deck of the _Lydia_ during
the pursuit of the _Natividad_. Hornblower pulled out his watch, and
when he had replaced it took up his speaking-trumpet.

"Mr. Freeman! I am going about on the other tack. Hail the squadron to
tack in succession. Mr. Crawley!"

"Sir!"

"Two hands at the lead, if you please."

One man might be killed, and Hornblower wanted no possible cessation in
the calling of soundings.

"Headsail sheets! Mains'l sheets!"

The _Flame_ went about on the starboard tack, making about three knots
under fore and aft sail in the light breeze. Hornblower saw the shadowy
_Porta Coeli_ follow the _Flame's_ example. Behind her, and invisible,
was the old _Nonsuch_--Hornblower had still to set eyes on her since her
arrival. He had not seen her, for that matter, since he quitted her to
catch the typhus in Riga. Good old Bush. It gave Hornblower some comfort
to think that he would be supported today by the _Nonsuch's_ thundering
broadsides and Bush's stolid loyalty.

The leadsmen were already chanting the depths as the _Flame_ felt her
way up the fairway towards Le Havre. Hornblower wondered what was going
on in the city, and then petulantly told himself that he would know soon
enough. It seemed to him as if he could remember every single word of
the long discussion he had had with Lebrun, when between them they had
settled the details of Lebrun's hare-brained scheme. They had taken into
account the possibility of fog--any seaman would be a fool who did not
do so in the Bay of the Seine in winter.

"Buoy on the starboard bow, sir," reported Crawley.

That would mark the middle ground--it was the only buoy the French had
left on the approaches to Le Havre. Hornblower watched it pass close
alongside and then astern; the flowing tide was heeling it a little and
piling up against the seaward side of it. They were nearing the
entrance.

"Listen to me, you men," said Hornblower, loudly. "Not a shot is to be
fired without my orders. The man who fires a gun, for no matter what
reason, unless I tell him to, I will not merely flog. I'll hang him.
Before sunset today he'll be at the yardarm. D'you hear me?"

Hornblower had every intention of executing his threat--at least at that
moment--and as he looked round him his expression showed it. A few
muttered Aye aye, sir's showed him he had been understood.

"_Qui va l?_" screamed a voice through the fog from close overside;
Hornblower could just see the French boat which habitually rowed guard
over the entrance in thick weather. The guard-boat, as Hornblower and
Lebrun had agreed, would not be easily diverted from its duty.

"Despatches for M. le Baron Momas," hailed Hornblower in return.

The confident voice, the fluent French, the use of Momas' name, might
all gain time for the squadron to enter.

"What ship?"

It was inconceivable that the seamen in the guard-boat did not recognise
the _Flame_--the question must be a merely rhetorical one asked while
the puzzled officer in command collected his thoughts.

"British brig _Flame_," called Hornblower; he had the helm put over at
that moment to make the turn past the point.

"Heave-to, or I will fire into you!"

"If you fire, you will have the responsibility," replied Hornblower. "We
bear despatches for Baron Momas."

It was a fair wind now for the quay. The turn had brought the guard-boat
close alongside; Hornblower could see the officer standing up in the
bows beside the bow-gun, a seaman at his shoulder with a glowing
linstock, in his hand. Hornblower's own full-dress uniform must be
visible and cause some delay, too, for men expecting to fight would not
be expected to wear full dress. He saw the officer give a violent start,
having caught sight of the _Porta Coeli_ looming up in the mist astern
of the _Flame_. He saw the order given, saw the spark thrust on the
touchhole. The three-pounder roared, and the shot crashed into the
_Flame's_ side. That would give the alarm to the batteries at the point
and above the quay.

"We do not fire back," he hailed--maybe he could gain a little more
time, and maybe that time would be of use, although he doubted it.

Here inside the harbour the mist was not so thick. He could see the
shadowy shape of the quay rapidly defining itself. In the next few
seconds he would know if this were a trap or not, if the batteries
should open in a tempest of flame. One part of his mind raced through
the data, while another part was working out how to approach the quay.
He could not believe that Lebrun was playing a double game, but if it
were so only he and the _Flame_ would be lost--the other vessels would
have a chance to get clear.

"Luff!" he said to the helmsman. There were a few busy seconds as he
applied himself to the business of bringing the _Flame_ alongside the
quay as speedily as possible and yet without damaging her too severely.
She came alongside with a creak and a clatter, the fenders groaning as
if in agony. Hornblower sprang onto the bulwark and from there to the
quay, sword, cocked hat, epaulettes and all. He could not spare time to
look round, but he had no doubt that the _Porta Coeli_ had anchored,
ready to give assistance where necessary, and that the _Nonsuch_ in her
turn was nearing the quay, her marines drawn up ready for instant
landing. He strode up the quay, his heart pounding. There was the first
battery, the guns glaring through the embrasures. He could see movement
behind the guns, and more men running to the battery from the guardhouse
in the rear. Now he had reached the edge of the moat, his left hand held
up in a gesture to restrain the men at the guns.

"Where is your officer?" he shouted.

There was a momentary delay, and then a young man in blue and red
artillery uniform sprang upon the parapet.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Tell your men not to fire," said Hornblower. "Have you not received
your new orders?"

The full dress, the confident bearing, the extraordinary circumstances
puzzled the young artillery officer.

"New orders?" he asked feebly.

Hornblower simulated exasperation.

"Get your men away from those guns," he said. "Otherwise there may be a
deplorable accident."

"But, monsieur--" The artillery lieutenant pointed down to the quay, and
Hornblower now could spare the time to glance back, following the
gesture. What he saw made his pounding heart pound harder yet for sheer
pleasure. There was the _Nonsuch_ against the quay, there was the
_Camilla_ just coming alongside; but more important yet, there was a big
solid block of red coats forming up on the quay. One section with an
officer at its head was already heading towards them at a quick step,
muskets sloped.

"Send a messenger instantly to the other battery," said Hornblower, "to
make sure the officer in command there understands."

"But, monsieur--"

Hornblower stamped his foot with impatience. He could hear the rhythmic
tread of the marines behind him, and he gesticulated to them with his
hand behind his back. They marched along past him.

"Eyes left!" ordered the subaltern in command, with a smart salute to
the French officer. The courtesy took what little wind was left out of
the sails of the Frenchman, so that his new protest died on his lips.
The marine detachment wheeled to its left round the flank of the battery
on the very verge of its dry ditch. Hornblower did not dare take his
eyes from the young Frenchman on the parapet, but he sensed what was
going on in the rear of the battery. The sally-port there was open, and
the marines marched in, still in column of fours, still with their
muskets sloped. Now they were in among the guns, pushing the gunners
away from their pieces, knocking the smouldering linstocks out of their
hands. The young officer was wringing his hands with anxiety.

"All's well that ends well, monsieur," said Hornblower. "There might
have been a most unpleasant incident."

Now he could spare a moment to look round. Another marine detachment was
off at the quickstep, marching for the other battery. Other parties,
seamen and marines, were heading for the other strategic points he had
listed in his orders. Brown was coming panting up the slope to be at his
side.

The clatter of a horse's hoofs made him turn back again; a mounted
French officer was galloping towards them, and reined up amid a shower
of flying gravel.

"What is all this?" he demanded. "What is happening?"

"The news apparently has been delayed in reaching you, monsieur," said
Hornblower. "The greatest news France has known for twenty years."

"What is it?"

"Bonaparte rules no more," said Hornblower. "Long live the King!"

Those were magic words; words like those of some old-time spell or
incantation. No one in the length and breadth of the Empire had dared to
say, "_Vive le Roi!_" since 1792. The mounted officer's jaw dropped for
a moment.

"It is false!" he cried, recovering himself. "The Emperor reigns."

He looked about him, gathering his reins into his hands, about to ride
off.

"Stop him, Brown!" said Hornblower.

Brown took a stride forward, seized the officer's leg in his huge hands,
and with a single heave threw him out of the saddle, Hornblower grabbing
the bridle in time to prevent the horse from bolting. Brown ran round
and extricated the fallen officer's feet from the stirrups.

"I have need of your horse, sir," said Hornblower.

He got his foot into the stirrup and swung himself awkwardly up into the
saddle. The excited brute plunged and almost threw him, but he squirmed
back into the saddle, tugged the horse's head round, and then let him go
in a wild gallop towards the other battery. His cocked hat flew from his
head, his sword and his epaulettes jerked and pounded as he struggled to
keep his seat. He tore past the other marine detachment and heard them
cheer him, and then he managed to rein in the frantic horse on the edge
of the ditch. Struck with a new idea, he trotted round to the rear of
the battery to the main gate.

"Open," he shouted, "in the name of the King!"

That was the word of power. There was a clatter of bolts and the upper
half of the huge oaken door opened and a couple of startled faces looked
out at him. Behind them he saw a musket levelled at him--someone who was
a fanatical Bonapartist, probably, or someone too stolid to be taken in
by appearances.

"Take that imbecile's musket away from him!" ordered Hornblower. The
pressing need of the moment gave an edge to his tone, so that he was
obeyed on the instant. "Now, open the gate."

He could hear the marines marching up towards him.

"Open the gate!" he roared.

They opened it, and Hornblower walked his horse forward into the
battery.

There were twelve vast twenty-four-pounders mounted inside, pointing out
through the embrasures down into the harbour. At the back stood the
furnace for heating shot with a pyramid of balls beside it. If the two
batteries had opened fire nothing hostile could have endured long on the
water, and not merely the water but the quay and the waterfront could
have been swept clean. And those batteries, with their parapets five
feet thick and eight feet high, and their dry ditches, ten feet deep,
cut square in the solid rock, could never have been stormed without
regular siege methods. The bewildered gunners stared at him, and at the
red-coated marines who came marching in behind him. A callow subaltern
approached him.

"I do not understand this, sir," he said. "Who are you, and why did you
say what you did?"

The subaltern could not bring himself to utter the word "King"; it was a
word that was taboo--he was like some old maid posing a delicate
question to a doctor. Hornblower smiled at him, using all his
self-control to conceal his exultation, for it would never do to triumph
too openly.

"This is the beginning of a new age for France," he said.

The sound of music came to his ears. Hornblower dismounted and left his
horse free, and ran up the steps cut in the back of the parapet, the
subaltern following. Standing on the top of the parapet with the vast
arms of the semaphore over their heads, the whole panorama of the port
was open to them; the squadron lying against the quay, the detachments
of the landing party, red-coated or white-shirted, on the march hither
and thither, and, on the quay itself, the marine band striding up
towards the town, the drums thundering and the bugles braying, the red
coats and the white crossbelts and the glittering instruments making a
brave spectacle. That had been Hornblower's crowning idea; nothing would
be more likely to convince a wavering garrison that he came in peace
than a band calmly playing selections as it marched in.

The harbour defences were secured now; he had carried out his part of
the scheme. Whatever had happened to Lebrun, the squadron was not in
serious danger; if the main garrison had refused to be seduced, and
turned against him, he could spike the batteries' guns, blow up the
magazines, and warp his ships out almost at leisure, taking with him
whatever prisoners and booty he could lay his hands on. The awkward
moment had been when the guard-boat had fired its gun--firing is
infectious. But the fact of only one shot being fired, the delay, the
mist, had made the inexperienced officer in command at the batteries
wait for orders, giving him time to use his personal influence. It was
evident already that part of Lebrun's scheme, at least, had been
successful. Lebrun had not made up his mind, at the time of his leaving
the _Flame_, whether it would be a banquet or a council of war to which
he would summon the senior officers, but whichever it was he had clearly
succeeded in depriving the harbour defences of all direction.
Apparently, too, Lebrun's story that a blockade runner was expected to
arrive during the night, and his request that the harbour defences
should hold their fire until certain as to the identity of any ship
entering the port, had had their effect as well--Lebrun had told
Hornblower of his intention of making much of the fact that the _Flame_,
on her way in to surrender, had actually been attacked so as to give the
English the opportunity to recapture her.

"I will have no more muddles of that sort," Lebrun had said, with a
grin. "Order, counter-order, disorder."

One way and another he had certainly contrived to create such disorder
and such an atmosphere of uncertainty in the batteries as to give
Hornblower every chance--the man was a born intriguer; but Hornblower
still did not know whether the rest of his _coup d'tat_ had succeeded.
This was no time for delay; there were too many examples in history of
promising enterprises brought to naught after a good beginning solely
because someone did not push on at the psychological moment.

"Where is my horse?" said Hornblower, leaving the subaltern's desire for
information unsatisfied except by the vague statement that a new age was
beginning for France.

He climbed down from the parapet again, to find that an intelligent
marine was holding the horse's head. The red coats were making a
ludicrous attempt to fraternise with the puzzled French recruits.
Hornblower climbed up into the saddle, and trotted out into the open. He
wanted to make a bold push, but at the same time he felt nervous about
involving his landing party in the narrow streets of the town without
some assurance of a friendly reception there. Here came Howard, riding
gracefully; apparently he, too, had been able to procure himself a
horse.

"Any orders, sir?" Howard asked. Two midshipmen and Brown were running
beside him, the midshipmen presumably to act as messengers.

"Not yet," answered Hornblower, fuming inwardly with anxiety while
trying to appear calm.

"Your hat, sir," said the admirable Brown, who had picked the thing up
while on his way from the other battery.

Here came a horseman at a gallop, a white band on his arm, a white
handkerchief fluttering in his hand. He reined in when he saw
Hornblower's gold lace.

"You are Monsieur--Monsieur--" he began.

"Hornblower." No Frenchman had ever been able to pronounce that name.

"From Baron Momas, sir. The citadel is secure. He is about to descend
into the main square."

"The soldiers in the barracks?"

"They are tranquil."

"The main guard at the gate?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Howard, take your reserve. March for the gate as hard as you can. This
man will go with you to explain to the guard. If they will not come
over, let them desert. They can march out into the open country--it will
not matter. No bloodshed if you can help it, but make sure of the gate."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower explained to the Frenchman what he had said.

"Brown, come with me. I shall be in the main square if needed, Howard."

It was not much of a procession Howard was able to form, two score
marines and seamen, but the band blared out as best it could as
Hornblower marched triumphantly up the street. The people on the route
looked at them, curious or sullen or merely indifferent, but there was
no sign of active resentment. In the Place de l'Htel de Ville there was
far more bustle and life. Numerous men sat their horses there; a
detachment of police, drawn up in line, gave an appearance of
respectability to the proceedings. But what caught the eye was the
multitude of white emblems. There were white cockades in the hats of the
gendarmes, and the mounted officials wore white scarves or armbands.
White flags--bed sheets, apparently--hung from most of the windows. For
the first time in more than twenty years the Bourbon white was being
flaunted on the soil of France. A fat man on foot, a white sash round
his belly where (Hornblower guessed) yesterday he had worn the
tricolour, hurried towards him as he rode in. Hornblower signalled
frantically to the band to stop, and scrambled down from the saddle,
handing the reins to Brown as he advanced towards the man he guessed to
be Momas.

"Our friend!" said Momas, his arms outspread. "Our ally!"

Hornblower allowed himself to be embraced--even at that moment he
wondered at what the leathernecks behind him would think about the sight
of a commodore being kissed by a fat Frenchman--and then saluted the
rest of the Mayor's staff as they came to greet him. Lebrun was at their
head, grinning.

"A great moment, sir," said the Mayor.

"A great moment indeed, Monsieur le Baron."

The Mayor waved his hand towards the flagstaff that stood outside the
Mairie.

"The ceremony is about to take place," he said.

Lebrun was at his side with a paper, and Momas took it and mounted the
steps at the foot of the flagstaff. He inflated his lungs and began to
read at the top of his voice. It was curious how the French love of
legal forms and appearances showed itself even here, at this moment of
treason; the proclamation was studded with archaisms and seemed
interminable in its prolixity. It mentioned the misdeeds of the usurper,
Napoleon Bonaparte, it denounced all his pretensions to sovereignty, it
disclaimed all allegiance to him. Instead it declared that all Frenchmen
voluntarily recognised the unbroken reign of His Most Christian Majesty,
Louis XVIII, King of France and Navarre. At those resounding words the
men at the foot of the flagstaff hauled busily at the halliards, and the
white standard of the Bourbons soared up the mast. It was time for a
gesture on the part of the British. Hornblower turned to his men.

"Three cheers for the King!" he yelled.

He waved his cocked hat over his head.

"Hip--hip--hip--" he called.

"Hooray!" yelled the marines.

The cheer rang hollowly round the square; probably not one marine in ten
had any idea as to which king he was cheering, but that did not matter.

"Hip--hip--hip--"

"Hooray!"

"Hip--hip--hip--"

"Hooray!"

Hornblower replaced his hat and stiffly saluted the white flag. Now it
was time, and high time, to start organising the defence of the town
against Bonaparte's wrath.




CHAPTER XI


"Your Excellency," said Lebrun, sidling into the room where Hornblower
sat at his desk, "a fishermen's deputation has asked for an audience."

"Yes?" said Hornblower. With Lebrun he was careful not to commit himself
prematurely.

"I have endeavoured to discover what it is they seek, Your Excellency."

Anyone could be quite sure that Lebrun would try to find things out. And
so far Hornblower had carefully left Lebrun under the not unnatural
illusion that he liked being addressed as "Your Excellency" in every
other sentence, and would be more malleable in consequence.

"Yes?"

"It is a question of one of their vessels being taken as a prize."

"Yes?"

"It carried one of your certificates to the effect that the vessel was
sailing from the free port of Le Havre, and yet an English ship of war
took possession of her."

"Indeed?"

What Lebrun did not know was that lying on the desk before him
Hornblower had the report of the captain of the English brig which had
made the capture. The captain was convinced that the vessel, before he
took her, had just slipped out from Honfleur, across the estuary, having
sold her catch there. Honfleur, being still under Bonaparte's rule, and
under blockade in consequence, would pay three times as much for fish as
could be obtained in liberated Le Havre. It was a question of trading
with the enemy, and the Prize Court could be relied upon to adjudicate
on the matter.

"We wish to retain the goodwill of the people, Your Excellency,
especially of the maritime population. Could you not assure the
deputation that the boat will be returned to its owners?"

Hornblower wondered how much the fishing-boat owners of the city had
paid Lebrun to exert his influence on their behalf. Lebrun must be
making the fortune he craved as much as he craved power.

"Bring the deputation in," said Hornblower; he had a few seconds in
which to compose his speech to them--that was always as well, because
his French was deficient enough to make circumlocutions necessary when a
word or a grammatical construction evaded him.

The deputation, three grey-haired Norman fishermen with an intense air
of respectability and in their Sunday best, came in as near smiles as
was possible to their solemn natures; Lebrun must have assured them in
the ante-room of the certainty of their request being granted. They were
quite taken aback when Hornblower addressed them on the subjects of
trading with the enemy and its consequences. Hornblower pointed out that
Le Havre was at war with Bonaparte, war to the death. Heads would fall
in hundreds if Bonaparte should emerge victorious from this war and
recapture Le Havre. The scenes of horror that had been witnessed when
Toulon fell twenty years before would be reproduced a thousandfold in Le
Havre. A united effort was still necessary to pull the tyrant down. Let
them attend to that, and make no further attempt to increase their
personal fortunes. Hornblower wound up by announcing not merely his
intention of allowing the fishing-boat to come under the adjudication of
the British Prize Court, but also his fixed determination, in the case
of any repetition of the offence, to send officers and crew before a
court martial whose sentence undoubtedly would be death.

Lebrun ushered the deputation out again. For a moment Hornblower
wondered how Lebrun would explain the failure, but he had no time to
wonder for more than a moment. The demands upon the time and energy of
the Governor of Le Havre were enormous; Hornblower sighed as he looked
at the papers stacked on his desk. There was so much to do; Saxton, the
engineer officer just arrived from England, was clamouring to build a
new battery, a demi-lune or a redan in his barbarous sapper
vocabulary--to cover the defences of the Rouen Gate. All very well, but
he would have to exact forced labour from the citizens to construct it.
There was a mass of papers from Whitehall, mostly reports of spies
regarding Bonaparte's strength and movements; he had skimmed through
them, but one or two of them needed closer reading. There was the
question of unloading the food ships which Whitehall had sent him--Le
Havre should undoubtedly be well stocked with food in case of a close
siege, but it was left to him to plan the warehousing of a thousand
barrels of salt beef. There was the question of policing the streets.
Old personal scores had been wiped out, Hornblower guessed, in the one
or two murders of prominent Bonapartists--he even suspected Lebrun of
having a hand in one of them--and there had already been some attempt at
reprisal by secret assassination. He could run no risk, now that the
city was under control, of allowing it to be divided against itself. The
court martial was in progress of those mutineers of the _Flame_ whom he
had not pardoned. In every case the sentence would be death, inevitably,
and there was food for thought in that. He was Commodore of the British
Squadron as well as Governor of Le Havre, and there was all the manifold
business of the squadron to be attended to. He must decide about--

Hornblower was already walking up and down. This vast room in the Htel
de Ville was far better adapted for walking in than was any
quarter-deck. He had had two weeks now to adapt himself to the absence
of fresh air and wide horizons; his head was bent on his breast and his
hands were clasped behind him as he paced, forming the decisions that
were demanded of him. This was the reward of success; confinement in an
office, chained to a desk; parcelling out his time among a dozen heads
of departments and innumerable persons seeking favours. He might as well
be a harassed City merchant instead of a naval officer, with the
exception that as a naval officer he had the additional labour and
responsibility of sending long daily reports to Whitehall. It may have
been a great honour to be entrusted with the governorship of Le Havre,
to head the attack upon Bonaparte, but it was onerous.

Here came another interruption; an elderly officer in a dark-green
uniform waving a paper in his hand. This was--what was his name
again?--Hau, a captain in the 60th Rifles. Nobody knew quite what his
nationality was by this time; maybe he did not know himself. The 60th,
since it had lost its title of Royal Americans, had become rather a
depository for aliens in the service of the Crown. He apparently, before
the French Revolution, had been a Court official of one of the
innumerable little states on the French side of the Rhine. His master
had been an exile for twenty years, his master's subjects had been
Frenchmen for twenty years, and he himself had been for twenty years
employed in odd duties by the British Government.

"The Foreign Office bag is in, sir," said Hau, "and this despatch was
marked 'urgent.'"

Hornblower took his mind from the problem of nominating a new _juge de
paix_ (to take the place of the recent incumbent, who had apparently
escaped to Bonapartist territory) to deal with the new problem.

"They're sending us a prince," said Hornblower, having read the letter.

"Which one, sir?" asked Hau, with keen and immediate interest.

"The Duc d'Angoulme."

"Eventual heir of the Bourbon line," said Hau, judiciously. "Eldest son
of the Comte d'Artois, Louis' brother. By his mother he descends from
the House of Savoy. And he married Marie Thrse, the Prisoner of the
Temple, daughter of the martyred Louis XVI. A good choice. He must be
aged about forty now."

Hornblower wondered vaguely what use a royal prince would be to him. It
might sometimes be a convenience to have a figurehead, but he could
foresee--Hornblower was labouring under all the burden of
disillusionment--that the Duke's presence would much more often involve
him in additional and unprofitable labours.

"He will arrive tomorrow if the wind is fair," said Hau.

"And it is," said Hornblower, looking out of the window at the
flagstaff, where fluttered, side by side, the Union flag of England and
the white flag of the Bourbons.

"He must be received with all the solemnity the occasion demands," said
Hau, dropping unconsciously into French through a fairly obvious
association of ideas. "A Bourbon prince setting foot on French soil for
the first time in twenty years. At the quay he must be greeted by all
the authorities. A royal salute. A procession to the church. Te Deum to
be sung there. A procession to the Htel de Ville, and there a grand
reception."

"That is all your business," said Hornblower.

The bitter cold of winter still persisted unbroken. Down on the quay,
where Hornblower waited while the frigate bearing the Duke was being
warped in, a cutting northeasterly wind was blowing, which pierced
through the heavy cloak he was wearing. Hornblower was sorry for the
seamen and the troops drawn up in line, and for the other seamen who
manned the yards of the men-of-war in the harbour. He himself had only
just come down from the Htel de Ville, staying there until the last
moment when a messenger brought him the information that the Duke was
about to land, but the dignitaries and minor officials grouped behind
him had been assembled some time. It seemed to Hornblower that where he
stood he could hear teeth chattering in unison.

He watched with professional interest the warping in of the frigate; he
heard the clanking of the windlass and the sharp orders of the officers.
Slowly she drew up to the quay. The side-boys and bosun's mates came
running up the gangway, followed by the officers in full dress. The
marine guard of honour formed up. A brow was thrown from the gangway to
the quay, and here came the Duke, a tall, stiff man in a Hussar uniform,
a blue ribbon across his chest. In the ship the pipes of the bosun's
mates twittered in a long call, the marines presented arms, the officers
saluted.

"Step forward to greet His Royal Highness, sir," prompted Hau at
Hornblower's elbow.

There was a magic mid-point in the brow over which the Duke was walking;
as he passed it he crossed from the British ship to the soil of France.
Down came the French royal standard from the frigate's masthead. The
pipes died away in one last ecstatic wail. The massed bands burst out in
a triumphal march, the salutes began to roar, seamen and soldiers of the
guard of honour presented arms after the fashion of two services and two
nations. Hornblower found himself stepping forward, laying his cocked
hat across his breast in the gesture he had painfully rehearsed under
Hau's guidance that morning, and bowing to the representative of His
Most Christian Majesty.

"Sir 'Oratio," said the Duke cordially--for all his lifetime in exile
apparently he still had a Frenchman's difficulty in dealing with
aspirates. He looked round him. "France, beautiful France."

Anything less beautiful than the waterfront of Le Havre with a
nor'easter blowing Hornblower could not imagine, but perhaps the Duke
meant it, and, anyway, the words would sound well to posterity. Probably
the Duke had been coached beforehand to say them, by the grave and
uniformed dignitaries who followed him down the brow. One of these the
Duke indicated as Monsieur--Hornblower did not catch the name--the
_chevalier d'honneur_, and this gentleman in turn presented the equerry
and the military secretary.

Out of the tail of his eye Hornblower saw the massed dignitaries behind
him straightening themselves up from their concerted bow, their hats
still across their stomachs.

"Cover yourselves, gentlemen, I beg of you," said the Duke, and the grey
hairs and the bald heads disappeared as the dignitaries gratefully
shielded themselves from the wintry wind.

The Duke's teeth, too, apparently were chattering with cold. Hornblower
darted a glance at Hau and at Lebrun, who were, with imperturbable
politeness, elbowing each other to be nearest him and the Duke, and
decided on the spot to cut down further presentations to a bare minimum,
ignoring the elaborate programme with which Hau and Lebrun had provided
him. There would be no use in having a Bourbon prince sent him if he let
him die of pneumonia. He had to present Momas, of course--the Baron's
name would go down through history; and Bush, the senior naval
officer--one of each country to mark the alliance between them, which
was convenient, for Bush loved a lord, and royalty he adored. The Duke
would be an important name on the list in Bush's memory headed by the
Czar of All the Russians. Hornblower turned and beckoned for the horses
to be led up; the equerry hastened to hold the stirrup, and the Duke
swung himself into the saddle, a born horseman like all his family.
Hornblower mounted the quiet horse he had reserved for himself, and the
others followed his example, a few of the civilians a little hampered by
their unaccustomed swords. It was only a scant quarter of a mile to the
church of Our Lady, and Lebrun had seen to it that every yard of it
proclaimed a welcome to the Bourbons--there were white banners in every
window, and a triumphal arch in fleur-de-lis over the approach to the
west portal of the church. But the cheers of the people in the street
sounded thin in the cutting wind, and the procession could not have been
very inspiring, with everybody hunched forward in self-protection.

The church offered them grateful shelter--like the figurative shelter
she had to offer to all sinners, thought Hornblower, in a moment before
he was engulfed in affairs again. He took his seat behind the Duke; in
the tail of his eye he could see Lebrun, who was intentionally stationed
there for Hornblower's benefit. By watching him Hornblower could see
what had to be done, when to stand and when to kneel, for this was the
first time he had ever been in a Catholic church or attended a Catholic
ceremony. He was a little sorry that the activity of his mind prevented
him from observing everything as closely as he would have liked. The
vestments, the age-old ceremonial, might have appealed to him, but he
was distracted by thoughts about what sort of pressure Lebrun had put on
the officiating priests to get them to risk Bonaparte's wrath in this
fashion, and by his wonderings about how much this scion of the Bourbons
would wish to take a real part in the campaign, and about what was the
exact significance of the reports which had begun to dribble in to the
effect that at last Imperial troops were moving on Le Havre.

The incense and the warmth and his fatigue and the inconsequence of his
thoughts made him drowsy; he was on the point of nodding off when he was
roused by Lebrun's rising to his feet. He hastened to do the same, and
the procession filed out of the church again.

From Notre Dame they rode up the Rue de Paris, scourged by the wind, and
all round the grand square before dismounting again outside the Htel de
Ville. The cheers of the people seemed thin and spiritless, and the wave
of the hand or the lifting of the hat with which the Duke acknowledged
them seemed wooden and mechanical. His Royal Highness possessed much of
that stoical power to endure hardship in public without flinching which
royalty must always display, but seemingly it had been acquired at the
cost of making him silent and reserved. Hornblower wondered whether
anything could be made of him, for under the Duke's nominal leadership
Frenchmen would soon be shedding the blood of Frenchmen, or would be the
moment Hornblower could be sure that he could trust the Bourbon
partisans in action against the Bonapartists.

Hornblower watched him down the length of the great hall in the Htel de
Ville--freezing cold, too, despite the fires which blazed at either
end--as he greeted in turn the local dignitaries and their wives who
were led up to him. The mechanical smile, the apt but formal phrase of
greeting, the carefully graded courtesies, from the inclination of the
head to the slight bow; all these indicated the care taken in his
schooling. And clustered behind him and at his side were his advisers,
the _migr_ nobles he had brought with him, Momas and Lebrun
representing France since the revolution, Hau watching over British
interests. No wonder the man acted like a wooden puppet, with all these
people pulling the strings.

Hornblower saw the red noses and, above their gloves, the red elbows of
the women shivering in the extreme _dcollet_ of their Court gowns.
Tradesmen's wives, petty officials' wives, badly dressed in clothes
hurriedly run up that very day at the news that they were invited to the
reception; some of the fat ones panted in corsets pulled tight, and some
of the more slender ones tried to display the languorous uncorseted
grace which had been fashionable ten years ago. They seethed with
excitement at the prospect of meeting royalty. Their husbands caught
some of the infection, and bustled about from group to group, but
Hornblower knew of the anxiety that gnawed at them, the fear lest the
monstrous power of Bonaparte should not be destroyed, lest a few days
should find them stripped of their petty fortunes or their prospects of
pensions, penniless exiles or victims of the guillotine. One reason why
the Duke had come was to force these people to declare themselves openly
for the Bourbon cause, and doubtless private hints from Lebrun had much
to do with their appearance here. The doubts and the heartaches were
concealed--history later would only tell of the brilliant reception
which signalled the arrival of a Bourbon prince on French soil. The
Young Pretender's reception at Holyrood must have been full of similar
undercurrents, Hornblower realised suddenly, whatever popular legend
made of it nowadays. But, on the other hand, the Pretender's reception
had not been graced by the scarlet of the marines and the blue and gold
of the Navy.

Someone was twitching at his sleeve; there seemed to be warning in the
touch, and Hornblower turned slowly to find Brown, soberly dressed in
his best clothes, at his elbow.

"Colonel Dobbs sent me in to you, sir," said Brown.

He spoke quietly, without looking directly at his captain, and without
moving his lips more than was absolutely necessary. He neither wanted to
call the attention of the company to his presence nor giving anyone an
opportunity of hearing what he said.

"Well?" asked Hornblower.

"Despatch come in, sir, and Colonel Dobbs says he'd like you to see it,
sir."

"I'll come in a moment," said Hornblower.

"Aye aye, sir."

Brown sidled away; despite his bulk and height, he could be very
unobtrusive when he wished. Hornblower waited long enough to make it
appear unlikely that his own departure was connected with Brown's
message, and then made his way out past the sentries at the door. He
strode up the stairs two at a time to his office, where the red-coated
marine colonel stood waiting for him.

"They're on their way at last, sir," said Dobbs, handing over the
message for Hornblower to read.

It was a long, narrow strip of paper, yet narrow as it was, it had been
longitudinally folded as well as crossways; such a peculiar letter that
Hornblower looked a question at Dobbs before reading it.

"It was folded up in a button on the messenger's coat, sir," explained
Dobbs. "From an agent in Paris."

Plenty of people in high position, Hornblower knew, were betraying their
Imperial master, selling military and political secrets either for
present gain or for future advancement. This letter must have been sent
by someone of that sort.

"The messenger left Paris yesterday," said Dobbs. "He rode post to
Honfleur, and crossed the river after dark today."

The message was written by someone who knew his business.

    "This morning," it said, "siege artillery left the artillery
    park at Sablons by river, going downstream. It included the
    107th Regiment of Artillery. The guns were 24-pounders, and I
    believe there were 24 of them. Three companies of sappers and a
    company of miners were attached. It is said that General Quiot
    will command. I do not know what other forces he will have."

There was no signature, and the handwriting was disguised.

"Is this genuine?" asked Hornblower.

"Yes, sir. Harrison says so. And it agrees with those other reports
we've been receiving from Rouen."

So Bonaparte, locked in a death struggle in eastern France with the
Russians and the Prussians and the Austrians, fighting for his life in
the south against Wellington, had yet contrived to scrape together a
force to counter the new menace in the north. There could be no doubt
against whom the siege artillery was destined to be used. Down the Seine
from Paris his only enemies were the rebels in Le Havre; the presence of
sappers and miners was a clear proof that a siege was intended, and that
the guns were not merely intended to strengthen some land fortification.
And Quiot had some two divisions mustering in Rouen.

The Seine offered Bonaparte every convenience for striking a blow at Le
Havre. By water the heavy guns could be moved far more quickly than by
road, especially by winter roads; even the troops, packed into barges,
would travel faster than on their own feet. Night and day those barges
would be towed downstream--by now they must already be nearing Rouen. It
could be no more than a matter of a few days before Quiot closed in on
the city. Hornblower went back in his mind to the last siege he had
witnessed, that of Riga. He remembered the relentless way the approaches
crept forward, the steady advance with gabion and fascine; within a few
days it would be his responsibility to counter that deadly menace.

He felt a sudden gust of resentment against London for having left him
so poorly supported; during the two weeks that Le Havre had been in
British hands much might have been done. He had written as strongly as
he dared on the inadvisability of an inactive policy--those were the
very words he had used, he remembered--but England, with her whole army
engaged under Wellington in the south, her life-blood drained by twenty
years of warfare, had little enough to spare for him. The rebellion he
had instigated had been forced to remain a rebellion on the defensive,
and as such only a minor military factor in the tremendous crisis.
Politically and morally the effect of his action had been enormous, so
they assured him, flatteringly, but the means were utterly wanting to
reap any military harvest. Bonaparte, whose Empire was supposed to be
tottering, who was fighting for his life on the snow-covered fields of
Champagne, could still find two divisions and a siege-train to recapture
Le Havre. Was it possible that man could ever be beaten?

Hornblower had forgotten the presence of the marine colonel; he looked
past him into vacancy. It was time for the rebellion to cease the
defensive, and to take the offensive, however limited its means, however
powerful the enemy. Something must be done, something must be dared. He
could not bear the thought of cowering behind the fortifications of Le
Havre, like a rabbit in its burrow, waiting for Quiot and his sappers to
come and ferret him out.

"Let me see that map again," he said to Dobbs. "How are the tides now?
You don't know? Then find out, man, immediately. And I want a report on
the roads between here and Rouen. Brown! Go and get Captain Bush out of
the reception."

He was still making plans and giving provisional orders, when Hau came
into the room.

"The reception is ending, sir," said Hau. "His Royal Highness is about
to retire."

Hornblower cast one more look at the map of the lower Seine spread
before him; his brain was seething, with calculations regarding tides
and road distances.

"Oh, very well," he said. "I'll come for five minutes."

He was smiling as he walked in--many eyes turned towards him and noticed
it. It was a little ironical that the good people at the reception
should feel reassured just because Hornblower had received news of the
developing threat to their city.




CHAPTER XII


The murky winter day was giving place to murky night. There was little
of the grey winter afternoon left as Hornblower stood on the quay
watching the boats make ready. It was already dark enough and misty
enough for the preparations to be invisible to anyone outside the town,
whatever point of vantage he might have chosen for himself. So it was
safe for the seamen and the marines to begin to man the boats; it was
only an hour before the floodtide should begin, and no moment of the
tide ought to be wasted.

This was another of the penalties of success; that he should have to
stand here and watch others set off on an expedition that he would have
loved to head. But the Governor of Le Havre, the Commodore, could not
possibly risk his life and liberty with a petty sortie; the force he was
sending out crammed into half a dozen ships' longboats, was so small
that he was hardly justified in putting a post captain in command.

Bush came stumping up to him, the thump of his wooden leg on the cobbles
alternating with the flatter sound of his one shoe.

"No further orders, sir?" asked Bush.

"No, none. I only have to wish you the best of good fortune now," said
Hornblower.

He put out his hand, and Bush took it--amazing how Bush's hand remained
hard and horny as if he still had to haul on braces and halliards.
Bush's frank blue eyes looked into his.

"Thank you, sir," said Bush, and then, after a moment's hesitation,
"Don't you go worrying about us, sir."

"I won't worry with you in command, Bush."

There was some truth in that. In all these years of close association
Bush had learned his methods, and could be relied upon to execute a plan
intelligently. Bush knew as well as he did now the value of surprise,
the importance of striking swiftly and suddenly and unexpectedly, the
necessity for close co-operation between all parts of the force.

The _Nonsuch's_ longboat was against the quay, and a detachment of
marines was marching down into it. They sat stiff and awkward on the
thwarts, their muskets pointing skywards between their knees, while the
seamen held the boat off.

"All ready, sir?" piped up a voice from the sternsheets.

"Goodbye, Bush," said Hornblower.

"Goodbye, sir."

Bush's powerful arms swung him down into the longboat with no difficulty
despite his wooden leg.

"Shove off."

The boat pushed out from the quay; two other boats left the quay as
well. There was still just enough light to see the rest of the flotilla
pull away from the sides of the ships moored in the harbour. The sound
of the orders came to Hornblower's ears across the water.

"Give way."

Bush's boat swung round and headed the procession out into the river,
and the night swallowed it. Yet Hornblower stood looking after them into
the blackness for some time before he turned away. There could be no
doubt at all, having regard to the state of the roads, and the reports
of the spies, that Quiot would bring his siege-train as far as Caudebec
by water--barges would carry his vast twenty-four-pounders fifty miles
in a day, while over those muddy surfaces they would hardly move fifty
miles in a week. At Caudebec there was an _estacade_ with facilities for
dealing with large cargoes. Quiot's advanced guards at Lillebonne and
Bolbec would cover the unloading--so he would think. There was a good
chance that boats, coming up the river in the darkness swiftly with the
tide, might arrive unobserved at the _estacade_. The landing party could
burn and destroy to their hearts' content in that case. Most likely
Bonaparte's troops, which had conquered the land world, would not think
of the possibility of an amphibious expedition striking by water round
their flank; and even if they did think of it there was more than a
chance that the expedition, moving rapidly on the tide, would break
through the defence in the darkness as far as the barges. But though it
was easy enough to form these comforting conclusions, it was not so easy
to see them go off in the darkness like this. Hornblower turned away
from the quay and began to walk up the dark Rue de Paris to the Htel de
Ville. Half a dozen dimly perceived figures detached themselves from
street corners and walked along a few yards in front and behind him;
these were the bodyguards that Hau and Lebrun had detailed for him. They
had both of them raised hands and eyes in horror at the thought that he
should go about the town unescorted--on foot to make it worse--and when
he had refused utterly to have a military guard permanently about him
they had made this other arrangement. Hornblower aroused himself by
walking as fast as his long thin legs would carry him. The exercise was
pleasurable, and it made him smile to himself to hear the pattering of
feet as his escort strove to keep pace with him; it was curious that
nearly all of them were short-legged men.

In his bedroom there was a privacy to be obtained which he could not
hope for elsewhere. He dismissed Brown as soon as the latter had lighted
the candles in the stick on the night table at the bedhead, and with a
grateful sigh he stretched himself out on the bed, careless of his
uniform. He rose again to get his boat-cloak and spread it over himself,
for the room was dank and cold despite the fire in the grate. Then at
last he could take the newspaper from the top of the pile at the
bedhead, and set himself to read seriously the marked passages at which
previously he had merely glanced--Barbara had sent him those newspapers;
her letter, read and reread, was in his pocket, but all through the day
he had not found leisure for the papers.

If the Press was, as it claimed to be, the voice of the people, then the
British public most strongly approved of him and his recent actions. It
was strangely difficult for Hornblower to recapture the mood of only a
few weeks back; the manifold distractions of his duties as Governor of
Le Havre made the events preceding the capture of the city very blurred
and indistinct in his memory. But here was _The Times_ running over with
praise for his handling of the situation in the Bay of the Seine. The
measures he had taken to make it impossible for the mutineers to take
the _Flame_ into the French authorities were described as "a masterpiece
of the ingenuity and skill which we have come to expect of this
brilliant officer." The pontifical manner of the article left Hornblower
with the impression that it would have been more appropriate if the "we"
had been spelt with a capital W.

Here was the _Morning Chronicle_ expatiating on his capture of the
_Flame_ across the decks of the _Bonne Celestine_. There was only one
example in history of a similar feat--Nelson's capture of the _San
Josef_ at Cape St. Vincent. Hornblower's eyebrows rose as he read. The
comparison was quite absurd. There had been nothing else for him to do;
he had had only to fight the _Bonne Celestine's_ crew, for hardly a man
in the _Flame's_ company had raised a hand to prevent the vessel's
recapture. And it was nonsense to compare him with Nelson. Nelson had
been brilliant, a man of lightning thought, the inspiration of all who
came in contact with him. He himself was only a fortunate plodder by
comparison. Extraordinary good fortune was the root of all his success;
good fortune, and long thought, and the devotion of his subordinates. It
was perfectly horrible that he should be compared with Nelson; horrible
and indecent. As Hornblower read on he felt a disquieting sensation in
his stomach, exactly as he felt during his first hours at sea after a
spell on land, when the ship he was in slid down a wave. Now that this
comparison with Nelson had been made, the public and the service would
judge his future actions by the same standard, and would turn and rend
him in their disappointment should he fail. He had climbed high, and as
a natural result there was a precipice at his feet. Hornblower
remembered how he had felt as a king's letter-boy, when he had first
climbed to the maintop of the _Indefatigable_. The climbing had not been
so difficult, not even the futtock-shrouds, but when at the masthead he
had looked down he felt dizzy and nauseated, appalled at the distance
below him--just as he felt now.

He flung the _Morning Chronicle_ aside and took up the _Anti Gallican_.
The writer here gloated over the fate of the mutineers. He exulted over
the death of Nathaniel Sweet, laying special stress on the fact that he
had died at Hornblower's own hands. He went on to hope that Sweet's
accessories in the horrible crime of mutiny would shortly meet the fate
they deserved, and he hoped that the happy issue of Hornblower's
recapture of the _Flame_ would not be allowed to serve an excuse for
mercy or sentimental considerations. Hornblower, with twenty sentences
of death awaiting his signature, felt his nausea renewed. This writer in
the _Anti Gallican_ did not know what death was. Before Hornblower's
eyes floated once more the memory of Sweet's white hair in the water as
the smoke from the musket-shot drifted away. That old man--Chadwick had
sworn to disrate him and then flog him. Hornblower decided for the
twentieth time that he would have mutinied, too, if confronted with the
certainty of a flogging. This writer knew nothing of the sickening crack
of the cat-o'-nine-tails as it fell on a naked back. He could never have
heard the yell of agony of a grown man under torment.

A later number of _The Times_ discussed the capture of Le Havre. There
were the words he had been dreading to read, but in Latin, as one might
expect of _The Times_. _Initium finis_--the beginning of the end. _The
Times_ expected Bonaparte's dominion, which had endured all these years,
to melt away in the next few days. The crossing of the Rhine, the fall
of Le Havre, the declaration of Bordeaux in favour of the Bourbons, made
the writer certain that Bonaparte would be dethroned immediately. Yet
Bonaparte with a solid army was still striking back at his enemies
today. The last reports told of his victories over the Prussians and the
Austrians; Wellington in the south was making only the slowest progress
against Soult. No one could foresee an immediate end to the war save
this inky scribbler safe in some dusty office in Printing House Square.

But there was a morbid fascination about reading these newspapers.
Hornblower put down this copy and reached for another, knowing as he did
so that it would only disgust him or frighten him. It was as hard to
resist as opium was to an addict. Hornblower read on and on through the
marked passages, which dealt mainly with his own achievements, in much
the same way that an old maid, by chance alone in her house on a wintry
night, might go on reading one of Monk Lewis's terrifying novels, too
frightened to stop, and yet knowing that every word she read would only
make the stopping more frightening still.

He had hardly finished the pile of newspapers when he noticed the bed
jar slightly under him and the candle-flames flicker for a moment. He
paid almost no attention to the phenomenon--it might have been a heavy
gun being fired, although he had not heard the explosion--but a few
seconds later he heard the bedroom door stealthily opened. He looked up
to see Brown peering round the corner at him to see if he were asleep.

"What do you want?" he snapped. His ill-temper was so obvious that even
Brown hesitated to speak.

"Out with it," snarled Hornblower. "Why am I being disturbed contrary to
my orders?"

Howard and Dobbs made their appearance behind Brown; it was to their
credit that they were willing not merely to take the responsibility but
to receive the first impact of the wrath of the Commodore.

"There's been an explosion, sir," said Howard. "We saw the flash of it
in the sky, east by north of here--I took the bearing. That could be at
Caudebec."

"We felt the jar, sir," said Dobbs. "But there was no sound--too far
away. A big explosion to shake us here and yet be unheard."

That meant, almost for certain, that Bush had been successful. He must
have captured the French powder-barges and blown them up. A thousand
rounds for each of twenty-four twenty-four pounders--the minimum for a
siege; eight pounds of powder for each round. That would be eight times
twenty-four thousand. That would be nearly two hundred thousand pounds.
That would be almost a hundred tons. A hundred tons of gunpowder would
make a fair explosion. Having computed his calculation, Hornblower
refocused his eyes on Dobbs and Howard; until then he had looked at them
without seeing them. Brown had tactfully slipped out from this council
of his betters.

"Well?" said Hornblower.

"We thought you would like to know about it, sir," said Dobbs, lamely.

"Quite right," said Hornblower, and held up his newspaper between them
again. Then he pulled it down again just long enough to say "Thank you."

From behind his newspaper Hornblower heard his two staff officers creep
out of the room and shut the door gently behind them. He was pleased
with his performance; that final "thank you" had been a masterly touch,
conveying the impression that, even though he was loftily above such
trifles as the mere destruction of a siege-train, he could yet remember
his manners before his inferiors. Yet it was only a moment before he was
sneering at himself for relishing such a petty triumph. He felt a sudden
self-contempt, which even when it passed left him depressed and unhappy.
The unhappiness had a special quality; Hornblower, laying aside his
newspaper to look up at the play of shadows on the bedtester, suddenly
realised he was lonely. He wanted company. He wanted friendship. Much
more than that, he wanted comforting, he wanted affection, he wanted
just what he could not have as Governor of this bleak, beleaguered city.
He bore all the vast weight of responsibility, and he had no one to
share his fears and hopes. Hornblower pulled himself up on the verge of
an abyss of self-pity, his self-contempt greatly increased by the
discovery. He had always been too self-analytical and too conscious of
his own faults to be sorry for himself. His present loneliness was of
his own making. He need not have been so gratuitously reserved with
Dobbs and Howard; a sensible man would have shared their pleasure, would
have sent for a bottle of champagne to celebrate the success, would have
passed a pleasant hour or two with them--and would certainly have
increased their pleasure and their loyalty by hinting that the success
was largely due to their contributions to the plan, even though it was
not true. For the ephemeral and extremely doubtful pleasure of showing
himself to be what he was not, a man untouched by human emotions, he was
now having to pay the present price of loneliness. Well, decided
Hornblower, swallowing a decidedly bitter truth, it served him right.

He pulled out his watch; half an hour since the explosion, and the ebb
tide had been running here at the river's mouth for a full hour longer
than that. It must have turned some time ago at Caudebec; it was to be
hoped that Bush and his flotilla were running down with it, exulting in
their victory. Fully twenty-five miles by road, thirty at least by
river, from their nearest enemies at Le Havre, the soldiers of the
French siege-train must have thought themselves perfectly secure with an
army of nearly twenty thousand men to protect them from an enemy who so
far had shown no sign of taking the offensive. Yet in less than six
hours, even in darkness, well-manned boats with the racing Seine tide
behind them could span the interval that infantry would take two
days--the daylight hours of two days--to cross. Boats could strike and
escape again in the course of a single night up the broad and bridgeless
river; and the fact that the river was broad and bridgeless would
encourage Quiot's army to look upon the Seine as a protection to their
flank and so to forget its potentialities as a highway for their
enemies. Quiot had until recently commanded a division in the Imperial
Guard, and never, in its ten victorious years, had the Imperial Guard
taken part in an amphibious campaign.

Hornblower realised that he had been through all this train of thought
before, many times over. He snuffed the guttered candles, looked at his
watch again, and stretched his legs restlessly under his cloak. His hand
fluttered tentatively towards the tumbled newspapers and was withdrawn
immediately. Rather the unpalatable company of his own thoughts than
that of _The Times_ and the _Morning Chronicle_. Rather than
either--humble pie, especially as it would be made a little more
appetising by the knowledge that he would be doing his duty. He flung
the cloak off his legs and rose to his feet. He went to some trouble to
pull his coat into position, and he combed his hair with some care
before sauntering out of his bedroom. The sentry at the door came to
attention with a jerk--Hornblower guessed that he had been sleeping on
his feet--while Hornblower crossed the hall to the room beyond. He
opened the door into warm stuffiness. A single shaded candle hardly
illuminated the room enough for him to see. Dobbs was asleep in a chair
at a table, his head resting on his folded forearms; beyond the table
lay Howard on a cot. The shadow there was so dense that Hornblower could
not see his face, but he could hear his low, measured snores.

So nobody wanted his company after all. Hornblower withdrew and shut the
door quietly. Brown presumably was asleep in some cubbyhole of his own;
Hornblower toyed with the idea of sending for him and having him make
him a cup of coffee, but decided against it out of pure humanity. He
climbed back onto his own bed and dragged the cloak over him. A
whistling draught decided him to draw the curtains round the bed, and he
did so after extinguishing the candles. It occurred to him that he would
have been much more comfortable had he undressed and got into the bed,
but he could not face the effort--it suddenly became plain to him that
he was very weary. His eyelids closed before the solid darkness within
the curtains, and he slept, fully dressed.




CHAPTER XIII


The fact that he had not taken off his clothes told Brown and Dobbs and
Howard at dawn that Hornblower had not been as composed and
self-confident as he had tried to appear, but not one of them was
foolish enough to comment on the fact. Brown merely opened the curtain
and made his report.

"Day just breaking, sir. Cold morning with a bit o' fog. The last o' the
ebb, sir, and no news as yet of Captain Bush an' the flotilla."

"Right," said Hornblower, getting stiffly to his feet. He yawned and
felt his bristling cheeks. He wished he knew how Bush had succeeded. He
wished he did not feel so unwashed and unclean. He wanted his breakfast,
but he wanted news of Bush even more. He was still deadly tired despite
his hours of unbroken sleep. Then he fought down his weariness in a
direct personal struggle like that of Christian with Appollyon.

"Get me a bath, Brown. Make it ready while I shave."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hornblower stripped off his clothes and proceeded to shave himself at
the wash-hand-stand in the corner of the room. He kept his eyes from his
naked body reflected in the mirror, from his skinny, hairy legs and
slightly protuberant belly, as resolutely as he kept his mind from his
fatigue and from his anxiety about Bush. Brown and a marine private came
in carrying the bath and put it on the floor near him; Hornblower,
shaving carefully round the comers of his lips, heard the hot water
being poured into it from buckets. It took a little while to compound
the mixture in the right proportion so as to get the temperature
suitable; Hornblower stepped into it and sank down with a sigh of
satisfaction--an immense amount of water poured over the sides,
displaced by his body, but he did not care. He thought about soaping
himself, but flinched from the effort and the physical contortions
necessary, and instead he lay back and allowed himself to soak and
relax. He closed his eyes.

"Sir!"

Howard's voice caused him to reopen them.

"Two boats are in sight coming down the estuary, sir. Only two."

Bush had taken seven boats with him to Caudebec. Hornblower could only
wait for Howard to finish his report.

"One of 'em's _Camilla's_ launch, sir. I can recognise her through the
glass. I don't think any of the others are from _Nonsuch_, but I can't
be sure."

"Very good, Captain. I'll join you in a moment."

Ruin and destruction; five boats lost out of seven--and Bush lost too,
seemingly. The destruction of the French siege-train--if it were
destroyed--would be well worth the loss of the whole flotilla, to
someone who could coldly balance profit and loss. But Bush gone!
Hornblower could not bear the thought of it. He sprang from his bath and
looked round for a towel. He saw none, and with exasperation tore a
sheet from the bed on which to dry himself. Only when he was dry and
seeking his clean shirt did he find the towels by the dressing-table
where they should have been. He dressed hurriedly, and at every moment
his fears and his sorrow on account of Bush increased--the first shock
had not been nearly as severe as this growing realisation of his
bereavement. He came out into the ante-room.

"One boat's coming into the quay, sir. I'll have the officer reporting
here in fifteen minutes," said Howard.

Brown was across the room at the far door. Now, if ever, Hornblower had
the opportunity--his unaccountable brain recognised it at this
moment--to show himself a man of iron. All he had to do was to say, "My
breakfast, Brown," and sit down and eat it. But he could not pose, faced
as he was by the possibility of Bush's death. It was all very well to do
those things when it was merely a battle that lay before him, but this
was the loss of his dearest friend. Brown must have read the expression
on his face, for he withdrew without making any suggestion about
breakfast. Hornblower stood undecided.

"I have the court martial verdicts here for confirmation, sir," said
Howard, calling his attention to a mass of papers.

Hornblower sat down and picked one up, looked at it unseeing, and put it
down again.

"I'll deal with that later on," he said.

"Cider's begun coming into the city from the country in great quantity,
sir, now that the farmers have found it's a good market," said Dobbs.
"Drunkenness among the men's increasing. Can we--?"

"I'll leave it to your judgment," said Hornblower. "No. What is it you
want to do?"

"I would submit, sir, that--"

The discussion lasted a few minutes. It led naturally to the vexed
question of an established rate of exchange for British and French
currency. But it could not dull the gnawing anxiety about Bush.

"Where the hell's that officer?" said Howard, petulantly pushing back
his chair and going out of the room. He was back almost immediately.

"Mr. Livingstone, sir," he said. "Third of _Camilla_."

A middle-aged lieutenant, steady and reliable enough to outward
appearance; Hornblower looked him over carefully as he came into the
room.

"Make your report, please."

"We went up the river without incident, sir. _Flame's_ boat went aground
but was refloated directly. We could see the lights of Caudebec before
we were challenged from the bank--we were just rounding the bend, then.
Cap'n Bush's longboat was leading, sir."

"Where was your boat?"

"Last in the line, sir. We went on without replying, as our orders said.
I could see two barges anchored in mid-stream, an' clusters of others
against the bank. I put the tiller over and ran beside the one farthest
downstream, as my orders said, sir. There was a lot of musketry fire
higher up, but only a few Frenchies where we were, an' we chased 'em
away. On the bank where we were there were two twenty-four-pounders on
travelling carriages. I had 'em spiked, and then we levered them off the
bank into the river. One fell onto the barge underneath an' went through
it, sir. It sank alongside my launch, deck just level with the water;
just before the turn of the tide, that was. Don't know what she carried,
sir, but I think she was light, judging by the height she rode out of
the water when I boarded her. Her hatches were open."

"Yes?"

"Then I led my party along the bank as ordered, sir. There was a lot of
shot there, just landed from the next barge. The barge was only half
unloaded. So I left a party to scuttle the barge and roll the shot into
the river, an' went on myself with about fifteen men, sir. _Flame's_
boats crew was there, an' the party they were fighting against ran away
when we came on their flank. There were guns on shore and guns still in
the barges, sir. We spiked 'em all, threw the ones that had been landed
into the river, and scuttled the barges. There was no powder, sir. My
orders were to blow the trunnions off the guns if I could, but I
couldn't."

"I understand."

Guns spiked and pitched into the slime at the bottom of a rapid tidal
river would be out of action for some time, even though it would have
been better to blow off their trunnions and disable them permanently.
And the shot at the bottom of the river would be difficult to recover.
Hornblower could picture so well in his mind the fierce and bloody
little struggle in the dark on the river bank.

"Just then we heard drums beating, sir, and a whole lot of soldiers came
bearing down on us. A battalion of infantry, I should think it was--I
think we had only been engaged up to then with the gunners an' sappers.
My orders were to withdraw if opposed in force, so we ran back to the
boats. We'd just shoved off and the soldiers were firing at us from the
banks when the explosion came."

Livingstone paused. His unshaven face was grey with fatigue, and when he
mentioned the explosion his expression changed to one of helplessness.

"It was the powder-barges higher up the river, sir. I don't know who set
them off. Maybe it was a shot from the shore. Maybe Cap'n Bush, sir--"

"You had not been in touch with Captain Bush since the attack began?"

"No, sir. He was at the other end of the line to me, and the barges were
in two groups against the bank. I attacked one, an' Cap'n Bush attacked
the other."

"I understand. Go on about the explosion."

"It was a big one, sir. It threw us all down. A big wave came an'
swamped us, filled us to the gunnels, sir. I think we touched the bottom
of the river, sir, after that wave went by. A bit of flying wreckage hit
_Flame's_ boat. Gibbons, master's mate, was killed an' the boat smashed.
We picked up the survivors while we bailed out. Nobody was firing at us
from the bank any more, so I waited. It was just the top of the tide,
sir. Presently two boats came down to us, _Camilla's_ second launch and
the fishing-boat that the marines manned. We waited, but we could not
see anything of _Nonsuch's_ boats. Mr. Hake of the marines told me that
Cap'n Bush an' the other three boats were all alongside the
powder-barges when the explosion happened. Perhaps a shot went into the
cargo, sir. Then they began to open fire on us from the bank again, and
as senior officer I gave the order to retire."

"Most likely you did right, Mr. Livingstone. And then?"

"At the next bend they opened fire on us with field-pieces, sir. Their
practice was bad in the dark, sir, but they hit and sank our second
launch with almost their last shot, and we lost several more men--the
current was running fast by then."

That was clearly the end of Livingstone's story, but Hornblower could
not dismiss him without one more word.

"But Captain Bush, Mr. Livingstone? Can't you tell me any more about
him?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry, sir. We didn't pick up a single survivor from the
_Nonsuch's_ boats. Not one."

"Oh, very well then, Mr. Livingstone. You had better go and get some
rest. I think you did very well."

"Let me have your report in writing and list of casualties before the
end of the day, Mr. Livingstone," interposed Dobbs--as
Assistant-Adjutant-General he lived in an atmosphere of reports and
lists of casualties.

"Aye aye, sir."

Livingstone withdrew, and the door had hardly closed upon him before
Hornblower regretted having let him go with such chary words of
commendation. The operation had been brilliantly successful. Deprived of
his siege-train and munitions, Quiot would not be able to besiege Le
Havre, and it would probably be a long time before Bonaparte's War
Ministry in Paris could scrape together another train. But the loss of
Bush coloured all Hornblower's thoughts. He found himself wishing that
he had never conceived the plan--he would rather have stood a siege here
in Le Havre and have Bush alive at his side. It was hard to think of a
world without Bush in it, of a future where he would never, never see
Bush again. People would think the loss of a captain and a hundred and
fifty men a small price to pay for robbing Quiot of all his offensive
power, but people did not understand.

Dobbs and Howard were sitting glum and silent when he glanced at them;
they respected his sorrow. But the sight of their deferential gloom
roused Hornblower's contrariness. If they expected him to be upset and
unable to work, he would show them how mistaken they were.

"I'll see those court martial reports now, Captain Howard, if you
please."

The busy day's work began; it was possible to think clearly, to make
decisions, to work as if nothing had happened, despite the feeling of
being drained dry by unhappiness. Not merely that; it was even possible
to think of new plans.

"Go and find Hau," he said to Howard. "Tell him I'd like to see the Duke
for a moment."

"Aye aye, sir." Howard rose to his feet. He allowed himself a grin and a
twinkle as he pompously reworded Hornblower's language.

"Sir Horatio solicits the favour of a short audience with His Royal
Highness if His Royal Highness will be so kind as to condescend to
receive him."

"That's right," said Hornblower, smiling in spite of himself. It was
even possible to smile.

The Duke received him standing, warming the royal back before a cheerful
fire.

"I do not know," began Hornblower, "if Your Royal Highness is acquainted
with the circumstances which first brought me to the waters on this part
of the coast."

"Tell me about them," said the Duke. Maybe it was not etiquette for
royalty to admit ignorance on any subject. The Duke's attitude did not
seem to convey a feeling of much interest in any case.

"There was a mutiny in one of His Majesty's--one of His Britannic
Majesty's--ships of war."

"Indeed?"

"I was sent to deal with it, and I succeeded in capturing the vessel and
most of the mutineers, Your Royal Highness."

"Excellent, excellent."

"Some twenty of them were tried, convicted, and have now been sentenced
to death."

"Excellent."

"I would be glad not to carry those sentences out, Your Royal Highness."

"Indeed?" His Royal Highness was not apparently greatly interested--a
yawn seemed to be hesitating only just inside the royal lips.

"As far as my service is concerned, it is impossible for me to pardon
the men without the gravest prejudice to discipline, Your Royal
Highness."

"Quite so. Quite so."

"But if Your Royal Highness were to intervene on behalf of the men, I
might then be able to pardon them without prejudice to discipline, being
in a position where I can deny Your Royal Highness nothing."

"And why should I intervene, Sir 'Oratio?"

Hornblower sidestepped the question for the moment.

"Your Royal Highness could take the stand that it would be unfitting
that the opening days of the return of the Dynasty to France should be
marred by the shedding of the blood of Englishmen, however guilty. It
would then be possible to me to pardon them, with a great show of
reluctance. Men tempted to mutiny in the future would not have their
temptation greatly increased by the hope of a similar event saving them
from the consequences of their actions--the world will never again be so
fortunate as to see a return of Your Royal Highness's family to its
legitimate position."

This last was a clumsy compliment, clumsily worded and susceptible to
misunderstanding, but luckily the Duke took it in the spirit in which it
was ostensibly meant. Nevertheless, he hardly seemed enthusiastic; he
went back to his original point with Bourbon stubbornness.

"But why _should_ I do this, Sir 'Oratio?"

"In the name of common humanity, Your Royal Highness. There are twenty
lives to be saved, the lives of useful men."

"Useful men? Mutineers? Presumably Jacobins, revolutionaries,
equalitarians--even Socialists!"

"They are men who lie in irons today and expect to be hanged tomorrow,
Your Royal Highness."

"As I have no doubt whatever, they deserve, Sir 'Oratio. It would be a
fine beginning to the Regency with which His Most Christian Majesty has
entrusted me if my first public act should be to solicit the lives of a
parcel of revolutionaries. His Most Christian Majesty has not spent the
past twenty-one years combating the spirit of revolution for that. The
eyes of the world are upon me."

"I have never yet known the world offended by an act of clemency, Your
Royal Highness."

"You have strange ideas of clemency, sir. It appears to me as if this
remarkable suggestion of yours has some purpose other than is apparent.
Perhaps you are a Liberal yourself, one of these dangerous men who
consider themselves thinkers. It would be a good stroke of policy for
you to induce my family to brand itself by its first act as willing to
condone revolution."

The monstrous imputation took Hornblower completely aback.

"Sir!" he spluttered. "Your Royal Highness----"

Even if he had been speaking in English words would have failed him. In
French he was utterly helpless. It was not merely the insult, but it was
the revelation of the Bourbon narrow-mindedness and suspicious cunning
that helped to strike him dumb.

"I do not see fit to accede to your request, sir," said the Duke, his
hand on the bellrope.

Outside the audience chamber Hornblower strode past courtiers and
sentries, his cheeks burning. He was blind with fury--it was very rarely
that he was as angry as this; nearly always his tendency to look at both
sides of a question kept him equable and easy-going; weak, he phrased it
to himself in moments of self-contempt. He stamped into his office,
flung himself into his chair and sprang up from it again a second later,
walked round the room and sat down again. Dobbs and Howard looked with
astonishment at the thundercloud on his brow, and after their first
glance bent their gaze studiously upon the papers before them.
Hornblower tore open his neckcloth. He ripped open the buttons of his
waistcoat, and the dangerous pressure within began to subside. His mind
was in a maelstrom of activity, but over the waves of thought, like a
beam of sunshine through a squall at sea, came a gleam of amusement at
his own fury. With no softening of his resolution his mischievous sense
of humour began to assert itself; it only took a few minutes for him to
decide on his next action.

"I want those French fellows brought in here who came with the Duke," he
announced. "The equerry, and the _chevalier d'honneur_, and the almoner.
Colonel Dobbs, I'll trouble you to make ready to write from my
dictation."

The _migr_ advisers of the Duke filed into the room a little puzzled
and apprehensive; Hornblower received them still sitting, in fact almost
lounging back in his chair.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, cheerfully. "I have asked you to
come to hear the letter I am about to dictate to the Prime Minister. I
think you understand English well enough to get the gist of the letter.
Are you ready, Colonel?"

    "'To the Right Honourable Lord Liverpool.

    "'My Lord, I find I am compelled to send back to England His
    Royal Highness the Duke d'Angoulme.'"

"Sir!" said the astonished equerry, breaking in, but Hornblower waived
him impatiently to silence.

"Go on, Colonel, please."

    "'I regret to have to inform Your Lordship that His Royal
    Highness has not displayed the helpful spirit the British nation
    is entitled to look for in an ally.'"

The equerry and the _chevalier d'honneur_ and the almoner were on their
feet by now. Howard was goggling at him across the room; Dobbs' face was
invisible as he bent over his pen, but the back of his neck was a warm
purple which clashed with the scarlet of his tunic.

"Please go on, Colonel."

    "'During the few days in which I have had the honour of working
    with His Royal Highness, it has been made plain to me that His
    Royal Highness has neither the tact nor the administrative
    ability desirable in one in so high a station.'"

"Sir!" said the equerry. "You cannot send that letter."

He spoke first in French and then in English; the _chevalier d'honneur_
and the almoner made bilingual noises of agreement.

"No?" said Hornblower.

"And you cannot send His Royal Highness back to England! You cannot! You
cannot!"

"No?" said Hornblower again, leaning back in his chair.

The protests died away on the lips of the three Frenchmen. They knew as
well as Hornblower, as soon as they were forced to realise the
unpalatable truth, who it was that held the power in Le Havre. It was
the man who had under his command the only disciplined and reliable
military force, the man who had only to give the word to abandon the
city to the wrath of Bonaparte, the man at whose word the ships came in
and went out again.

"Don't tell me," said Hornblower with elaborate concern, "that His Royal
Highness would physically oppose an order from me consigning him on
board a ship? Have you gentlemen ever witnessed a deserter being brought
in? The frog-march is a most undignified method of progression. Painful,
too, I am informed."

"But that letter," said the equerry, "would discredit His Royal Highness
in the eyes of the world. It would be a most serious blow to the cause
of the Family. It might endanger the succession."

"I was aware of that when I invited you gentlemen to hear me dictate
it."

"You would never send it," said the equerry with a momentary doubt
regarding Hornblower's strength of will.

"I can only assure you gentlemen that I both can and will."

Eyes met eyes across the room, and the equerry's doubt vanished.
Hornblower's mind was entirely made up.

"Perhaps, sir," said the equerry, clearing his throat and looking
sidelong at his colleagues for their approval "there has been some
misunderstanding. If His Royal Highness has refused some request of Your
Excellency's, as I gather has been the case, it must have been because
His Royal Highness did not know how much importance Your Excellency
attached to the matter. If Your Excellency would allow us to make
further representations to His Royal Highness----"

Hornblower was looking at Howard, who very intelligently recognised his
cue.

"Yes, sir," said Howard. "I'm sure His Royal Highness will understand."

Dobbs looked up from his paper and made corroborative sounds. But it
took several minutes before Hornblower could be persuaded to postpone
putting his decision into instant effect. It was only with the greatest
reluctance that he yielded to the pleadings of his own staff and the
Duke's. After the equerry had led his colleagues from the room to seek
the Duke, Hornblower sat back with a real relaxation replacing the one
he had simulated. He was tingling and glowing both with the after
effects of excitement and with his diplomatic victory.

"His Royal Highness will see reason," said Dobbs.

"No doubt about it," agreed Howard, judiciously.

Hornblower thought of the twenty seamen chained in the hold of the
_Nonsuch_, expecting to be hanged tomorrow.

"An idea has struck me, sir," said Howard. "I can send a flag of truce
out to the French forces. A _parlementaire_--a mounted officer with a
white flag and a trumpeter. He can carry a letter from you to General
Quiot, asking for news about Captain Bush. If Quiot knows anything at
all I'm sure he'll have the courtesy to inform you, sir."

Bush! In the excitement of the last hour Hornblower had forgotten about
Bush. His pleasurable excitement escaped from him like grain from a
ripped sack. Depression closed in upon him again. The others saw the
change that came over him; as an example of the affection for him which
he had inspired in this short time of contact it is worthy of mention
that they would rather have seen the black thundercloud of rage on his
brow than this wounded unhappiness.




CHAPTER XIV


It was the day that the _parlementaire_ returned; Hornblower would
always remember it for that reason. Quiot's courteous letter left no
ground for hope whatever; the gruesome details which it included told
the whole story. A few rags and tatters of men had been found and had
been buried, but nothing that could be identified as any individual.
Bush was dead; that burly body of his had been torn into shreds by the
explosion. Hornblower was angry with himself for allowing the fact that
Bush's grave would never be marked, that his remains were utterly
destroyed, to increase his sadness. If Bush had been given a choice, he
presumably would have chosen to die at sea, struck down by a shot in the
moment of victory at the climax of a ship-to-ship action; he would have
wished to have been buried in his hammock, round-shot at his feet and
head, with seamen weeping as the grating tilted and the hammock slid
from under the flag into the sea and the ship rocked on the waves,
hove-to with backed topsails. It was a horrid irony that he should have
met his end in a minor skirmish on a river bank, blown into bloody
unidentifiable rags.

And yet what did it matter how he died? One moment he had been alive and
the next dead, and in that he had been fortunate. It was a far greater
irony that he should have been killed now, after surviving twenty years
of desperate warfare. Peace was only just over the horizon, with the
allied armies closing in on Paris, with France fast bleeding to death,
with the allied Governments already assembling to decide on the peace
terms. Had Bush survived this one last skirmish, he would have been able
to enjoy the blessings of peace for many years, secure in his captain's
rank, in his pension, in the devotion of his sisters. Bush would have
enjoyed all that, if only because he knew that all sensible men enjoyed
peace and security. The thought of that only increased Hornblower's
feeling of bitter personal loss. He had never thought he could mourn for
anyone as he mourned for Bush.

The _parlementaire_ had only just returned with Quiot's letter; Dobbs
was still eagerly questioning him about what he had been able to observe
of the condition of the French forces, when Howard came rapidly in.

"_Gazelle_, sloop of war, just entering the harbour, sir. She is wearing
the Bourbon flag at the main and makes this signal, sir, 'Have on board
Duchess of Angoulme.'"

"She has?" said Hornblower. His spirit climbed wearily out of its
miserable lethargy. "Tell the Duke. Let Hau know and tell him to arrange
about salutes. I must meet her on the quay along with the Duke. Brown!
Brown! My dress coat and my sword."

It was a watery day with a promise of early spring. The _Gazelle_ came
warping against the quay, and the salutes rolled round the harbour just
as they had done when His Royal Highness arrived. The Duke and his
entourage stood in almost military formation on the quay; upon the deck
of the _Gazelle_ was gathered a group of women in cloaks awaiting the
casting of the brow across to the quay. Bourbon Court etiquette seemed
to dictate a rigid absence of any appearance of excitement; Hornblower,
standing with his staff a little to the rear and to the side of the
Duke's party, noted how the women on deck and the men on the quay made
no signal of welcome to each other. Except for one woman, who was
standing by the mizzenmast waving a handkerchief. It was something of a
comfort to see that there was at least one person who refused to be
bound by stoical etiquette; Hornblower supposed that it must be some
serving-woman, or lady's maid, who had caught sight of her lover in the
ranks on the quay.

Over the brow came the Duchess and her suite; the Duke took the
regulation steps forward to greet her. She went down in the regulation
curtsy, and he lifted her up with the regulation condescension, and they
put cheek to cheek in the regulation embrace. Now Hornblower had to come
forward to be presented, and now he was bowing to kiss the gloved hand
laid upon his levelled forearm.

"Sir 'Oratio! Sir 'Oratio!" said the Duchess.

Hornblower looked up to meet the blue Bourbon eyes. The Duchess was a
beautiful woman of some thirty years of age. She had something urgent to
say, obviously. As if tongue-tied, she was unable to say it, the rules
of etiquette making no allowance for this situation. Finally she made a
frantic gesture, and looked round her to call Hornblower's attention to
someone behind her. A woman stood there, standing alone, separated a
little from the group of ladies-in-waiting and _dames d'honneur_. It was
Barbara--Hornblower had to look twice before he could believe his eyes.
She stepped towards him, smiling. Hornblower took two strides towards
her--in the midst of them he thought briefly of the necessity of not
turning his back upon royalty, but threw discretion to the winds--and
she was in his arms. There was a tumult of thoughts in his mind as she
put her lips, icy cold from the sea air, against his. It was sensible
enough that she had come, he supposed, although he had always strongly
disapproved of captains and admirals who had their wives with them on
active service. As the Duchess had come it would be quite desirable to
have Barbara here as well. All this in a flash, before more human
feelings became apparent. A warning cough from Hau behind him told him
that he was holding up the proceedings, and he hastily took his hands
from Barbara's shoulders and stepped back a little sheepishly. The
carriages were waiting.

"You go with the royal pair, sir," whispered Hau, hoarsely.

The carriages requisitioned in Le Havre were not striking examples of
coach-building, but they served. The Duke and Duchess were seated, and
Hornblower handed Barbara in and took his seat beside her, his back and
hers to the horses. With a clatter of hoofs and a generous squeaking
they set off up the Rue de Paris.

"Was that not a pleasant surprise, Sir 'Oratio?" asked the Duchess.

"Your Royal Highness was far too kind," said Hornblower.

The Duchess leaned forward and put her hand on Barbara's knee.

"You have a most beautiful and most accomplished wife," she said.

The Duke beside her uncrossed his knees and coughed uncomfortably, for
the Duchess was acting with a condescension a trifle excessive in a
king's daughter, a future queen of France.

"I trust you had a comfortable voyage," said the Duke, addressing
himself to his wife; a mischievous curiosity prompted Hornblower to
wonder if there was ever a moment when he did not use a tone of such
rigid formality towards her.

"We will pass over the memory of it," said the Duchess with a laugh.

She was a high-spirited and lovely creature, and running over with
excitement at this new adventure. Hornblower watched her curiously. Her
infancy had been passed as a princess in the most splendid Court of
Europe; her childhood as a prisoner of the revolutionaries. Her father
and mother, the king and queen, had died under the guillotine; her
brother had died in prison. She herself had been exchanged for a parcel
of captive generals, and married to her cousin, had wandered through
Europe as the wife of the heir to a penniless but haughty Pretender. Her
experiences had left her human--or was it that the formalities of
shabby-genteel royalty had not succeeded in dehumanising her? She was
the only living child of Marie Antoinette, whose charm and vivacity and
indiscretion had been proverbial. That might explain it.

Here they were, climbing out of the carriage at the Htel de Ville; a
naval cocked hat was a clumsy thing to keep under the arm while handing
ladies out. There was to be a reception later, but time must be allowed
for the Duchess's trunks to be swayed up out of the _Gazelle's_ hold,
and for the Duchess to change her dress. Hornblower found himself
leading Barbara to the wing which constituted his headquarters. In the
lobby orderlies and sentries came to attention; in the main office Dobbs
and Howard gaped at the spectacle of the Governor ushering in a lady.
They scrambled to their feet and Hornblower made the presentations. They
bowed and scraped to her; they knew of her, of course--everyone had
heard about Lady Barbara Hornblower, the Duke of Wellington's sister.

Glancing automatically at his desk, Hornblower caught sight of Quiot's
letter lying there where he had left it, with its beautiful handwriting
and elaborate signature and paraph. It reminded him once more that Bush
was dead. _That_ sorrow was real, acute, actual; Barbara's coming had
been so unexpected that it was not real to him yet. That fantastic mind
of his refused to dwell on the central point that Barbara was once more
with him, but flew off at ridiculous tangents. It liked its details
well-ordered, and insisted on them; it would not let him sink into
simple uxorious happiness, but rather chose to work on the practical
details--never thought of until that time--of the arrangement of the
life of an officer on active service, who, while locked in a death
grapple with an Emperor, yet had a wife to think about. Many-sided
Hornblower may have been, but the mainspring of his life was his
professional duty. For more than twenty years, for all his adult life,
he had been accustomed to sacrifice himself for that, to such an extent
and for so long that the sacrifice now was automatic and usually
ungrudging. He was so set on his struggle with Bonaparte and had been
plunged so deep into it during the last months that he was inclined to
resent distractions.

"This way, dear," he said, at length, a little hoarsely--he was about to
clear his throat when he checked himself. The need for throat-clearing
was a sure symptom of nervousness and shyness. Barbara had lightly
teased him out of it years ago, and he would not clear his throat now,
not in front of Barbara, not in front of himself.

They crossed the little ante-room and Hornblower threw open the door
into the bedroom, standing aside for Barbara to pass through, and then
he entered after her and shut the door. Barbara was standing in the
centre of the floor, her back to the foot of the big bed. There was a
smile on one side of her mouth; one eyebrow was raised above the other.
She raised one hand to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, but let it drop
again, its work uncompleted. She did not know whether to laugh or to cry
over this incalculable husband of hers; but she was a Wellesley, and
pride forbade her to weep. She stiffened herself just one second before
Hornblower came forward to her one second too late.

"Dear," he said, and took her cold hands.

She smiled at him in return, but there could have been more tenderness
in her smile, light and playful though it was.

"You are pleased to see me?" she asked; she kept her tone light, and
kept her anxiety out of it.

"Of course. Of course, dear." Hornblower tried to make himself human,
fighting down the instinctive impulse to withdraw into himself that was
roused when his telepathic sensitivity warned him of danger. "I can
hardly believe yet that you _are_ here, dear."

That was the truth, heartfelt, and to say it was a relief, easing some
of his tension. He took her into his arms and they kissed; tears were
stinging her eyes when their lips parted again.

"Castlereagh decided the Duchess should come here, just before he left
for Allied Headquarters," she explained. "So I asked if I could come
too."

"I'm glad you did," said Hornblower.

"Castlereagh calls her the only man in the whole Bourbon family."

"I shouldn't be surprised if that were true."

They were warming to each other now; two proud people, learning anew the
sacrifice each had to make to admit to the other their mutual need of
each other. They kissed again, and Hornblower felt her body relaxing
under his hands. Then came a knocking at the door, and they drew apart.
It was Brown, supervising the work of a half-dozen seamen dragging in
Barbara's trunks. Hebe, Barbara's little Negro maid, hovered on the
threshold before coming in with the baggage. Barbara walked over to the
mirror and began to take off her hat and cloak before it.

"Little Richard," she said, in a conversational tone, "is very well and
happy. He talks unceasingly, and he still digs. His particular corner of
the shrubbery looks as if an army of badgers had been at work. In that
trunk I have some drawings of his that I kept for you--although one can
hardly say they display any noticeable artistic ability."

"I'd be astonished if they did," said Hornblower, sitting down.

"Easy with that there portmanteau," said Brown to one of the seamen.
"That's no barrel o' beef you're handling. Handsomely, now. Where shall
we put her ladyship's trunk, sir?"

"Leave it against the wall there, Brown, if you please," said Barbara.
"Here are the keys, Hebe."

It seemed quite fantastic and unnatural to be sitting here watching
Barbara at the mirror, watching Hebe unpack the baggage, here in a city
of which he was military governor. Hornblower's masculine
narrow-mindedness was disquieted by the situation. Twenty years of life
at sea had made his lines of thought a little rigid. There should be a
time and a place for everything.

A little squeal came from Hebe, instantly suppressed; Hornblower,
looking round, caught a rapid interchange of glances between Brown and
the seaman--the latter, seemingly, had no such views about time and
place and had taken a sly pinch at Hebe. Brown could be trusted to deal
with the seaman; it was not a matter in which it was consonant with the
dignity of a commodore and a governor to interfere. And Brown had hardly
taken his working party away when a succession of knocks at the door
heralded a procession of callers. An equerry came in, bearing the royal
command that at dinner tonight the company should be in full dress with
powder. Hornblower stamped with rage at that; he had not floured his
head more than three times in his life, and he felt ridiculous when he
did. Immediately afterwards came Hau, his mind beset with the same
problems, in a different guise, as were disturbing Hornblower. Under
what authority should he issue rations to Lady Barbara and Lady
Barbara's maid? Where should the latter be quartered? Hornblower drove
him forth with orders to read the regulations for himself and discover
his own legal formul; Barbara, coolly straightening her ostrich
feathers, told him that Hebe would sleep in the dressing-room opening
from this bedroom. Next came Dobbs; he had read through the despatches
brought by _Gazelle_, and there were some which Hornblower should see.
Moreover, there were certain papers which needed the Governor's
attention. A packet was sailing tonight. And the night orders certainly
needed the Governor's signature. And----

"All right, I'll come," said Hornblower. "Forgive me, my dear."

"Boney's been beaten again," said Dobbs, gleefully, the moment they were
out of the bedroom. "The Prussians have taken Soissons and cut up two of
Boney's army corps. But that's not all."

By now they were in the office and Dobbs produced another despatch for
Hornblower's perusal.

"London's going to put some force at our disposal at last, sir,"
explained Dobbs. "The militia have begun to volunteer for foreign
service--now that the war's nearly over--and we can have as many
battalions as we want. This should be answered by tonight's packet,
sir."

Hornblower tried to shake from his mind thoughts about hair powder,
about Hebe's amorous proclivities, to deal with this new problem
regarding the launching of a campaign up the Seine valley against Paris.
What did he know about the military capacity of the militia? He would
have to have a general to command them, who would certainly be senior in
rank to himself. What was the law regarding seniority as between a
governor appointed by letters-patent and officers commanding troops? He
ought to know, but it was not easy to remember the wording. He read the
despatch through once without comprehending a word of it and had to
apply himself to it again seriously from the beginning. He put aside the
temptation that momentarily assailed him, to throw the despatch down and
tell Dobbs to act according to his own judgment; mastering himself, he
began soberly to dictate his reply. As he warmed to his work he had to
restrain himself so as to give Dobbs' flying pen a chance to keep up
with him.

When it was all done, and he had dashed off his signature on a dozen
documents, he went back to the bedroom. Barbara was before the mirror,
looking herself over in a white brocade gown, feathers in her hair and
jewels at her throat and ears; Hebe was standing by her with the train
ready to attach. Hornblower stopped short at sight of Barbara, lovely
and dignified, but it was not only her distinguished appearance that
checked him. It was also the sudden realisation that he could not have
Brown in to help him dress, not here. He could not exchange his trousers
for breeches and stockings with Barbara and Hebe and Brown all present.
He made his apologies, for Brown, aware by his usual sixth sense that
Hornblower had finished his office work, was already tapping at the
door. They gathered up whatever they thought they might need and went
into the dressing-room--even here women's perfumes were instantly
noticeable--and Hornblower began hurriedly to dress. The breeches and
stockings, the gold-embroidered sword-belt. Brown had already, as might
have been expected, found a woman in the town who could starch
neckcloths admirably, stiff enough to retain their curves when folded,
and yet soft enough not to snap in the bending. Brown hung a
dressing-gown over Hornblower's shoulders, and Hornblower sat with his
head lowered while Brown plied the flour-dredger and comb. When he
straightened up and looked in the mirror he felt a sneaking pleasure at
the result. He had allowed what was left of his curls to grow long
lately, simply because he had been too busy to have his hair cropped,
and Brown had combed the snow-white mop to the best advantage so that no
trace of bare scalp was visible. The powdered hair set off his
weather-beaten face and brown eyes admirably. The cheeks were a little
hollow and the eyes a little melancholy, but it was by no means the face
of an old man, so that the white hair made a most effective contrast,
giving him the youthful appearance and calling that attention to his
personality which presumably the fashion had in mind when it began. The
blue and gold of the uniform, the white of neckcloth and powder, the
ribbon of the Bath and the glittering star set him off as a very
personable figure. He could wish he had more calf inside the stockings;
that was the only fault he could find with his appearance. He made sure
that his belt and sword were properly adjusted, put his hat under his
arm, picked up his gloves, and went back into the bedroom, remembering
in the nick of time to pound on the door before he turned the handle.

Barbara was ready; stately, almost like a statue, in her white brocade.
The likeness to a statue was something more than what a casual simile
implied; Hornblower remembered a statue of Diana that he had seen
somewhere--was it Diana?--with the end of her robe caught up over her
left arm exactly the way Barbara was carrying her train. Her powdered
hair made her face seem a little cold in its expression, for the style
did not suit her colouring and features. A glance at it reminded
Hornblower of Diana again. She smiled when she saw him.

"The handsomest man in the British Navy," she said.

He gave her a clumsy bow in return.

"I only wish I were worthy of my lady," he said.

She took his arm and stood beside him in front of the mirror. Because of
her height her feathers overtopped him; she flicked open her fan with an
effective gesture.

"How do you think we look?" she asked.

"As I said," repeated Hornblower, "I only wish I were worthy of you."

Brown and Hebe were gaping at them behind them, as he could see in the
mirror, and Barbara's reflection smiled at him.

"We must go," she said, with a pressure upon his arm. "It would never do
to keep Monseigneur waiting."

They had to walk from one end of the Htel de Ville to the other,
through corridors and ante-rooms filled with a multitude dressed in
every type of uniform--it was a curious chance that had made this not
very distinguished building a seat of government, the palace of a
regent, the headquarters of an invading army, and the flagship of a
squadron, too, for that matter, all at the same time. People saluted and
drew aside respectfully against the walls as they went by--Hornblower
had a clear notion of what it felt like to be royalty as he acknowledged
the compliments on either side. There was noticeable an obsequiousness
and a subservience very unlike the disciplined respect he was accustomed
to receive in a ship. Barbara sailed along beside him; the glances that
Hornblower stole at her sidelong showed her to him as struggling
conscientiously against the artificiality of her smile.

A silly wave of feeling came over him; he wished he were some
simple-minded fellow who could rejoice naturally and artlessly in the
unexpected arrival of his wife, who could take lusty pleasure of her
without self-consciousness. He knew himself to be absurdly sensitive to
minute influences, even influences that did not exist except in his own
ridiculous imagination, but which were none the less powerful. His mind
was like a bad ship's compass, not sufficiently deadbeat, wavering
uncertainly and swinging to every little variation of course, swinging
more widely in response to the correction, until at the hands of a poor
helmsman the ship would find herself chasing her tail or taken all
aback. He felt as if he were chasing his tail at the present moment; it
made no difference to the complexity of his relations with his wife to
know that it was all his fault, that her emotions towards him would be
simple and straightforward did they not reflect his own tangled
feelings--on the contrary, thinking about that made confusion worse
confounded.

He tried to fling off his melancholy, to cling to some simple fact or
other to steady himself, and with frightful clarity one of the central
facts in his consciousness made its appearance in his mind, horribly
real--like the memory of a man he had once seen hanged, writhing with
handkerchief-covered face at the end of a rope. He had not yet told
Barbara about it.

"Dear," he said, "you didn't know. Bush is dead."

He felt Barbara's hand twitch on his arm, but her face still looked like
that of a smiling statue.

"He was killed, four days back," babbled on Hornblower with the madness
of those whom the gods wish to destroy.

It was an insane thing to say to a woman about to walk into a royal
reception, on the very point of setting her foot across the threshold,
but Hornblower was sublimely unconscious of his offence. Yet he had at
that last moment the perspicacity to realise--what he had not realised
before--that this was one of the great moments of Barbara's life; that
when she had been dressing, when she had smiled at him in the mirror,
her heart had been singing with anticipation. It had not occurred to his
stupidity that she could enjoy this sort of function, that it could give
her pleasure to sail into a glittering room on the arm of Sir Horatio
Hornblower, the man of the hour. He had been taking it for granted that
she would extend to these ceremonies the same sort of strained tolerance
that he felt.

"Their Excellencies the Governor and Milady Barbara 'Ornblor" blared the
major-domo at the door.

Every eye turned towards them as they entered. The last thing that
Hornblower was conscious of, before he plunged into the imbecilities of
a social function, was that he had somehow spoiled his wife's evening,
and there was some angry resentment in his heart; against her, not
against himself.




CHAPTER XV


The militia had arrived, pouring, still green with sea-sickness, from
the close-packed transports. They were something better than a rabble in
their scarlet uniforms; they could form line and column, and could march
off smartly enough behind the regimental bands, even though they could
not help gaping at the strangeness of this foreign town. But they drank
themselves into madness or stupor at every opportunity, they insulted
the women either innocently or criminally, they were guilty of theft and
of wanton damage, and of all the other crimes of imperfectly disciplined
troops. The officers--one battalion was commanded by an earl, another by
a baronet--were not sufficiently experienced to keep their men in hand.
Hornblower, facing the indignant protests of the Mayor and the civil
authorities, was glad when the horse-transports came in bringing the two
regiments of yeomanry that had been promised him. They provided the
cavalry he needed for an advanced guard, so that now he could send his
little army out in its push towards Rouen, towards Paris itself.

He was at breakfast with Barbara when the news arrived; Barbara in a
grey-blue informal garment with the silver coffee-pot before her,
pouring his coffee, and being helped by him to bacon and eggs--a
domesticity that was still unreal to him. He had been hard at work for
three hours before he had come in to breakfast, and he was still too set
in his ways to make the change easily from a military atmosphere to one
of connubial intimacy.

"Thank you, dear," said Barbara, accepting the plate from him.

A thump at the door.

"Come in!" yelled Hornblower.

It was Dobbs, one of the few people privileged to knock at that door
when Sir Horatio was at breakfast with his wife.

"Despatch from the army, sir. The Frogs have gone."

"Gone?"

"Up-stick and away, sir. Quiot marched for Paris last night. There's not
a French soldier in Rouen."

The report that Hornblower took from Dobbs' hand merely repeated in more
formal language what Dobbs had said. Bonaparte must be desperate for
troops to defend his capital; by recalling Quiot he had left all
Normandy exposed to the invader.

"We must follow him up," said Hornblower to himself, and then to Dobbs,
"Tell Howard--no, I'll come myself. Excuse me, my dear."

"Is there not even time," said Barbara to him sternly, "to drink your
coffee and eat your breakfast?"

The struggle on Hornblower's face was so apparent that she laughed
outright at him.

"Drake," she went on, "had time to finish the game and beat the
Spaniards too. I was taught that in the schoolroom."

"You're quite right, my dear," said Hornblower. "Dobbs, I'll be with you
in ten minutes."

Hornblower applied himself to bacon and eggs. Maybe it would be good for
discipline, in the best sense of the term, if it became known that the
legendary Hornblower, the man of so many exploits, was human enough to
listen sometimes to his wife's protests.

"This is victory," he said, looking at Barbara across the table. "This
is the end."

He knew it in his soul now; he had arrived at this conclusion by no mere
intellectual process. The tyrant of Europe, the man who had bathed the
world in blood, was about to fall. Barbara met his eyes, and their
emotion admitted of no words. The world which had been at war since
their childhood was about to know peace, and peace had something of the
unknown about it.

"Peace," said Barbara.

Hornblower felt a little unsteady. It was impossible for him to analyse
his feelings, for he had no data from which to begin his deductions. He
had joined the Navy as a boy, and he had known war ever since; he could
know nothing of the Hornblower, the purely hypothetical Hornblower, who
would have existed had there been no war. Twenty-one years of frightful
strain, of peril and hardship, had made a very different man of him from
what he would have become otherwise. Hornblower was no born fighting
man; he was a talented and sensitive individual whom chance had forced
into fighting, and his talents had brought him success as a fighter just
as they would have brought him success in other walks of life, but he
had had to pay a higher price. His morbid sensitiveness, his touchy
pride, the quirks and weaknesses of his character might well be the
result of the strains and sorrows he had had to endure. There was a
coldness between him and his wife at the moment (a coldness masked by
camaraderie; the passion to which both of them had given free rein had
done nothing to dispel it) which might in large part be attributed to
the defects of his character--a small part of it was Barbara's fault,
but most of it was his.

Hornblower wiped his mouth and stood up.

"I really should go, dear," he said. "Please forgive me."

"Of course you must go if you have your duty to do," she answered, and
held up her lips to him.

He kissed her and hurried from the room. Even with the kiss on his lips
he knew that it was a mistake for a man to have his wife with him on
active service; it was liable to soften him, to say nothing of the
practical inconveniences, like the occasion two nights ago when an
urgent message had to be brought in to him when he was in bed with
Barbara.

In the office he read the reconnaissance report again. It stated
unequivocally that no contact could be made with any Imperial troops
whatever, and that prominent citizens of Rouen, escaping from the town,
assured the outposts that not a Bonapartist soldier remained there.
Rouen was his for the taking, and obviously the tendency to desert
Bonaparte and join the Bourbons was becoming more and more marked. Every
day the number of people who came into Le Havre by road or by boat to
make their submission to the Duke grew larger and larger.

"_Vive le Roi!_" was what they called out as they neared the sentries.
"Long live the King!"

That was the password which marked the Bourbonist--no Bonapartist, no
Jacobin, no republican would soil his lips with those words. And the
number of deserters and refactory conscripts who came pouring in was
growing enormous. The ranks of Bonaparte's army were leaking like a
sieve, and Bonaparte would find it difficult to replace the missing
ones, when his conscripts were taking to the woods or fleeing to English
protection to avoid service. It might be thought possible that a
Bourbonist army could be built up from this material, but the attempt
was a failure from the start. Those runaways objected not merely to
fighting for Bonaparte, but to fighting at all. The Royalist army which
Angoulme had been sent here to organise still numbered less than a
thousand men, and of these thousand more than half were officers, old
_migrs_ sent here after serving in the armies of the enemies of
France.

But Rouen awaited a conqueror, nevertheless. His militia brigade could
tramp the miry roads to the city, and he and Angoulme could get into
carriages and drive after them. He would have to make the entrance as
spectacular as possible; the capital of Normandy was no mean city, and
beyond it lay Paris, quivering and sensitive. A fresh idea struck him.
In eastern France the allied monarchs were riding every few days into
some new captured town. It was in his power to escort Angoulme into
Rouen in more spectacular fashion, demonstrating at the same time the
long arm of England's sea-power, and rubbing in the lesson that it was
England's naval strength which had turned the balance of the war. The
wind was westerly; he was a little vague about the state of the tide,
but he could wait until it should serve.

"Captain Howard," he said, looking up, "warn _Flame_ and _Porta Coeli_
to be ready to get under way. I shall take the Duke and Duchess up to
Rouen by water. And their whole suite--yes, I'll take Lady Barbara, too.
Warn the captains to make preparations for their reception and
accommodation. Send me Hau to settle the details. Colonel Dobbs, would
you be interested in a little yachting trip?"

It seemed indeed like a yachting trip next morning, when they gathered
on the quarter-deck of the _Porta Coeli_, a group of men in brilliant
uniforms and women in gay dresses. _Porta Coeli_ had already warped away
from the quay, from which they rowed out to her, and Freeman, at a nod
from Hornblower, had only to bellow the orders for sail to be set and
the anchor hove in for them to start up the broad estuary. The sun was
shining with the full promise of spring, the wavelets gleamed and
danced. Down below decks, Hornblower could guess from the sounds, there
was trouble and toil, while they were still trying to rig accommodation
for the royal party, but here by the taffrail all was laughter and
expectancy. And it was heavenly to tread a deck again, to feel the wind
on his cheeks, to look aft and see _Flame_ under all fore-and-aft sail
in her station astern, to have the white ensign overhead and his broad
pendant hoisted, even though the Bourbon white and gold flew beside it.

He met Barbara's eye and smiled at her; the Duke and Duchess
condescended to step to his side and engage him in conversation. The
fairway led close by the northern shore of the estuary; they passed
Harfleur, and the battery there exchanged salutes with them. They were
bowling up the channel at a full eight knots, faster than if they had
gone in carriages, but of course when the river began to narrow and to
wind it might be a different story. The southern shore came northward to
meet them, the flat green shore becoming more and more defined, until in
a flash, as it seemed, they were out of the estuary and between the
banks of the river, leaving Quilleboeuf behind and opening up the long
reach that led to Caudebec, the left bank green pastureland studded with
fat farms, the right bank lofty and wooded. Over went the helm, the
sheets were hauled in. But with the wind tending to funnel up the valley
it was still well over their quarter, and with the racing tide behind
them they fairly tore along the river. Luncheon was announced, and the
party trooped below, the women squealing at the lowness of the decks and
the difficulty of the companion. Bulkheads had been ripped out and
replaced to make ample room for royalty--Hornblower guessed that half
the crew would be sleeping on deck in consequence of the presence of the
Duke and Duchess. The royal servants, assisted by the wardroom
stewards--the former as embarrassed by their surroundings as the latter
by the company on whom they had to wait--began to serve the food, but
luncheon had hardly begun when Freeman came in to whisper to Hornblower
as he sat between the Duchess and the _dame d'honneur_.

"Caudebec in sight, sir," whispered Freeman; Hornblower had left orders
to be told when this happened.

With an apology to the Duchess and a bow to the Duke, Hornblower slipped
unobtrusively out of the room; the etiquette of royalty even covered
events on shipboard, and sailors could come and go with little ceremony
if the management of the vessel demanded it. Caudebec was in sight at
the top of the reach, and they were approaching it fast, so that it was
only a matter of minutes before there was no need for the glass that
Hornblower trained on the little town. The damage caused by the
explosion which had cost Bush's life was very obvious. Every house had
been cut off short six or eight feet from the ground; the massive church
had withstood the shock save that most of its roof had been stripped off
and its windows blown in. The long wooden quay was in ruins, and a few
stumps of blackened wrecks showed above water-level beside it. A single
cannon--a twenty-four-pounder on a travelling carriage--stood on the
river bank above the quay, all that remained of Quiot's siege-train. A
few people were to be seen; they stood staring at the two men-o'-war
brigs sailing along the river past them.

"A nasty sight, sir," said Freeman beside him.

"Yes," said Hornblower.

This was where Bush died; Hornblower stood silent in tribute to his
friend. When the war was over he would erect a little monument on the
river bank there above the quay. He could wish that the ruined town
would never be rebuilt; that would be the most striking monument to his
friend's memory--that or a pyramid of skulls.

"Mains'l sheets! Jib sheets!" roared Freeman.

They had come to the head of the reach, and were beginning the long turn
to starboard. Jibing a big brig in a narrow river was no child's play.
The flattened sails roared like thunder as they caught the back-lash of
the wind from the heights. The brig's way carried her forward, and she
rounded to, slowly, round the bend. Letting out the mainsail sheet gave
them the needed push and steerage way; the farther she came round the
flatter the sails were hauled, until at last she was close-hauled on a
course almost opposite to the one by which she had approached Caudebec,
sailing close-hauled up the new reach which presented itself to their
gaze.

Here was Hau beside him now.

"Monseigneur wishes to know," he said, "whether your business on deck is
very urgent. His Royal Highness has a toast to propose, and wishes that
you could join in it."

"I'll come," said Hornblower.

He took a last glance aft at Caudebec, vanishing round the bend, and
hurried below. The big extemporised cabin was parti-coloured with
sunlight coming in through the open ports. Angoulme caught sight of him
as he entered, and rose to his feet, crouching under the low deck-beams.

"To His Royal Highness the Prince Regent!" he said, lifting his glass.
The toast was drunk, and everyone looked to Hornblower for the proper
response.

"His Most Christian Majesty!" said Hornblower, and when the ceremony was
completed raised his glass again.

"His Most Christian Majesty's Regent in Normandy, Monseigneur His Royal
Highness the Duke d'Angoulme!"

The toast was drunk amid a roar of acclamation. There was something
dramatic and painful about being down here below decks drinking toasts
while an Empire was falling in ruins outside. The _Porta Coeli_ was
sailing as close to the wind as she could lie, so Hornblower guessed
from the feel of the vessel under his feet and the sound of her passage
through the water. Freeman on deck would have difficulty in weathering
the next bend--he had noticed before he came down that the reach they
had entered trended a little into the wind. Hornblower heard Freeman
roar a fresh order on deck, and was consumed with restlessness. Down
here it was like being with a nursery party of children, enjoying
themselves while the adults attended to the management of the world. He
made his apologetic bow again and slipped out to go on deck.

It was as he thought; the _Porta Coeli_ was as close-hauled as she would
lie, almost closer. Her sails were shivering and her motion sluggish,
and the bend in the river that would give her relief was a full
half-mile farther ahead. Freeman looked up at the flapping sails and
shook his head.

"You'll have to club-haul her, Mr. Freeman," said Hornblower. "To tack
in that narrow channel, even with the tide behind them, would be too
tricky an operation altogether."

"Aye aye, sir," said Freeman.

He stood for a second judging his distances; the hands at the sheets, in
no doubt about the delicacy of the ensuing manoeuvres, waiting keyed up
for the rapid succession of orders that would follow. Filling the sails
for a moment gave them plenty of way again, although it brought them
perilously close to the leeward shore. Then in came the sheets, over
went the helm, and the _Porta Coeli_ snatched a few yards into the wind,
losing most of her way in the process. Then out went the sheets, up came
the helm a trifle, and she gathered way again, close-hauled yet edging
down perceptibly towards the lee shore.

"Well done," said Hornblower. He wanted to add a word of advice to the
effect that it would be as well not to leave it so late next time, but
he glanced at Freeman sizing up the distances and decided it was
unnecessary. Freeman wanted none of the brig's way lost this time. The
moment the sails flapped he threw them back, put his helm over, and this
time gained the full width of the river into the wind. Looking aft,
Hornblower saw that the _Flame_ was following her consort's example. The
lee shore seemed to come to meet them; it seemed a very short time
before the manoeuvre would have to be repeated, and Hornblower was
relieved to see that the bend was appreciably nearer.

It was at that moment that the Duke's head appeared above the coaming as
he climbed the little companion, and the royal party began to swarm on
deck again. Freeman looked with despair at Hornblower, who took the
necessary decision. He fixed the nearest courtier--the equerry, it
happened to be--with a look that cut short the laughing speech he was
addressing to the lady at his side.

"It is not convenient for His Royal Highness and his suite to be on deck
at present," Hornblower said loudly.

The gay chatter stopped as if cut off with a knife; Hornblower looked at
the crestfallen faces and was reminded of children again, spoiled
children deprived of some minor pleasure.

"The management of the ship calls for too much attention," went on
Hornblower, to make his point quite clear. Freeman was already bellowing
at the hands at the sheets.

"Very well, Sir 'Oratio," said the Duke. "Come, ladies. Come,
gentlemen."

He beat as dignified a retreat as possible, but the last courtier down
the companion was sadly hustled by the rush of the hands across the
deck.

"Up helm!" said Freeman to the steersman, and then, in the breathing
space while they gathered way close-hauled, "Shall I batten down, sir?"

The outrageous suggestion was made with a grin.

"No," snapped Hornblower, in no mood for joking.

On the next tack _Porta Coeli_ succeeded in weathering the point. Round
she came and round; Freeman jibbed her neatly, and once more with the
wind on her quarter the brig was running free up the next reach, wooded
hills on one side, fat meadow-land on the other. Hornblower thought for
a moment of sending a message down that the royal party could come on
deck for the next quarter of an hour, but thought better of it. Let 'em
stay below, Barbara and all. He took his glass and laboriously climbed
the main-shrouds; from the main-crosstrees his view over the countryside
was greatly extended. It was oddly pleasant to sit up here and look over
this green and lovely land of France like some sightseeing traveller.
The peasants were at work in the fields, hardly looking up as the two
beautiful vessels sailed past them. There was no sign of war or
desolation here; Normandy beyond Caudebec was untouched as yet by
invading armies. Then, for one moment, as the brig neared the next bend
and preparations were being made for jibbing her round, Hornblower
caught a glimpse of Rouen far away across the country, cathedral towers
and steeples. It gave him a queer thrill, but immediately the wooded
heights as the brig came round cut off his view, and he snapped his
glass shut and descended again.

"Not much of the tide left, sir," said Freeman.

"No. We'll anchor in the next reach, if you please, Mr. Freeman. Anchor
bow and stern, and make a signal to _Flame_ to the same effect."

"Aye aye, sir."

Natural phenomena, like nightfall and tides, were far more satisfactory
things to deal with than human beings and their whims, than princes--and
wives. The two brigs anchored in the stream to ride out the ebb tide and
the hours of darkness to follow. Hornblower took the natural precautions
against attack and surprise, rigging the boarding-nettings and keeping a
couple of boats rowing guard during the night, but he knew there was
little to fear from that exhausted and apathetic countryside. If there
had been any of the army left within striking distance, if Bonaparte had
been operating west of Paris instead of east, it would be a different
story. But save for Bonaparte and the armed forces which he compelled to
fight for him there was no resistance left in France; she lay helpless,
the inert prize of the first conqueror to arrive.

The party on board the _Porta Coeli_ went on being gay. It was a
nuisance that the Duke and Duchess and their suite continually
discovered that servants or pieces of baggage needed in _Porta Coeli_
were in _Flame_, and vice versa, so that there was a continual need for
boats between the two vessels, but presumably that was only to be
expected from these people. They made surprisingly little complaint
about the crowding in the sleeping accommodations. Barbara went off
philosophically to bed in Freeman's cabin along with four other
women--Freeman's cabin would be uncomfortable quarters for two. The
royal servants slung hammocks for themselves under the amused tuition of
the hands with no demur at all; it seemed as if during twenty years of
exile, of wandering through Europe, they had learned in adversity some
lessons which they had not forgotten as yet. No one seemed likely to
sleep--but in the prevailing excitement and pleasurable anticipation
they would probably not have slept even in downy beds in palaces.

Certainly Hornblower, after trying to compose himself for an hour or two
in the hammock slung for him on deck (he had not slept in a hammock
since the time when he refitted the _Lydia_ at the island of Coiba),
gave up the attempt, and lay looking up at the night sky, save when a
couple of sharp showers drove him to cover himself over, head and all,
with the tarpaulin provided for him. Staying awake did at least keep him
assured that the westerly wind was still blowing, as might be expected
at that time of year. If it had dropped or changed he was prepared to
push on for Rouen in the ships' boats. There was no need; dawn and an
increase in the westerly breeze came together, along with more rain, and
two hours after the first daylight the flood set in and Hornblower could
give the word to up anchor.

At the next bend Rouen's cathedral towers were plain to the sight; at
the one after that only a comparatively narrow neck of land separated
them from the city, although there was still a long and beautiful curve
of the river to navigate. It was still early afternoon when they rounded
the last bend and saw the whole city stretched before them, the island
with its bridges, its wharves cluttered with river boats, the market
hall across the quay, and the soaring Gothic towers which had looked
down upon the burning of Joan of Arc. It was a tricky business anchoring
there just below the town with the last of the flood still running;
Hornblower had to take advantage of a minor bend in the stream to throw
all aback and anchor by the stern, two cables' lengths farther from the
city than he would have chosen in other circumstances. He scanned the
city through his glass for signs of a deputation coming to greet them,
and the Duke stood beside him, inclined to chafe at any delay.

"I'll have a boat, if you please, Mr. Freeman," Hornblower said at
length. "Will you pass the word for my coxswain?"

Crowds were already gathering on the quays to stare at the English
ships, at the White Ensign and at the Bourbon lilies; it was twenty
years since either had been seen there. There was quite a mass of people
assembled when Brown laid the boat alongside the quay just below the
bridge. Hornblower walked up the steps, eyed by the crowd. They were
apathetic and silent, not like any French crowd he had seen or heard
before. He caught sight of a man in uniform, a sergeant of _douaniers_.

"I wish to visit the Mayor," he said.

"Yes, sir," said the _douanier_ respectfully.

"Call a carriage for me," said Hornblower.

There was a little hesitation; the _douanier_ looked about him
doubtfully, but soon voices from the crowd began to make suggestions,
and it was not long before a rattling hackney coach made its appearance.
Hornblower climbed in, and they clattered off. The Mayor received him on
the threshold of the Htel de Ville, having hastened there to meet him
from his desk as soon as he heard of his arrival.

"Where is the reception for His Royal Highness?" demanded Hornblower.
"Why have no salutes been fired? Why are the church bells not ringing?"

"Monsieur--Your Excellency----" The Mayor knew not quite what
Hornblower's uniform and ribbon implied and wanted to be on the safe
side. "We did not know--we were not certain----"

"You saw the royal standard," said Hornblower. "You knew that His Royal
Highness was on his way here from Le Havre."

"There had been rumours, yes," said the Mayor reluctantly. "But----"

What the Mayor wanted to say was that he hoped the Duke would arrive not
only with overpowering force but also would make an unassuming entrance
so that nobody would have to commit themselves too definitely on the
Bourbon side according him a welcome. And that was exactly what
Hornblower had come to force him to do.

"His Royal Highness," said Hornblower, "is seriously annoyed. If you
wish to regain his favour, and that of His Majesty the King who will
follow him, you will make all the amends in your power. A
deputation--you, all your councillors, all the notables, the Prefect and
the Sub-prefect if they are still here, every person of position, in
fact, must be on hand two hours from now to welcome Monseigneur when he
lands."

"Monsieur----"

"Note will be taken of who is present. And of who is absent," said
Hornblower. "The church bells can begin to ring immediately."

The Mayor tried to meet Hornblower's eyes. He was still in fear of
Bonaparte, still terrified in case some reversal of fortune should leave
him at Bonaparte's mercy, called to account for his actions in receiving
the Bourbon. And, on the other hand, Hornblower knew well enough that if
he could persuade the city to offer an open welcome, Rouen would think
twice about changing sides again. He was determined upon winning allies
for his cause.

"Two hours," said Hornblower, "will be ample for all preparations to be
made, for the deputation to assemble, for the streets to be decorated,
for quarters to be prepared for His Royal Highness and his suite."

"Monsieur, you do not understand all that this implies," protested the
Mayor. "It means----"

"It means that you are having to decide whether to enjoy the King's
favour or not," said Hornblower. "That is the choice before you."

Hornblower ignored the point that the Mayor was also having to decide
whether or not to risk the guillotine at Bonaparte's hands.

"A wise man," said Hornblower, meaningfully, "will not hesitate a
moment."

So hesitant was the Mayor that Hornblower began to fear that he would
have to use threats. He could threaten dire vengeance tomorrow or the
next day when the advancing army should arrive; more effectively, he
could threaten to knock the town to pieces immediately with his ships'
guns, but that was not a threat he wanted to put into execution at all;
it would be far from establishing the impression he wished to convey of
a people receiving its rulers with acclamation after years of suffering
under a tyrant.

"Time presses," said Hornblower, looking at his watch.

"Very well," said the Mayor, taking the decision which might mean life
or death to him. "I'll do it. What does Your Excellency suggest?"

It took only a matter of minutes to settle the details; Hornblower had
learned from Hau much about arranging the public appearances of royalty.
Then he took his leave, and drove back again to the quay through the
silent crowds, to where the boat lay with Brown growing anxious about
him. They had hardly pushed off into the stream when Brown cocked his
ear. A church carillon had begun its chimes, and within a minute another
had joined in. On the deck of the _Porta Coeli_ the Duke listened to
what Hornblower had to tell him. The city was making ready to welcome
him.

And when they landed on the quay there was the assembly of notables, as
promised; there were the carriages and the horses; there were the white
banners in the streets. And there were the apathetic crowds, numbed with
disaster. But it meant that Rouen was quiet during their stay there, the
reception could at least have an appearance of gaiety, so that Barbara
and Hornblower went to bed each night worn out.

Hornblower turned his head on the pillow as the thumping on the door
penetrated at last into his consciousness.

"Come in!" he roared; Barbara beside him moved fretfully as he reached
out, still half asleep, and pulled open the curtains.

It was Dobbs, slippered and in his shirtsleeves, his braces hanging by
his thighs, his hair in a mop. He held a candle in one hand and a
despatch in the other.

"It's over!" he said. "Boney's abdicated! Blucher's in Paris!"

So there it was. Victory; the end of twenty years of war. Hornblower sat
up and blinked at the candle.

"The Duke must be told," he said. He was gathering his thoughts. "Is the
King still in England? What does that despatch say?"

He got himself out of bed in his nightshirt, while Barbara sat up with
her hair in disorder.

"All right, Dobbs," said Hornblower. "I'll be with you in five minutes.
Send to wake the Duke and warn him that I am about to come to him."

He reached for his trousers as Dobbs left him, and, balancing on one
leg, he met Barbara's sleepy gaze.

"It's peace," he said. "No more war."

Even when roused out in this fashion Hornblower dressed, as he did all
that came his way, extraordinarily quickly. He was tucking his
nightshirt into his trousers--the long skirts of the warm and bulky
garment packed the latter uncomfortably full--before Barbara replied.

"We knew it would come," she said, a little fretfully. During recent
events Barbara had had small time to sleep.

"The Duke must be told immediately, all the same," said Hornblower,
thrusting his feet into his shoes. "I expect he'll start for Paris at
dawn."

"At dawn? What time is it now?"

"Six bells, I should fancy--three o'clock."

"Oh!" said Barbara, sinking back on her pillow.

Hornblower pulled on his coat and stopped to kiss her, but she kissed
him back only perfunctorily.

The Duke kept him waiting fifteen minutes in the drawing-room of the
residence of the departed Prefect where he had been installed. He heard
the news with his council round him, and with royal stoicism showed no
sign of emotion.

"What about the usurper?" was his first question after hearing what
Hornblower had to say.

"His future is partially decided, Your Royal Highness. He has been
promised a minor sovereignty," said Hornblower. It sounded absurd to him
as he said it.

"And His Majesty, my uncle?"

"The despatch does not say, Your Royal Highness. Doubtless His Majesty
will leave England now. Perhaps he is already on his way."

"We must be at the Tuileries to receive him."




CHAPTER XVI


Hornblower sat in his sitting-room in the Htel Meurice in Paris
rereading the crackling parchment document that had arrived for him the
previous day. The wordings of it might be called as gratifying as the
purport of it, to one who cared for such things.

    "As the grandeur and stability of the British Empire depend
    chiefly upon knowledge and experience in maritime affairs, We
    esteem those worthy of the highest honours who, acting under Our
    influence, exert themselves in maintaining Our dominion over the
    sea. It is for this reason that We have determined to advance to
    the degree of Peerage Our trusty and well beloved Sir Horatio
    Hornblower, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath,
    who, being descended from an ancient family in Kent, and
    educated from his youth in the sea service, hath through several
    posts arrived to high station and command in Our navy, by the
    strength of his own abilities, and a merit distinguished by Us,
    in the many important services, which he has performed with
    remarkable fidelity, courage and success. In the late vigorous
    wars, which raged so many years in Europe; wars fruitful of
    naval combats and expeditions; there was scarce any action of
    consequence wherein he did not bear a principal part, nor were
    any dangers or difficulties too great, but he surmounted them by
    his exquisite conduct, and a good fortune that never failed him.

    "It is just therefore, that We should distinguish with higher
    titles a subject who has so eminently served Us and his country,
    both as monuments of his own merit, and to influence others into
    a love and pursuit of virtue."

So now he was a Peer of the Realm, a Baron of the United Kingdom, Lord
Hornblower of Smallbridge, County of Kent. There were only two or three
other examples in history of a naval officer being raised to the peerage
before attaining flag rank. Lord Hornblower of Smallbridge; of course he
had decided to retain his own name in his title. There might be
something grotesque about the name of Hornblower, and yet he was fond of
it, and he had no desire to lose it in the almost anonymity of Lord
Smallbridge or Lord Something-else. Pellew, he had heard, had elected to
become Lord Exmouth. That might suit Pellew, but it would not suit him.
His brother-in-law, when he received a step in the peerage, had actually
reverted from a territorial to a personal title, becoming Marquis
Wellesley instead of Earl of Mornington. Another brother-in-law, unable
to use the Wellesley name in consequence of his brother's preemption of
it, had become Wellington, apparently in an effort to retain as much of
the family name as possible. He was a Duke now, far above a mere Baron,
and yet they were all three Peers together. Lords, hereditary
legislators. Little Richard was now the Honourable Richard Hornblower,
and some time would be Lord Hornblower in succession to his father. All
the formalities regarding titles were a little amusing. Barbara, for
instance; as the daughter of an earl--it was her father's rank that
mattered, not the fact that one brother was now a marquis and one a
duke--she had had higher precedence than as the wife of a Knight of the
Bath. She had been Lady Barbara Hornblower up to yesterday. But now as a
result of her husband's peerage she would be Lady Hornblower. Lord and
Lady Hornblower. It sounded well. It was a great honour and distinction,
the coping-stone of his professional career. Oh, to be truthful, about
it, it was the sheerest lot of tommy-nonsense. Robes and a coronet.
Hornblower stiffened in his chair as a thought struck him. Freeman's
ridiculous prophecy over the cards in the cabin of the _Flame_ about a
golden crown had this much confirmation now. It was an amazingly shrewd
guess on the part of Freeman; it had never occurred to him himself for
one moment that he might become a peer. But the rest of Freeman's
prophecy had fallen to the ground. Danger and a fair woman, Freeman had
foreseen. And now the danger was all over with the coming of peace, and
there was no fair woman in his life, unless Barbara, with her blue eyes
and light-brown hair, could be called fair.

He rose to his feet in his irritation, and perhaps was going to stamp
round the room, but Barbara came in at that moment from her bedroom,
ready for the Ambassador's party. She was all in unrelieved white, for
the party had been planned as a culminating demonstration of loyalty to
the Bourbons, and the women were to wear white regardless as to whether
or not their complexions could stand it; maybe that was the most
convincing proof of loyalty to the newly restored dynasty that could be
offered. Hornblower picked up his hat and cloak in readiness to escort
her; it was the fortieth time in forty nights, he fancied, that he had
done just the same thing.

"We won't stay at Arthur's late," said Barbara.

Arthur was her brother the Duke of Wellington, lately and strangely
transferred from commanding the army fighting France to His Britannic
Majesty's Embassy to His Most Christian Majesty. Hornblower looked his
surprise.

"We shall go on to the Polignacs'," explained Barbara. "To meet M. le
Prince."

"Very well, dear," said Hornblower. He thought he kept the resignation
out of his voice perfectly convincingly.

M. le Prince; that was the Prince of Cond, of a younger Bourbon line.
Hornblower had begun to learn his way through the complexities of French
society--the complexities of the last century transported bodily back
into this. He wondered if he were the only man who thought of them as
outmoded anachronisms. M. le Prince; M. le Duc--that was the Duc de
Bourbon, wasn't it? Monsieur--plain Monsieur, with no honorifics at
all--was the Comte d'Artois, the King's brother and heir. Monseigneur,
on the other hand, was the Duc d'Angoulme, Monsieur's son, who would
one of these days be Dauphin if his father survived his uncle. The very
name of Dauphin was anachronistic, smacking of the Dark Ages. And the
future Dauphin, as Hornblower well knew, was a man of convinced
stupidity whose characteristic most easily remembered was a high-pitched
mirthless laugh something like the cackling of a hen.

They had descended the stairs by now and Brown was waiting to hand them
into the waiting carriage.

"The British Embassy, Brown," said Hornblower.

"Yes, my lord."

Brown had not stumbled over the new title once in the twenty-four hours
he had borne it; Hornblower felt in his exasperation that he would have
given anything for Brown to slip into "Aye aye, sir." But Brown was too
clear-headed and quick-thinking a person to make any such blunder; it
was surprising that Brown should have elected to stay on in his service.
He might well have made a career for himself.

"You're not listening to a word I'm saying," said Barbara.

"Please forgive me, dear," said Hornblower--there was no denying the
accusation.

"It's very important indeed," said Barbara. "Arthur is going to Vienna
to represent us at the Congress. Castlereagh has to come home to manage
the House."

"Arthur will give up the Embassy?" asked Hornblower, making polite
conversation. The carriage roared over the cobbles; the occasional
lights revealed through the windows the bustling multi-uniformed crowd
of Paris in the whirl of peace.

"Of course. _This_ is much more important. All the world will be in
Vienna--every Court in the world will be represented."

"I suppose so," said Hornblower. The destinies of the world were to be
decided at the Congress.

"That's what I was going to tell you about. Arthur will need a hostess
there--there'll be constant entertaining, of course--and he has asked me
to come and act for him."

"My God!" Polite conversation had led straight to the brink of this
abyss.

"Don't you think it's wonderful?" asked Barbara.

Hornblower was on the point of saying "Yes, dear," when rebellion surged
up within him. He had endured for his wife's sake uncounted martyrdoms
already. And this would be one far more violent and prolonged. Barbara
would be the lady of the house, hostess of the most important delegate
to the most important Congress in the world. The seeds of diplomacy,
Hornblower had already learned, were planted far more often in
drawing-rooms than in Cabinets. Barbara's drawing-room would be a place
of intrigue and double-dealing. She would be hostess, Wellington would
be the man of the house, and he--what would he be? Something even more
unnecessary than he was at present. Hornblower saw stretching before him
a three months' vista of salons and balls and visits to the ballet,
outside the inner circle, outside the outer circle, too. No Cabinet
secrets would be entrusted to him, and he did not want to have anything
to do with the petty gossip and polite scandal of the great world. A
fish out of water was what he would be--and not a bad metaphor, either,
when applied to a naval officer in the salons of Vienna.

"You don't answer me?" said Barbara.

"I'm utterly damned if I'll do it!" said Hornblower--strange that, with
all his tact and intuition, he always took a sledge-hammer in his rare
arguments with Barbara, to kill flies with.

"You won't do it, dear?"

In the course of that brief sentence Barbara's tone changed from
disappointment at the beginning to bitter hostility at the end.

"No!" said Hornblower, in a roar.

He had kept the lid on his feelings for so long and so tightly that the
explosion was violent when it came.

"You'll deprive me of the greatest thing that has ever happened to me?"
said Barbara, a hint of ice edging the words.

Hornblower fought down his feelings. It would be easier to give
way--ever so easy. But no, he would not. Could not. Yet Barbara was
quite right about its being a wonderful thing. To be hostess to a
European Congress, to help mould the future of the world--and then, on
the other hand, Hornblower had no wish whatever to be a member, and an
unimportant member at that, of the Wellesley clan. He had been captain
of a ship too long. He did not like politics, not even politics on a
European scale. He did not want to kiss the hands of Hungarian
countesses, and exchange inanities with Russian grand dukes. That had
been fun in the old days when his professional reputation hinged on some
such success, as it had done. But he needed more of a motive than the
mere maintenance of his reputation as a beau.

Quarrels in a carriage always seemed to reach a climax just as the drive
ended. The carriage had halted and porters in the Wellington livery were
opening the door before Hornblower had had time either to explain or
make amends. As they walked into the Embassy Hornblower's apprehensive
side glances revealed that Barbara's colour was high and her eyes
dangerously bright. So they remained during the whole of the reception;
Hornblower looked across the room at her whenever he could, and every
time she was clearly in high spirits, or laughing with the groups in
conversation with her, tapping with her fan. Was she flirting? The red
coats and the blue coats, the black coats and the green coats, that
assembled round her bent their shoulders in obvious deference to her.
Every glance Hornblower took seemed to increase his resentment.

But he fought it down, determined to make amends.

"You had better go to Vienna, dear," he said, as they were once more in
the carriage on their way to the Polignacs'. "Arthur needs you--it's
your duty."

"And you?" Barbara's tone was still chilly.

"You don't need me. The skeleton at the feast, dear. I'll go to
Smallbridge."

"That is very kind of you," said Barbara. Proud as she was, she resented
a little having to be beholden to anyone. To ask permission was bad
enough; to receive grudging permission was dreadful.

Yet here they were at the Polignacs'.

"Milord and milady Hornblower," roared the major-domo.

They paid their respects to the Prince, received their hosts' and
hostess's greetings. What in the world----? What----? Hornblower's head
was spinning. His heart was pounding, and there was a roaring in his
ears like when he had battled for his life in the waters of the Loire.
The whole glittering room was seemingly banked in fog, save for a single
face. Marie was looking at him across the room, a troubled smile on her
lips. Marie! Hornblower swept his hand over his face, forced himself to
think clearly as he had sometimes had to do when exhausted in battle.
Marie! Not so many months before his marriage to Barbara he had told
Marie he loved her, and he had been on the verge of sincerity when he
said it. And she had told him she had loved him, and he had felt her
tears on his face. Marie the tender, the devoted, the sincere. Marie,
who had needed him, whose memory he had betrayed to marry Barbara.

He forced himself to cross the room to her, to kiss with simple
formality the hand she offered. That troubled smile was still on her
lips; she had looked like that when--when--when he had selfishly taken
all she had to give, like some thoughtless child claiming a sacrifice
from a loving mother. How could he meet her eyes again? And yet he did.
They looked each other over with mock whimsicality. Hornblower had the
impression of something vivid and vital. Marie was dressed in cloth of
gold. Her eyes seemed to burn into him--that was no careless metaphor.
Mentally he tried to cling to Barbara, like a shipwrecked sailor to a
broken mast tossing in the surf. Barbara slim and elegant; and Marie
warm and opulent. Barbara in white which did not do her justice, Marie
in gold. Barbara's blue eyes, sparkling, and Marie's brown eyes, warm
and tender. Barbara's hair fair and almost brown; Marie's, golden and
almost auburn. It did not do to think about Barbara while looking at
Marie.

Here was the Count, quizzically kindly, awaiting his attention--the
kindliest man in all the world, whose three sons had died for France,
and who had told Hornblower once that he felt towards him as towards a
son. Hornblower clasped hands with him in an outpouring of affection.
The introductions were not easy. It was not easy to introduce his wife
and his mistress.

"Lady Hornblower--Mme. la Vicomtesse de Graay. Barbara, my dear--M. le
Comte de Graay."

Were they sizing each other up, these two women? Were they measuring
swords, his wife and his mistress, the woman whom he had publicly chosen
and the one he had privately loved?

"It was M. le Comte," said Hornblower, feverishly, "and his
daughter-in-law who helped me escape from France. They hid me until the
pursuit was over."

"I remember," said Barbara. She turned to them and spoke in her shocking
schoolroom French. "I am eternally grateful to you for what you did for
my husband."

It was difficult. There was a puzzled look on the faces of Marie and the
Count; this was nothing like the wife Hornblower had described to them
four years ago when he had been a fugitive hidden in their house. They
could hardly be expected to know that Maria was dead and that Hornblower
had promptly married Barbara, who was as unlike her predecessor as she
well could be.

"We would do as much again, madame," said the Count. "Fortunately there
will never be any need."

"And Lieutenant Bush?" asked Marie, of Hornblower. "I hope he is well?"

"He is dead, madame. He was killed in the last month of the war. He was
a captain before he died."

"Oh!"

It was silly to say he had been a captain. For anyone else it would not
have been. A naval officer hungered and yearned so inexpressibly for
that promotion that speaking of a casual acquaintance one could think
his death requited by his captaincy. But not with Bush.

"I am sorry," said the Count. He hesitated before he spoke again--now
that they had emerged from the nightmare of war it was apprehensively
that one asked about old friends who might have been killed. "But Brown?
That pillar of strength? He's well?"

"Perfectly well, M. le Comte. He is my confidential servant at this
moment."

"We read a little about your escape," said Marie.

"In the usual garbled Bonaparte form," added the Count. "You took a
ship--the--the----"

"The _Witch of Endor_, sir."

Was all this too painful or too pleasant? Memories were crowding in on
him, memories of the Chteau de Graay, of the escape down the Loire, of
the glorious return to England; memories of Bush; and
memories--honey-sweet memories--of Marie. He met her eyes, and the
kindness in them was unfathomable. God! This was unendurable.

"But we have not done what we should have done at the very first," said
the Count. "We have not offered our felicitations, our congratulations,
on the recognition your services have received from your country. You
are an English lord, and I well know how much that implies. My sincerest
congratulations, milord. Nothing--nothing can ever give me greater
pleasure."

"Nor me," said Marie.

"Thank you, thank you," said Hornblower. He bowed shyly. It was for him,
too, one of the greatest pleasures in his life to see the pride and
affection beaming in the old Count's face.

Hornblower became aware that Barbara standing by had lost the thread of
the conversation. He offered her a hurried English translation, and she
nodded and smiled to the Count--but the translation was a false move. It
would have been better to have let Barbara blunder along with French;
once he started interpreting for her the barrier of language was raised
far higher, and he was put into the position of intermediary between his
wife and his friends, tending to keep her at a distance.

"You are enjoying life in Paris, madame?" asked Marie.

"Very much, thank you," said Barbara.

It seemed to Hornblower as if the two women did not like each other. He
plunged into a mention of the possibility of Barbara's going to Vienna;
Marie listened apparently in rapture at Barbara's good fortune.
Conversation became formal and stilted; Hornblower refused to allow
himself to decide that this was a result of Barbara's entry into it, and
yet the conclusion formed in his inner consciousness. He wanted to
chatter free and unrestrained with Marie and the Count, and somehow it
could not be done with Barbara standing by. Relief actually mingled with
his regret when the surge of people round them and the approach of their
host meant that their group would have to break up. They exchanged
addresses; they promised to call on each other, if Barbara's probable
departure for Vienna left her time enough. There was a soul-tearing
glimpse of sadness in Marie's eyes as he bowed to her.

In the carriage again, going back to their hotel, Hornblower felt a
curious little glow of virtue over the fact that he had suggested that
Barbara should go to Vienna without him before they had met the Graays.
Why he should derive any comfort from that knowledge was more than he
could possibly imagine, but he hugged the knowledge to him. He sat in
his dressing-gown talking to Barbara while Hebe went through the
elaborate processes of undressing her and making her hair ready for the
night.

"When you first told me about Arthur's suggestion, my dear," he said, "I
hardly realised all that it implied. I am so delighted. You will be
England's first lady. And very properly, too."

"You do not wish to accompany me?" said Barbara.

"I think you would be happier without me," said Hornblower with perfect
honesty. Somehow he would spoil her pleasure, he knew, if he had to
endure a succession of balls and ballets in Vienna.

"And you?" asked Barbara. "You will be happy at Smallbridge, you think?"

"As happy as I ever can be without you, dear," said Hornblower, and he
meant it.

So far not a word about the Graays had passed between them. Barbara was
commendably free from the vulgar habit which had distressed him so much
in his first wife of talking over the people they had just met. They
were in bed together, her hands in his, before she mentioned them, and
then it was suddenly, with no preliminary fencing, and very much not _
propos_.

"Your friends the Graays are very charming," she said.

"Are they not all that I told you about them?" said Hornblower,
immensely relieved that in telling Barbara of his adventures he had made
no attempt to skirt round that particular episode, even though he had
not told her all--by no means all. Then a little clumsily he went on,
"The Count is one of the most delightful and sweetest-natured men who
ever walked."

"She is beautiful," said Barbara, pursuing undeflected her own train of
thought. "Those eyes, that complexion, that hair. So often women with
reddish hair and brown eyes have poor complexions."

"Hers is perfect," said Hornblower--it seemed the best thing to do to
agree.

"Why has she not married again?" wondered Barbara. "She must have been
married very young, and she has been a widow for some years, you say?"

"Since Aspern," he explained. "In 1809. One son was killed at
Austerlitz, one died in Spain, and her husband, Marcel, at Aspern."

"Nearly six years ago," said Barbara.

Hornblower tried to explain; how Marie was not of blue blood herself,
how whatever fortune she had would certainly revert to the Graays on
her remarriage, how their retired life gave her small chance of meeting
possible husbands.

"They will be moving much in good society now," commented Barbara,
thoughtfully. And some time afterwards, _ propos_ of nothing, she
added, "Her mouth is too wide."

Later that night, with Barbara breathing quietly beside him, Hornblower
thought over what Barbara had said. He did not like to think about
Marie's remarriage, which was perfectly ridiculous of him. He would
almost never see her again. He might call once, before he returned to
England, but that would be all. Soon he would be back in Smallbridge, in
his own house, with Richard, and with English servants to wait on him.
Life in future might be dull and safe, but it would be happy. Barbara
would not be in Vienna for always. With his wife and his son he would
lead a sane, orderly, and useful life. That was a good resolution on
which to close his eyes and compose himself to sleep.




CHAPTER XVII


Two months later saw Hornblower sitting in a chaise driving along
through France towards Nevers and the Chteau of Graay. The Congress of
Vienna was still sitting, or dancing someone had just made the remark
that the Congress danced but made no progress--and Barbara was still
entertaining. Little Richard spent his mornings in the schoolroom now,
and there was nothing for an active man to do in Smallbridge except feel
lonely. Temptation had crept up on him like an assassin. Six weeks of
mooning round the house had been enough for him; six weeks of an English
winter of rain and cloud, six weeks of being hovered over by butler and
housekeeper and governess, six weeks of desultory riding through the
lanes and of enduring the company of his bucolic neighbours. As a
captain he had been a lonely man and yet a busy one, a very different
thing from being a lonely man with nothing to do. Even going round to
parties in Paris had been better than this.

He had caught himself talking to Brown, harking back to old experiences,
reminiscing, and that would never do. He had his dignity still to
consider; no strong man could be weak enough to yearn for activity and
interest. And Brown had talked eagerly about France, about the Chteau
of Graay, about their escape down the Loire--maybe it was Brown's fault
that Hornblower's thoughts had turned more and more towards Graay. As a
fugitive he had found a welcome there, a home, friendship, and love. He
thought about the Count--it may have been because his conscience
troubled him, but undoubtedly at first it was the Count that he thought
about rather than Marie--with his courtesy and kindliness and general
lovableness. With Bush dead it was likely that the Count was the man of
whom Hornblower was fondest in all the world. The spiritual tie of which
Hornblower had been conscious years ago was still in existence. Under
the surface of his thoughts there may have been a tumultuous
undercurrent of thoughts about Marie, but it was not apparent to him.
All he knew was that one morning the pressure of his restlessness had
become overwhelming. He fingered in his pocket the Count's pleasant
letter, received some days ago, telling him of his and his
daughter-in-law's return to Graay and repeating his invitation to come
and stay. Then he had shouted to Brown to pack clothes for both of them
and to have horses put to the chaise.

Two nights ago they had slept at the Sign of the Siren in Montargis;
last night at the post-house at Briare. Now here they were driving along
a lonely road overlooking the Loire, which ran like a grey ocean at
their right hand, wide and desolate, with forlorn willows keeping a
desperate foothold waist deep in the flood. Lashing rain beat down upon
the leather tilt of the chaise, thundering down upon the taut material
with a noise that made conversation difficult. Hornblower had Brown
beside him in the chaise; the unfortunate postilion, hat drawn down over
his ears to meet the collar of his cape, riding the near-side horse in
front of them. Brown sat with folded arms, the model gentleman's
servant, ready to converse politely if Hornblower showed any inclination
to do so, keeping a discreet silence until addressed. He had managed
every detail of the journey remarkably well--not that it would be
difficult to manage any journey in France for an English milord. Every
post-house keeper, however insolent in his office, was reduced to
instant deference at the mention of Hornblower's rank.

Hornblower felt Brown stiffen beside him, and then peer forward through
the driving rain.

"The Bec d'Allier," said Brown, without being spoken to first.

Hornblower could see where the grey Allier joined the grey Loire at an
acute angle--all this country was under moderate floods. There was
something a little odd about having a coxswain who spoke French with the
facility and good accent of Brown, who must have made (of course
Hornblower knew he had) the best use of his months of living below
stairs at Graay when they had been escaped prisoners of war
together--they and Bush. Hornblower could feel a mounting excitement in
Brown, comparable with his own, and that was hard to explain in Brown's
case. There was no reason for Brown to feel the same sort of
homesickness for Graay that Hornblower felt.

"Do you remember coming down here?" asked Hornblower.

"Aye, my lord, that I do," said Brown.

It was down the Loire that they had made their historic escape from
France, a long, curiously happy voyage to Nantes, to England, and to
fame. Graay could only be a few miles ahead now; Brown was leaning
forward expectantly in the chaise. There it was, the grey pepper-pot
turrets only just visible in the distance against the grey sky through
the rain. A flag flying from the flagstaff made a tiny darker spot above
the chteau. The Count was there. Marie was there. The postilion shook
up his depressed horses into a smarter trot, and the chteau came nearer
and nearer; the unbelievable moment was at hand. All the way from
Smallbridge, from the time when Hornblower had decided to start, it had
seemed as if it was quite impossible that they were going to Graay.
Hornblower had seemed to himself like a child crying for the moon, for
their goal was so desirable as to seem necessarily unattainable. Yet
here they were reining up at the gates, and here the gates were opening
and they were trotting forward into the so-well-remembered courtyard.
Here was old Felix the butler hurrying out into the rain to welcome
them, and over there by the kitchens stood a group of serving-women, fat
Jeanne the cook among them. And here, beside the chaise, at the head of
the far stone steps sheltered from the rain by the projecting roof
overhead, were the Count and Marie. It was a homecoming.

Hornblower scrambled down awkwardly from the chaise. He stooped to kiss
Marie's hand; he went into the Count's arms and laid cheek to cheek to
the manner born. The Count was patting his shoulder.

"Welcome. Welcome."

There was no pleasure on earth comparable with this sensation of being
looked for and of feeling that his arrival was causing pleasure. Here
was the well-remembered drawing-room with the old gilt Louis Seize
chairs. The Count's wrinkled old face was mobile with delight, and Marie
was smiling. This man had broken her heart once, and she was ready to
let him break it all over again--she knew he would--because she loved
him. All Hornblower was conscious of was her smile, welcoming
and--and--was it maternal? There was a proud sadness in that smile, like
that perhaps of a mother watching her son grown up now and soon to be
lost to her. It was only a fleeting feeling that Hornblower had; his
powers of observation were negatived immediately by his own wave of
personal feeling. He wanted to take Marie to him, to feel her rich flesh
in the circle of his arms, to forget his troubles and doubts and
disillusionments in the intoxication of her embrace; just as four years
ago he had found oblivion there, selfishly.

"A more cheerful arrival than your last, milord," said the Count.

Hornblower's last arrival had been as a fugitive, carrying the wounded
Bush, and hunted by Bonaparte's gendarmes.

"Yes, indeed," said Hornblower. Then he realised how formally the Count
had addressed him. "Must I be 'milord' to you, sir? It seems----"

They all smiled together.

"I shall call you 'Oratio, then, if you will permit me," said the Count.
"I feel the greatness of the honour of such intimacy."

Hornblower looked towards Marie.

"'Oratio," she said. "'Oratio."

She had called him that before in little broken tones when they had been
alone together. Just to hear her say it again sent a wave of passionate
emotion through Hornblower's body. He was filled with love--the sort of
love of which he was capable. He was not conscious yet of any wickedness
about his action in coming thus to torment Marie again. He had been
overborne by his own wild longing--and perhaps in his excuse it could
also be pleaded that his silly modesty made him incapable of realising
how much a woman could love him. Here came Felix with wine; the Count
raised his glass.

"To your happy return, 'Oratio," he said.

The simple words called up a momentary pageant in Hornblower's memory, a
sort of procession of returns, like the procession of kings in Macbeth's
imagination. A sailor's life was a chain of departures and homecomings.
Homecomings to Maria now dead and gone, homecomings to Barbara--and now
this homecoming to Marie. It was not well to think of Barbara while he
was with Marie; he had thought of Marie while he was with Barbara.

"I suppose Brown has made himself comfortable, Felix?" he asked. A good
master always sees after the well-being of his servant--but this
question was also intended to change his own train of thought.

"Yes, milord," said Felix. "Brown has made himself at home."

Felix's face was devoid of expression, his voice devoid of tone. Were
they too much so? Was there some subtle implication about Brown of which
Hornblower should be aware? It was curious. Yet Brown was still the
model servant when Hornblower found him in his room on withdrawing there
to make ready for dinner. The portmanteaux and dressing-case were
unpacked, the black dress coat--London's latest fashion--was laid out
with the shirt and cravat. A cheerful fire burned in the bedroom grate.

"Are you glad to be here again, Brown?"

"Very glad indeed, my lord."

An accomplished linguist indeed was Brown--he could speak with fluency
the language of the servant, the language of the lower deck, the
language of the country lanes and of the London alleys, and French
besides. It was faintly irritating that he never mixed them up, thought
Hornblower, tying his cravat.

In the upper hall Hornblower met Marie, about to descend to dinner like
himself. They both of them stood stock still for a moment, as though
each of them was the last person in the world the other expected to see.
Then Hornblower bowed and offered his arm, and Marie curtsied and took
it. The hand she laid on his arm was trembling, and the touch of it sent
a wave of warmth against him as though he were passing by an open
furnace door.

"My darling! My love!" whispered Hornblower, driven almost beyond his
self-control.

The hand on his arm fluttered, but Marie continued unfaltering to walk
on down the stair.

Dinner was a cheerful function, for fat Jeanne the cook had surpassed
herself, and the Count was in his best form, droll and serious in turns,
witty and well-informed. They discussed the policy of the Bourbon
Government, wondered about the decisions being reached at the Congress
of Vienna, and spared a few passing thoughts for Bonaparte in Elba.

"Before we left Paris," remarked the Count, "there was talk that he was
too dangerous a neighbour there. It was being suggested that he should
be transferred to a safer place--your island of St. Helena in the South
Atlantic was named in that connection."

"Perhaps that would be better," agreed Hornblower.

"Europe will be in a ferment as long as that man can be the centre of
intrigues," said Marie. "Why should he be allowed to unsettle us all?"

"The Czar is sentimental, and was his friend," explained the Count with
a shrug. "The Emperor of Austria is, after all, his father-in-law."

"Should they indulge their preferences at the expense of France--of
civilisation?" asked Marie, bitterly.

Women always seemed to be more hotly partisan than men.

"I don't think Bonaparte constitutes a very active danger," said
Hornblower, complacently.

As the Count sipped his coffee after dinner his eyes wandered longingly
towards the card-table.

"Have you lost your old skill at whist, 'Oratio?" he asked. "There are
only the three of us, but I thought we might make use of a dummy. In
some ways--heretical though the opinion may appear--I feel that the game
with a dummy is the more scientific."

Nobody mentioned how Bush used to play with them, but they all thought
of him. They cut and shuffled and dealt, cut and shuffled and dealt.
There was some truth in what the Count said about whist with a dummy
being more scientific; certainly it allowed for a closer calculation of
chances. The Count played with all his old verve, Marie seemingly with
all her old solid skill, and Hornblower sought to display his usual
scientific precision. Yet something was not quite right. Dummy whist was
somehow unsettling--perhaps it was because the need for changing seats
as the deal passed broke the continuity of the play. There was no
question of simply losing oneself in the game, as Hornblower usually
could do. He was vastly conscious of Marie, now beside him, now opposite
him, and twice he made minor slips in play. At the end of the second
rubber Marie folded her hands on her lap.

"I think I have played all I can this evening," she said. "I am sure
'Oratio is as much a master of piquet as he is of whist. Perhaps you can
entertain each other with that while I go to bed."

The Count was on his feet with his usual deferential politeness, asking
if she felt quite well, and, when she assured him that she was merely
tired, escorting her to the door exactly as he would have escorted a
queen.

"Good night, 'Oratio," said Marie.

"Good night, Madame," said Horatio, standing by the card-table.

One glance passed between them--one glance, enduring less than one-tenth
of a second, but long enough for each to tell the other all.

"I trust Marie was correct in her assumption that you are a master of
piquet, 'Oratio," said the Count, returning from the door. "She and I
have played much together in default of whist. But I am taking it for
granted that you wish to play? How inconsiderate of me! Please----"

Hornblower hastened to assure the Count that he would like nothing
better.

"That is delightful," said the Count, shuffling the cards with his
slender white fingers. "I am a fortunate man."

He was fortunate at least in his play that night, taking his usual bold
risks and being rewarded by unpredictable good luck in his discards. His
minor seiziemes outranked Hornblower's major quints, a quatorze of
knaves saved him when Hornblower had three aces, three kings and three
queens, and twice carte blanche rescued him from disaster in face of
Hornblower's overwhelming hands. When Hornblower was strong, the Count
was lucky; and when Hornblower was weak the Count was overpoweringly
strong. At the conclusion of the third _partie_ Hornblower gazed
helplessly across at him.

"I fear this has not been very interesting for you," said the Count
remorsefully. "This is a discourteous way to treat a guest."

"I would rather lose in this house," said Hornblower, perfectly
truthfully, "than win in any other."

The Count smiled with pleasure.

"That is too high a compliment," he said. "And yet I can only say in
reply that with you in this house I care not whether I win or lose. I
trust that I shall have the further good fortune of your making a long
stay here?"

"Like the fate of Europe," said Hornblower, "that depends on the
Congress of Vienna."

"You know this house is yours," said the Count, earnestly. "Marie and I
both wish you to look on it as your own."

"You are too good, sir," said Hornblower. "May I ring for my candle?"

"Allow me," said the Count, hastening to the bell-cord. "I trust you are
not overtired after your journey? Felix, milord is retiring."

Up the oaken stairs with their carved panelling, Felix hobbling goutily
ahead with the candle. A sleepy Brown was waiting for him in the
sitting-room of the little suite, to be dismissed at once when
Hornblower announced his intention of putting himself to bed. That door
there, inconspicuous in the corner, led to the hall outside Marie's
suite in the turret--how well Hornblower remembered it. Generations of
the Ladons, Counts of Graay, had conducted intrigues in the chteau;
perhaps kings and princes had passed through that door on the way to
their lights-of-love.

Marie was waiting for him, weighted down with longing, heavy with love,
tender and sweet. To sink into her arms was to sink into peace and
happiness, illimitable peace, like that of a sunset-lit sea. The rich
bosom on which he could pillow his head made him welcome; its fragrance
comforted while it intoxicated. She held him, she loved him, she wept
with happiness. She had no more than half his heart, she knew. He was
cruel, unthinking, selfish, and yet this bony, slender body that lay in
her arms was everything in the world to her. It was monstrous that he
should come back to claim her like this. He had made her suffer before,
and she knew her suffering in the past would be nothing compared with
her suffering that lay in the future. Yet that was his way. That was how
she loved him. Time went so fast; she had only this little moment before
a lifetime of unhappiness to come. Oh, it was so urgent! She caught him
to her madly, crying out with passion, crying out to time to stand
still. It seemed to do so at that moment. Time stood still while the
world whirled round her.




CHAPTER XVIII


"May I speak to you, my lord?" asked Brown.

He had put the breakfast tray by the bed, and had drawn aside the window
curtains. Spring sunshine was gleaming on the distant Loire. Brown had
waited respectfully until Hornblower had drunk his first cup of coffee
and was coming slowly back to the world.

"What is it?" asked Hornblower, blinking over at him where he stood
against the wall. Brown's attitude was not a usual one. Some of the
deferential bearing of the gentleman's servant had been replaced by the
disciplined erectness of the old days, when a self-respecting sailor
held his head up and his shoulders back whether he was being condemned
to the cat or commended for gallantry.

"What is it?" asked Hornblower again, consumed with curiosity.

He had had one moment of wild misgiving, wondering if Brown were going
to be such a frantic fool as to say something about his relations with
Marie, but the misgiving vanished as he realised the absurdity and
impossibility of such a thing. Yet Brown was acting strangely--one might
almost think he was feeling shy.

"Well, sir--I mean my lord," (that was the first time Brown had slipped
over Hornblower's title since the peerage was conferred) "I don't know
rightly if it's anything your lordship would wish to know about. I don't
want to presume, sir--my lord."

"Oh, spit it out, man," said Hornblower testily. "And call me 'sir' if
it's any comfort to you."

"It's this way, my lord. I'm wanting to get married."

"Good God!" said Hornblower. He had a vague idea that Brown had been a
terror for women, and the possibility of his marrying had never crossed
his mind. He hastened to say what he thought would be appropriate.
"Who's the lucky woman?"

"Annette, my lord. Jeanne and Bertrand's daughter. And I am the lucky
one, my lord."

"Jeanne's daughter? Oh, of course. The pretty one with the dark hair."

Hornblower thought about a lively French girl marrying a sturdy
Englishman like Brown, and for the life of him he could see no reason
against it at all. Brown would be a better husband than most--it
certainly would be a lucky woman who got him.

"You're a man of sense, Brown," he said. "You needn't ask me about these
things. I'm sure you've made a wise choice, and you have all my best
wishes for your happiness and joy."

"Thank you, my lord."

"If Annette can cook as well as her mother," Hornblower went on
meditatively, "you're a lucky man indeed."

"That was another thing I wanted to say to you, my lord. She's a cook
second to none, young though she is. Jeanne says so herself, and if she
says so----"

"We can be sure of it," agreed Hornblower.

"I was thinking, my lord," went on Brown, "not wanting to presume, that
if I was to continue in your service your lordship might consider
engaging Annette as cook."

"God bless my soul," said Hornblower.

He mentally looked down a vista a lifetime long of dinners as good as
Jeanne cooked. Dinners at Smallbridge had been almost good, but most
decidedly plain. Smallbridge and French cooking offered a most
intriguing study in contrasts. Certainly Smallbridge would be more
attractive with Annette as cook. And yet what was he thinking about?
What had happened to those doubts and tentative notions about never
seeing Smallbridge again? Some such ideas had certainly passed through
his mind when he thought about Marie, and yet here he was thinking about
Smallbridge and thinking about Annette heading his kitchen. He shook
himself out of his reverie.

"Of course I can give no decision on the point myself," he said, fencing
for time. "Her Ladyship will have to be consulted, as you understand,
Brown. Have you any alternative in mind?"

"Plenty, my lord, as long as you are satisfied. I've thought of starting
a small hotel--I have all my prize-money saved."

"Where?"

"In London, perhaps, my lord. But maybe in Paris. Or in Rome. I have
been discussing it with Felix and Bertrand and Annette."

"My God!" said Hornblower again. Nothing like this had crossed his mind
for a single moment, and yet----"I have no doubt you would be
successful, Brown."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Tell me, this seems to have been a lightning courtship. Is that so?"

"Not really, my lord. When I was here last Annette and I--you
understand, my lord."

"I do now," said Hornblower.

It was fantastic that Brown, the man who hove the line that saved the
_Pluto_, the man who silenced Colonel Caillard with a single blow of his
fist, should be talking calmly about the possibility of opening an hotel
in Rome. Actually it was no more fantastic than that he himself should
have seriously debated with himself the possibility of becoming a French
_seigneur_, and turning his back on England. He had done that no later
than last night; love for Marie had grown during the last five days even
while his passion was indulged--and Hornblower was not the sort of fool
to be ignorant of how much that implied.

"When are you thinking of marrying, Brown?" he asked.

"As soon as the law of this country allows, my lord."

"I've no idea how long that means," said Hornblower.

"I am finding out, my lord. Will that be all you need at present?"

"No. I'll get up at once--can't stay in bed after hearing all this
exciting news, Brown. I'll come through with a handsome
wedding-present."

"Thank you, my lord. I'll fetch your hot water, then."

Marie was waiting for him in her boudoir when he was dressed. She kissed
him good morning, passed a hand over his smoothly shaven cheeks, and,
with her arm over his shoulder, led him to her turret window to show him
that the apple trees in the orchard below were showing their first
blossoms. It was spring; and it was good to be in love and to be loved
in this green and lovely land. He took her white hands in his, and he
kissed every finger on them, with a surge of reverent passion. As each
day passed he had come to admire her the more, her sweetness of
character and the unselfishness of her love. For Hornblower respect and
love made a heady mixture--he felt he could kneel to her as to a saint.
She was conscious of the passion that was carrying him away, as she was
conscious of everything about him.

"'Oratio," she said--why should it stir him so frightfully to hear that
ridiculous name of his pronounced in that fashion?

He clung to her, and she held him and comforted him as she always did.
She had no thought for the future now. In the future lay tragedy for
her, she knew; but this was the present, and during this present
Hornblower had need of her. They came out of their paroxysm of passion
smiling as they always did.

"You heard the news about Brown?" he asked.

"He is going to marry Annette. That is very proper."

"It does not seem to be news to you?"

"I knew it before Brown did," said Marie. There was a dimple that came
and went in her cheek, and a little light of mischief could sparkle in
her eyes. She was wholly and utterly desirable.

"They should make a good pair," said Hornblower.

"Her chest of linens is all ready," said Marie, "and Bertrand had a
_dot_ for her."

They went downstairs to tell the Count the news, and he heard it with
pleasure.

"I can perform the civil ceremony myself," he said. "Do you remember
that I am the _maire_ here, 'Oratio? A position that is almost a
sinecure, thanks to the efficiency of my _adjoint_, and yet I can make
use of my powers should the whim ever overtake me."

Fortunately, as regards the saving of time, Brown was able--as they
found out on calling him in to ask him--to declare himself an orphan and
head of his family, thus obviating the need for parental permission on
which French law insisted. And King Louis XVIII and the Chamber had not
yet carried out their declared intention of making a religious ceremony
a necessary part of the legal marriage. There would be a religious
ceremony, all the same, and the blessing of the Church would be given to
the union, with the safeguards always insisted on in a mixed marriage.
Annette was never to cease to try to convert Brown, and the children
were to be brought up in the Catholic faith. Brown nodded as this was
explained to him; religious scruples apparently weighed lightly enough
on his shoulders.

The village of Smallbridge had already been scandalised by the
introduction into its midst of Barbara's negro maid; it had shaken
disapproving heads over Hornblower's and Barbara's heathen habit of a
daily bath; what it would say in the future about the presence of a
Popish female and a Popish family Hornblower could hardly imagine. There
he was, thinking about Smallbridge again. This was a double life in very
truth. He looked uneasily across at the Count whose hospitality he was
abusing. It was hard to think of guilty love in connection with
Marie--there was no guilt in her. And in himself? Could he be held
guilty for something he could do nothing to resist? Was he guilty when
the current whirled him away in the Loire, not a mile from where he was
standing at present? He shifted his glance to Marie, and felt his
passion surge up as strongly as ever, so that he started nervously when
it penetrated his consciousness that the Count was addressing him in his
gentle voice.

"'Oratio," said the Count, "shall we dance at the wedding?"

They made quite a gala occasion of it, a little to the surprise of
Hornblower, who had vague and incorrect ideas about the attitude of
French _seigneurs_ of the old rgime towards their dependants. The
barrels of wine were set up in the back courtyard of the chteau, and
quite an orchestra was assembled, of fiddlers, and of pipers from the
Auvergne, who played instruments something like Scottish bagpipes that
afflicted Hornblower's tone-deaf ear atrociously. The Count led out fat
Jeanne in the dance, and the bride's father led out Marie. There was
wine, there were great masses of food, there were bawdy jokes and
high-falutin speeches. The countryside seemed to show astonishing
tolerance towards this marriage of a local girl to an heretical
foreigner--local peasant farmers clapped Brown on the back and their
wives kissed his weather-beaten cheeks amidst screams of mirth. But
then, Brown was universally popular, and seemed to know the dances by
instinct.

Hornblower, unable to tell one note of music from another, was
constrained to listen intently to the rhythm, and, intently watching the
actions of the others, he was able to scramble grotesquely through the
movements of the dances, handed on from one apple-cheeked woman to
another. At one moment he sat gorged and bloated with food at a trestle
table, at another he was skipping madly over the courtyard cobbles
between two buxom maidens, hand in hand with them and laughing
unrestrainedly. It was extraordinary to him--even here he still had
moments of self-analysis--that he could ever enjoy himself so much.
Marie smiled at him from under level brows.

He was amazingly weary and yet amazingly happy when he found himself
back again in the salon of the chteau, his legs stretched out in
inelegant ease while Felix, transformed again into the perfect
major-domo, took the orders of him and the Count.

"There is an odd rumour prevalent," said the Count, sitting upright in
his chair apparently as unwearied and as dapper as ever. "I did not wish
to disturb the fte by discussing it there. People are saying that
Bonaparte has escaped from Elba and has landed in France."

"That is indeed odd," agreed Hornblower lazily, the import of the news
taking some time to penetrate his befogged brain. "What can he intend to
do?"

"He claims the throne of France again," said the Count, seriously.

"It is less than a year since the people abandoned him."

"That is true. Perhaps Bonaparte will solve the problem for us that we
were discussing a few nights ago. There is no doubt that the King will
have him shot if he can lay hands on him, and that will be an end of all
possibility of intrigue and disturbance."

"Quite so."

"But I wish--foolishly perhaps--that we had heard of Bonaparte's death
at the same time as we heard of his landing."

The Count appeared grave, and Hornblower felt a little disturbed. He
knew his host to be an acute political observer.

"What is it you fear, sir?" asked Hornblower, gradually gathering his
wits about him.

"I fear lest he gain some unexpected success. You know the power of his
name, and the King--the King or his advisers--has not acted as
temperately as he might have done since his restoration."

The entrance of Marie, smiling and happy, interrupted the conversation,
nor was it restarted when they resumed their seats. There were moments
during the next two days when Hornblower felt some slight misgivings,
even though the only news that came in was a mere confirmation of the
rumour of the landing with no amplification. It was a shadow across his
happiness, but so great and so intense was the latter that it took more
than a slight shadow to chill it. Those lovely spring days, wandering
under the orchard blossoms, and beside the rushing Loire; riding--how
was it that riding was a pleasure now when always before he had detested
it?--through the forest; even driving into Nevers on the one or two
ceremonial calls his position demanded of him; those moments were
golden, every one of them. Fear of Bonaparte's activity could not cloud
them--not even fear of what would be said to him in a letter that must
inevitably soon come from Vienna could do that. On the surface Barbara
had nothing to complain about; she had gone to Vienna, and during her
absence Hornblower was visiting old friends. But Barbara would know.
Probably she would say nothing, but she would know.

And great as was Hornblower's happiness it was not untrammelled, as
Brown's happiness was untrammelled--Hornblower found himself envying
Brown and the public way in which Brown could claim his love. Hornblower
and Marie had to be a little furtive, a little guarded, and his
conscience troubled him a little over the Count. Yet even so, he was
happy, happier than he had ever been in his tormented life. For once
self-analysis brought him no pangs. He had doubts neither about himself
nor about Marie, and the novelty of that experience completely overlaid
all his fears and misgivings about the future. He could live in peace
until trouble should overtake him--if a spice to his happiness were
necessary (and it was not), it was the knowledge that trouble lay ahead
and that he could ignore it. All that guilt and uncertainty could do was
to drive him more madly still into Marie's arms, not consciously to
forget, but merely because of the added urgency they brought.

This was love, unalloyed and without reservations. There was an ecstasy
in giving, and no amazement in receiving. It had come to him at last,
after all these years and tribulations. Cynically it might be thought
that it was merely one more example of Hornblower's yearning for the
thing he could not have, but if that was the case Hornblower for once
was not conscious of it. There was some line from the prayer-book that
ran in Hornblower's head during those days--"Whose service is perfect
freedom." That described his servitude to Marie.

The Loire was still in flood; the cataract where once he had nearly
drowned--the cataract which was the cause of his first meeting with
Marie--was a rushing slope of green water, foam-bordered. Hornblower
could hear the sound of it as he lay in Marie's arms in her room in the
turret; often they walked beside it, and Hornblower could contemplate it
without a tremor or a thrill. That was all over. His reason told him
that he was the same man as boarded the _Castilla_, the same man who
faced El Supremo's wrath, the man who fought to the death at Rosas Bay,
the man who had walked decks awash with blood, and yet oddly he felt as
if those things had happened to someone else. Now he was a man of peace,
a man of indolence, and the cataract was not a thing that had nearly
killed him.

It seemed perfectly natural when the Count came in with good news.

"The Count d'Artois has defeated Bonaparte in a battle in the south," he
said. "Bonaparte is a fugitive, and will soon be a prisoner. The news is
from Paris."

That was as it should be; the wars were over.

"I think we can light a bonfire tonight," said the Count, and the
bonfire blazed and toasts were drunk to the King.

But it was no later than next morning that Brown, as he put the
breakfast tray beside Hornblower's bed, announced that the Count wished
to speak to him as early as convenient, and he had hardly uttered the
words when the Count came in, haggard and dishevelled in his
dressing-gown.

"Pardon this intrusion," said the Count--even at that moment he could
not forget his good manners--"but I could not wait. There is bad news.
The very worst."

Hornblower could only stare and wait, while the Count gathered his
strength to tell his news. It took an effort to say the words.

"Bonaparte is in Paris," said the Count. "The King has fled and
Bonaparte is Emperor again. All France has fallen to him."

"But the battle he had lost?"

"Rumour--lies--all lies. Bonaparte is Emperor again."

It took time to understand all that this implied. It meant war again,
that was certain. Whatever the other Great Powers might do, England
could never tolerate the presence of that treacherous and mighty enemy
across the Channel. England and France would be at each other's throats
once more. Twenty-two years ago the wars had started; it seemed likely
that it would be another twenty-two years before Bonaparte could be
pulled from his throne again. There would be another twenty-two years of
misery and slaughter. The prospect was utterly hideous.

"How did it happen?" asked Hornblower, more to gain time than because he
wanted to know.

The Count spread his delicate hands in a hopeless gesture.

"Not a shot was fired," he said. "The army went over to him _en masse_.
Ney, Labdoyre, Soult--they all betrayed the King. In two weeks
Bonaparte marched from the Mediterranean to Paris. That would be fast
travelling in a coach and six."

"But the people do not want him," protested Hornblower. "We all know
that."

"The people's wishes do not weigh against the army's," said the Count.
"The news has come with the usurper's first decrees. The classes of 1815
and 1816 are to be called out. The Household troops are disbanded, the
Imperial Guard is to be reconstituted. Bonaparte is ready to fight
Europe again."

Hornblower vaguely saw himself once more on the deck of a ship, weighed
down with responsibility, encompassed by danger, isolated and
friendless. It was a bleak prospect.

A tap on the door heralded Marie's entrance, in her dressing-gown, with
her magnificent hair over her shoulders.

"You have heard the news, my dear?" asked the Count. He made no comment
either on her presence or on her appearance.

"Yes," said Marie. "We are in danger."

"We are indeed," said the Count. "All of us."

So appalling had been the news that Hornblower had not yet had leisure
to contemplate its immediate personal implications. As an officer of the
British Navy, he would be seized and imprisoned immediately. Not only
that, but Bonaparte had intended years ago to try him and shoot him on
charges of piracy. He would carry that intention into effect--tyrants
have long memories. And the Count, and Marie?

"Bonaparte knows now that you helped me escape," said Hornblower. "He
will never forgive that."

"He will shoot me if he can catch me," said the Count; he made no
reference to Marie, but he glanced towards her. Bonaparte would shoot
her, too.

"We must get away," said Hornblower. "The country cannot be settled
under Bonaparte yet. With fast horses we can reach the coast----"

He took his bedclothes in his hand to cast them off, restraining himself
in the nick of time out of deference to Marie's presence.

"I shall be dressed in ten minutes," said Marie.

As the door closed behind her and the Count, Hornblower hurled himself
out of bed, shouting for Brown. The transition from the sybarite to the
man of action took a few moments, but only a few. As he tore off his
nightshirt he conjured up before his mind's eye the map of France,
visualising the roads and ports. They could reach La Rochelle over the
mountains in two days of hard riding. He hauled up his trousers. The
Count had a great name--no one would venture to arrest him or his party
without direct orders from Paris; with bluff and self-confidence they
could get through. There were two hundred golden napoleons in the secret
compartment of his portmanteau--maybe the Count had more. It was enough
for bribery. They could bribe a fisherman to take them out to sea--they
could steal a boat, for that matter.

It was humiliating thus to run like rabbits at Bonaparte's first
reappearance; it was hardly consonant with the dignity of a peer and a
commodore, but his first duty was to preserve his life and his
usefulness. A dull rage against Bonaparte, the wrecker of the peace, was
growing within him, but was still far from mastering him as yet. It was
resentment as yet, rather than rage; and his sullen resignation
regarding the change in conditions was slowly giving way to tentative
wonderings regarding whether he could not play a more active part in the
opening of the struggle than merely running away to fight another day.
Here he was in France, in the heart of his enemy's country. Surely he
could strike a blow here that could be felt. As he hauled on his
riding-boots he spoke to Brown.

"What about your wife?" he asked.

"I hoped she could come with us, my lord," said Brown, soberly.

If he left her behind he would not see her again until the end of the
war twenty years off; if he stayed with her he would be cast into
prison.

"Can she ride?"

"She will, my lord."

"Go and see that she gets ready. We can carry nothing more than
saddle-bags. She can attend Mme. la Vicomtesse."

"Thank you, my lord."

Two hundred gold napoleons made a heavy mass to carry, but it was
essential to have them with him. Hornblower thumped down the stairs in
his riding-boots; Marie was already in the main hall wearing a black
habit and a saucy tricorne hat with a feather. He ran his eyes keenly
over her; there was nothing about her appearance to excite
attention--she was merely a lady of fashion soberly dressed.

"Shall we take any of the men with us?" she asked.

"They are all old. It would be better not to. The Count, you, myself,
Brown and Annette. We shall need five horses."

"That is what I expected," answered Marie. She was a fine woman in a
crisis.

"We can cross the bridge at Nevers, and head for Bourges and La
Rochelle. In the Vende we shall have our best chance."

"It might be better to make for a little fishing village rather than a
great port," commented Marie.

"That's very likely true. We can make up our minds about it, though,
when we are near the coast."

"Very well."

She appreciated the importance of unity of command even though she was
ready with advice.

"What about your valuables?" asked Hornblower.

"I have my diamonds in my saddle-bag here."

As she spoke the Count came in, booted and spurred. He carried a small
leather sack which clinked as he put it down.

"Two hundred napoleons," he said.

"The same as I have. It will be ample."

"It would be better if it did not clink, though," said Marie. "I'll pack
it with a cloth."

Felix entered with the Count's saddle-bags and the announcement that the
horses were ready--Brown and Annette awaited them in the courtyard.

"Let us go," said Hornblower.

It was a sorry business saying goodbye. There were tears from the
women--Annette's pretty face was all beslobbered with grief--even though
the men, trained in the stoical school of gentlemen's service, kept
silence.

"Goodbye, my friend," said the Count, holding out his hand to Felix.
They were both old men, and the chances were that they would never meet
again.

They rode out of the courtyard, and down to the road along the river; it
was ironical that it should be a lovely spring day, with the fruit
blossom raining down on them and the Loire sparkling joyously. At the
first turn in the road the spires and towers of Nevers came into sight;
at the next they could clearly see the ornate Gonzaga palace. Hornblower
spared it a casual glance, blinked, and looked again. Marie was beside
him and the Count beyond her, and he glanced at them for confirmation.

"That is a white flag," said Marie.

"I thought so, too," wondered Hornblower.

"My eyes are such that I can see no flag at all," said the Count
ruefully.

Hornblower turned in his saddle to Brown, riding along encouraging
Annette.

"That's a white flag over the palace, my lord."

"It hardly seems possible," said the Count. "My news this morning came
from Nevers. Beauregard, the Prefect there, had declared at once for
Bonaparte."

It was certainly odd--even if the white flag had been hoisted
inadvertently it was odd.

"We shall know soon enough," said Hornblower, restraining his natural
instinct to push his horse from a trot into a canter.

The white flag still flew as they approached. At the octroi gate stood
half a dozen soldiers in smart grey uniforms, their grey horses tethered
behind them.

"Those are Grey Musketeers of the Household," said Marie. Hornblower
recognised the uniforms. He had seen those troops in attendance on the
King both at the Tuileries and at Versailles.

"Grey Musketeers cannot hurt us," said the Count.

The sergeant of the picket looked at them keenly as they approached, and
stepped into the road to ask them their names.

"Louis-Antoine-Hector-Savinien de Ladon, Comte de Graay, and his
suite," said the Count.

"You may pass, M. le Comte," said the sergeant. "Her Royal Highness is
at the Prefecture."

"_Which_ Royal Highness?" marvelled the Count.

In the Grand Square a score of troopers of the Grey Musketeers sat their
horses. A few white banners flew here and there, and as they entered the
square a man emerged from the Prefecture and began to stick up a printed
poster. They rode up to look at it--the first word was easily
read--"Frenchmen!" it said.

"Her Royal Highness is the Duchess of Angoulme," said the Count.

The proclamation called on all Frenchmen to fight against the usurping
tyrant, to be loyal to the ancient House of Bourbon. According to the
poster, the King was still in arms around Lille, the south had risen
under the Duke d'Angoulme, and all Europe was marching armies to
enchain the man-eating ogre and restore the Father of his People to the
throne of his ancestors.

In the Prefecture the Duchess received them eagerly. Her beautiful face
was drawn with fatigue, and she still wore a mud-splashed riding
habit--she had ridden through the night with her squadron of musketeers,
entering Nevers by another road on the heels of Bonaparte's
proclamation.

"They changed sides quickly enough again," said the Duchess.

Nevers was not a garrison town and contained no troops; her hundred
disciplined musketeers made her mistress of the little place without a
blow struck.

"I was about to send for you, M. le Comte," went on the Duchess. "I was
not aware of our extraordinary good fortune in Lord 'Ornblower's being
present here. I want to appoint you Lieutenant-General of the King in
the Nivernais."

"You think a rising can succeed, Your Royal Highness?" asked Hornblower.

"A rising?" said the Duchess, with the faintest of interrogative
inflections.

To Hornblower that was the note of doom. The Duchess was the most
intelligent and spirited of all the Bourbons, but not even she could
think of the movement she was trying to head as a "rising." Bonaparte
was the rebel; she was engaged in suppressing rebellion, even if
Bonaparte reigned in the Tuileries and the army obeyed him. But this was
war; this was life or death, and he was in no mood to quibble with
amateurs.

"Let us not waste time over definitions, Madame," he said. "Do you think
there is in France strength enough to drive out Bonaparte?"

"He is the most hated man in this country."

"But that does not answer the question," persisted Hornblower.

"The Vende will fight," said the Duchess. "Laroche-Jacquelin is there,
and they will follow him. My husband is raising the Midi. The King and
the Household are holding out in Lille. Gascony will resist the
usurper--remember how Bordeaux cast off allegiance to him last year."

The Vende might rise; probably would. But Hornblower could not imagine
the Duke d'Angoulme rousing much spirit of devotion in the south, nor
the fat and gouty old King in the north. As for Bordeaux casting off her
allegiance, Hornblower remembered Rouen and Le Havre, the apathetic
citizens, the refractory conscripts whose sole wish was to fight no one
at all. For a year they had now enjoyed the blessings of peace and
liberal government, and they might perhaps fight for them. Perhaps.

"All France knows now that Bonaparte _can_ be beaten and dethroned,"
said the Duchess acutely. "That makes a great difference."

"A powder magazine of discontent and disunion," said the Count. "A spark
may explode it."

Hornblower had dreamed the same dream when he had entered Le Havre, and
used the same metaphor to himself, which was unfortunate.

"Bonaparte has an army," he said. "It takes an army to defeat an army.
Where is one to be found? The old soldiers are devoted to Bonaparte.
Will the civilians fight, and if so, can they be armed and trained in
time?"

"You are in a pessimistic mood, milord," said the Duchess.

"Bonaparte is the most able, the most active, the fiercest and the most
cunning soldier the world has ever seen," said Hornblower. "To parry his
strokes I ask for a shield of steel, not a paper hoop from a circus."

Hornblower looked round at the faces; the Duchess, the Count, Marie, the
silent courtier-general who had stood behind the Duchess since the
debate began. They were sombre, but they showed no signs of wavering.

"So you suggest that M. le Comte here, for example, should submit tamely
to the usurper and wait until the armies of Europe reconquer France?"
asked the Duchess with only faint irony. She could keep her temper
better than most Bourbons.

"M. le Comte has to fly for his life on account of his late kindness to
me," said Hornblower, but that was begging the question, he knew.

Any movement against Bonaparte in the interior of France might be better
than none, however easily suppressed and whatever blood it cost. It
might succeed, although he had no hope of it. But at least it would
embarrass Bonaparte in his claim to represent all France, at least it
would hamper him in the inevitable clash on the northeastern frontier by
forcing him to keep troops here. Hornblower could not look for victory,
but he supposed there was a chance, the faintest chance, of beginning a
slight guerrilla war, maintained by a few partisans in forests and
mountains, which might spread in the end. He was a servant of King
George; if he could encompass the death of even one of Bonaparte's
soldiers, even at the cost of a hundred peasant lives, it was his duty
to do so. A momentary doubt flashed through his mind; was it mere
humanitarian motives that had been influencing him? Or were his powers
of decision becoming enfeebled? He had sent men on forlorn hopes before
this; he had taken part in some himself; but this was, in his opinion,
an utterly hopeless venture--and the Count would be involved in it.

"But still," persisted the Duchess, "you recommend supine acquiescence,
milord?"

Hornblower felt like a man on a scaffold taking one last look at the
sunlit world before being thrust off. The grim inevitabilities of war
were all round him.

"No," he said. "I recommend resistance."

The sombre faces round him brightened, and he knew now that peace or war
had lain in his choice. Had he continued to argue against rebellion, he
would have persuaded them against it. The knowledge increased his
unhappiness, even though he tried to assure himself--which was the
truth--that fate had put him in a position where he could argue no
longer. The die was cast, and he hastened to speak again.

"Your Royal Highness," he said, "accused me of being pessimistic. So I
am. This is a desperate adventure, but that does not mean it should not
be undertaken. But we must enter upon it in no light-hearted spirit. We
must look for no glorious or dramatic successes. It will be inglorious,
long, and hard. It will mean shooting French soldiers from behind a tree
and then running away. Crawling up in the night to knife a sentry.
Burning a bridge, cutting the throats of a few draught horses--those
will be our great victories."

He wanted to say, "those will be our Marengos and our Jenas," but he
could not mention Bonaparte victories to a Bourbon gathering. He raked
back in his memory for Bourbon victories.

"Those will be our Steinkerks and our Fontenoys," he went on. To
describe the technique of guerrilla warfare in a few sentences to people
absolutely ignorant of the subject was not easy. "The Lieutenant-General
for the King in the Nivernais will be a hunted fugitive. He will sleep
among rocks, eat his meat raw lest a fire should betray him. Only by
being reconciled to measures of this sort can success be won in the
end."

"I am ready to do those things," said the Count, "to my last breath."

The alternative was exile until his death, Hornblower knew.

"I never doubted that I could rely on the loyalty of the Ladons," said
the Duchess. "Your commission will be ready immediately, M. le Comte.
You will exercise all royal power in the Nivernais."

"What does Your Royal Highness intend to do in person?" asked
Hornblower.

"I must go on to Bordeaux, to rally Gascony."

It was probably the best course of action--the wider spread the movement
the greater Bonaparte's embarrassment. Marie could accompany the
Duchess, too, and then if the enterprise ended in complete disaster
escape would be possible by sea.

"And you, milord?" asked the Duchess.

All eyes were upon him, but for once he was not conscious of it. It was
an entirely personal decision that he had to make. He was a
distinguished naval officer; let him make his way to England and the
command of a squadron of ships of the line was his for certain. The vast
fleets would range the seas again, and he would play a major part in
directing them; a few years of war would see him an admiral with a whole
fleet, the man upon whom the welfare of England would depend. And if he
stayed here the best he could hope for was the life of a hunted fugitive
at the head of a ragged and starving brigand band; at worst a rope and a
tree. Perhaps it was his duty to save himself and his talents for
England, but England had able naval officers by the score, while he had
the advantage of knowing much about France and the French, and even of
being known to them. But all these arguments were beside the point. He
would not--could not--start a little feeble squib of a rebellion here
and then run away and leave his friends to bear the brunt of failure.

"I will stay with M. le Comte," he said. "Provided that Your Royal
Highness and he approve of such a course. I hope I will be of
assistance."

"Certainly," said the Duchess.

Hornblower caught Marie's eye, and a horrid doubt suddenly assailed him.

"Madame," he said, addressing her, "you will accompany Her Royal
Highness, I presume?"

"No," said Marie. "You will need every man, and I am as useful as a man.
I know every ford and bridle-path round here. I stay with M. le Comte,
too."

"But Marie----," said the Count.

Hornblower made no protest at all. He knew he might as well protest
about the fall of an elm-tree branch or a change in the direction of the
wind. He seemed to recognise destiny--the utterly inevitable--in all
this. And one glance at Marie's face silenced the Count's
expostulations.

"Very well," said the Duchess.

She looked round at them; it was time for the rebellion to begin in
earnest. Hornblower put aside his personal feelings. There was a war to
be fought; war with all its problems of space and time and psychology.
He set himself, almost without willing it, to pick up the tangled
threads. Above the desk where the Prefect had sat to execute
instructions from the Paris Government was a large scale map of the
Department. On the other walls hung even larger scale maps of the
sub-prefectures. He looked over at them. Roads, rivers, forests. Goodbye
to England.

"The first important thing to know," he began, "is where the nearest
regular troops are stationed."

The campaign of the Upper Loire was begun.




CHAPTER XIX


The forest track, which they were following met another at right angles.
It was frightfully hot even here in the shade of the pines, thunderstorm
weather. Hornblower's feet were badly blistered, and he was hobbling
along with difficulty even on the soft pine-needle mould underfoot.
There was no wind to call forth any sound from the trees; everything was
silent. Even the hoofs of the horses made no sound--the three
pack-horses that carried food and ammunition, the two horses carrying
wounded men, and the one horse that carried His Excellency the King's
Lieutenant-General for the Nivernais. Twenty men and two women were
shuffling along the trail with Hornblower, the main body of His Most
Christian Majesty's army. There was an advance guard of five under Brown
out ahead, a rearguard of five far behind.

Where the tracks crossed a man was waiting for them, a connecting file
that Brown, like a prudent officer, had left behind so as to leave the
main body in no doubt about which track he was following; as they came
up he turned and pointed to something hanging beside the
trail--something grey and white. It was the dead body of a man, clothed
in peasant's dress, hanging by his neck from a pine-tree limb; the white
colour was a large printed placard fastened to his chest.



"Frenchmen of the Nivernais!" it said. "With my arrival at the head of a
large body of troops all foolish attempts to resist the Government of
our august Emperor Napoleon must cease forthwith. It is gratifying to me
to find that so poor a reception has been given to the Count de Graay's
insane attempt to oppose the Emperor, recalled to his throne by the
supplication and suffrages of forty million of his loyal subjects. Yet
some unfortunate people have been deluded into taking up arms.

"Know, therefore, I am instructed by the clemency of His Imperial
Majesty to proclaim that any Frenchman, with the exceptions mentioned
below, who hands in his arms and makes personal surrender to any troops
under my command before fifteen days from the date of this proclamation
will receive amnesty and pardon. He will be free to return to his farm,
to his shop, to the bosom of his family.

"Anyone remaining in arms will receive sentence of death, to be carried
out immediately.

"Any village offering shelter to the rebels will be burned to the
ground, and its leading inhabitants shot.

"Any person giving assistance to the rebels, whether by acting as guide
or by giving them information, will be shot.

"Exceptions to the amnesty. The above-named Count de Graay. His
daughter-in-law, known as the Vicomtesse de Graay. With them are
included the Englishman, known as Lord Hornblower, who is required to
pay for a life of outrage and crime.

"Signed,

                      "EMMANUEL CLAUSEN, _Count, General of Division_."
 _June 6th, 1815._

The Count looked up at the blackened face of the corpse.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Paul-Marie of the mill, sir," said the man who had waited for them.

"Poor Paul-Marie!"

"So they have crossed this track already," said Hornblower. "We're round
behind them."

Somebody reached up a hand to the corpse, perhaps to tear off the
placard.

"Stop!" said Hornblower, just in time. "They must not know that we have
come this way."

"For the same reason we must leave the poor devil unburied," said the
Count.

"We must keep marching," said Hornblower. "Once over the ford and we
shall have time to take breath."

He looked round at his pitiful little army. Some of them, at the moment
of halting, had sunk to the ground. Some were leaning on their muskets,
and some were spelling out the placard that hung on the breast of the
dead Paul-Marie. It was not the first copy of it they had seen.

"Come on, my children," said the Count.

The old man's face was white with weariness, and he drooped in his
saddle; the wretched horse he rode was hardly in better condition,
moving forward reluctantly with hanging head at the prod of the spurs.
Shambling, hungry, and ragged, the others followed him, most of them
looking up at the dead Paul-Marie as they passed. Hornblower noticed
some who lingered, and dropped back to be with them; he had pistols in
his belt. Deserters, as well as being a loss of strength, would give
information of their intention to cross the ford. Clausen had scored a
distinct point with his offer of amnesty, for there were many in the
band--Hornblower could list in his mind a number of them--who must
already be wondering whether it was worth going on with the struggle.
Men with nothing save certain death ahead of them fight far harder in a
losing battle than those with a chance to surrender, and his followers
must be thinking regretfully of the rapid passing of the fifteen days
allowed them in the proclamation. This was June 18th--Sunday, June 18th,
1815. He had to keep his men together for three more days to make sure
that they would fight on with their necks at stake.

His blistered feet were causing him agony, for the short pause beside
Paul-Marie's hanging body had brought back the life into them, and he
would have to walk on them for some distance farther before they would
be numb again. He had to drive himself to quicken his stride to catch up
Marie, walking in the middle of the group with a musket slung across her
back and Annette beside her. Marie had cut off her masses of hair--sawed
them off with a knife after her first night as a guerrilla soldier--and
the ends hung irregularly round her face, which was wet with sweat and
streaked with dirt. But both she and Annette were in far better physical
condition than Hornblower, stepping out with unblistered feet and still
with a certain freedom of stride as compared with Hornblower's leg-weary
stagger. They were ten and fifteen years younger than he.

"Why not leave Pierre behind and take his horse, 'Oratio?" asked Marie.

"No," said Hornblower.

"He will die anyway," argued Marie. "That wound will gangrene."

"Bad for the other men to leave him here to die alone in the forest,"
said Hornblower. "Besides, Clausen might find him before he died and
find out from him what we intend to do."

"Kill him and bury him, then," said Marie.

Women when they go to war are fiercer than men and inclined to carry the
logic of war to still greater logical extremes. This was the tender,
gentle Marie, the kind and understanding, who had wept for love of him.

"No," said Hornblower again. "We'll capture some more horses soon."

"Providing we do," said Marie.

It was hard to keep horses alive in these conditions; they died or went
lame while men still lived and marched. Only two weeks had passed since
Clausen, marching down from Briare, had forced them to evacuate Nevers,
and in the fierce manhunts that had followed horses had died in dozens.
Clausen must be an active and energetic officer; his columns had marched
hotfoot after them in unceasing pursuit. Only night-march after
night-march, stratagems and cunning, had kept them out of his clutches.
Twice there had been fierce little rearguard actions; once they had
ambushed a troop of pursuing Hussars--Hornblower remembered the
gaily-uniformed soldiers tumbling from their saddles as the volley
blazed from the roadside--and now here they were with half their
strength gone already, marching by day, having marched the night before,
to cross the rear of one of Clausen's circling columns. Marie knew of a
dangerous and little-known ford across the Loire ahead. Once over that
they could rest for a day in the forest of Runes before showing
themselves in the valley of the Allier and causing fresh turmoil there.
Clausen would be after them at once, but that was far enough to look
ahead; the next move would depend on the new circumstances.

Active and energetic Clausen certainly was--he must have learned about
fighting guerrillas in Spain. But he had a considerable force to back
him up; Hornblower knew of the 14th Leger and the 40th Ligne--the 14th
Light Infantry and the 40th of the Line--and there was another regiment
with which he had not yet come into contact, and at least one squadron
of the 10th Hussars. Nine battalions or more--six or seven thousand
men--all chasing his ragged thirty. He was doing his duty, for those
seven thousand men could be better employed on the Belgian frontier,
where undoubtedly some action was stirring. And if he could only keep up
the struggle he could wear down even those seven thousand men, wear out
their boots and wear down their spirits. He could! Hornblower gritted
his teeth and marched on; his feet were numb again now and had ceased to
pain him. Only the terrible weariness in his legs distressed him now.

He became aware of a low muttering roar in the distance.

"Guns?" he asked, a little puzzled.

"Thunder," said Marie.

They had chattered so light-heartedly once; had walked carefree and gay,
hand in hand. It hardly seemed as if it were they two who had walked
like that, in that breathing space of peace before Bonaparte returned
from Elba. Hornblower was too fatigued to love now. The thunder muttered
again; the heat was more oppressive. Inside his clothes Hornblower could
feel the prickliness of his sweat. He was thirsty, too, but his thirst
was not as severe as his physical weariness. In the forest it was
growing dark, not with the approach of evening, which was still far off,
but with the massing of storm-clouds overhead. Somebody close behind him
groaned, and Hornblower made himself look round and grin.

"Who's that lowing like a cow?" he asked. "Old Father Fermiac? Five
years younger than me, and they call him Father Fermiac and he lows like
a cow! Cheer up, Father. Maybe we'll find a bull for you the other side
of the Loire."

That raised a cackle of laughter--some of it pure hysteria, some of it
amusement at his not-quite-perfect French, some of it roused by the
incongruity of a great English lord cracking jokes with French peasants.
The thunder crashed almost overhead, and they could hear the rain
beginning to patter on the trees. A few drops found their way down on
their sweating faces.

"Here comes the rain," said someone.

"I've had water underfoot for the past two days," said Hornblower. "You
ought to see my blisters. Even the good Jesus never walked on as much
water as I have."

The daring blasphemy raised another cackle, got the men along for
another hundred yards. The heavens were opening overhead, and the rain
was falling in cataracts. Hornblower dropped back to the pack-horses, to
make sure that the leather covers were securely over the panniers. He
had two thousand rounds of musket ammunition there which he did not want
spoiled--it would be harder to replace than food or even shoe-leather.
They plodded on, in the semi-darkness, their clothes growing heavier
with the rain soaking into them. The earth beneath their feet grew
spongy and soggy, while the storm showed no sign of diminishing. The
thunder still roared and the lightning flashed, lighting up the dark
spaces under the trees.

"How much farther?" asked Hornblower of Marie.

"Two leagues and a half, perhaps."

Three hours more of marching; it would be almost dark, if not quite, by
the time they arrived.

"This rain will deepen the ford," said Marie, sounding the first note of
a new anxiety.

"My God!" said Hornblower before he could check himself.

There were eighteen half-battalion columns scattered in pursuit of them,
and he was threading his way through the midst of them. He was risking
almost everything on being able to cross the river at this unexpected
point, which would throw off pursuit for a time at least. Their danger
would be extreme if they were unable to pass. This was a rocky country
in general, with a shallow topsoil, among the headwaters of the great
river, and rain would affect the level of the water after only a short
interval. He turned on his weary legs to urge the men to lengthen their
stride. That was something he had to do every few minutes during the
rest of that dreadful march, as darkness closed in prematurely about
them, as the rain roared down upon them incessantly, as the led horses
stumbled and plunged and the two wounded men groaned in agony. The Count
rode without a word, bowed forward in the saddle with the water
streaming from him. He was in the last stages of exhaustion, Hornblower
knew.

Someone ahead challenged through the rain and dark; it was a man sent
back from Brown's advanced guard. Brown had reached the edge of the
forest, and the river lay a short distance ahead across the rocky flood
plain. They all halted together under the last of the trees while scouts
moved cautiously forward to discover if this lonely stretch of river
bank were patrolled--there could not be too many precautions taken, even
though any self-respecting sentry would sneak away to find shelter on a
night like this.

"The river sounds loud," said Marie. They could hear it even through the
noise of the rain where they lay in the wet mud, and Hornblower dared
not think what that implied.

Brown's messenger came back; he had explored the river bank and found no
sign of the enemy, as was to be expected. Clausen's division would be
sufficiently dispersed guarding likely places, let alone the unlikely
ones. They got to their feet, Hornblower feeling new agony as his weight
came again on his blisters. He could hardly step at first, and his legs
were stiff and weary as well and hardly obeyed his wishes. The Count was
able to mount his horse, but the poor brute seemed as leg-weary as
Hornblower himself. It was a sorry party that limped and hobbled and
stumbled forward in the gathering darkness. The thunder had long ceased,
but the rain continued to fall steadily, with every promise of going on
through the night.

The turbulent surface of the river gleamed in the half-light ahead of
them.

"The ford begins down by those trees," said Marie. "It is a ledge under
the surface that runs diagonally upstream from there to the middle of
the river. That is how you cross the deep part."

"Come on, then," said Hornblower. In his pain and weariness he felt as
if he would like to cover that last half-mile on his hands and knees.

They came to the water's edge; the rushing river boiled at their feet
among the rocks.

"It is too deep already," said Marie. She was only voicing the suspicion
that had formed in every mind. There was no expression in her tone at
all; her voice was flat and dead.

"I'll take a horse and try it," she went on. "Here, help Pierre down."

"Let me try, madame," said Brown, but Marie paid him no attention.

She climbed astride into the saddle, hitching up the skirts of her habit
to permit her to do so. Then she urged the horse forward into the water.
The animal balked, nearly lost his footing among unseen rocks, and went
forward with the utmost reluctance under the urging of Marie's heels.
The water was almost up to its belly before--as Hornblower guessed--it
had reached the end of the ledge of rock that Marie had spoken about.
There was another battle of wills between Marie and the horse, and it
plunged forward again. Three strides and it was out of its depth,
struggling madly over the irregular bottom, almost vanishing from sight,
and whirling downstream at frightening speed before it regained its
footing. Marie, flung from the saddle, somehow hung on to the pommel,
avoiding the lashing hoofs as the horse headed for the shore, and found
her footing as it came out from the shallows snorting in fear. Marie
struggled onto the bank weighed down by her dripping clothing. No one
had uttered a sound while the trial was being made, not even in the
moment of Marie's greatest peril. It was plain now to everybody that the
ford was impassable.

"We must all walk on water now besides milord," said a voice. It might
have been a joke, but anyone who heard it knew that it was not.

Hornblower made himself come out of his daze. He had to think and plan
and lead.

"No," he said. "I'm the only one who can do that. And none of us care to
swim. Do we? Then let us keep along the river bank until we find a boat.
I'll exchange ten miracles for one boat."

The suggestion was received in depressed silence. Hornblower wondered if
the men were one-half as tired as he was. He forced himself to his feet,
by a fierce effort of will ignoring the pain of the blisters.

"Come on," he said. "At least we cannot stay here."

No guerrilla leader in his senses would camp for the night beside an
unfordable river against which he could be hemmed in, and with the rain
continuing it would be at least twenty-four hours before it would be
passable again.

"Come on," he repeated. "Come on, Frenchmen."

Then he knew he had failed. A few stirred reluctantly; more looked to
see how their comrades acted, and then deliberately lay down again, some
on their backs, some with their faces pillowed on their forearms, with
the rain still dropping on them.

"An hour's rest," pleaded one voice.

Someone--Hornblower guessed it was young Jean, not yet seventeen--was
sobbing unashamedly and loudly. The men had reached breaking point.
Someone else, someone with greater powers of inspiration, might have got
them to move again, Hornblower told himself, but it was beyond him. Had
the ford been practicable they would have crossed it, and staggered on a
mile or two the other side, but in the face of this disappointment they
were capable of nothing further tonight. And they knew, the same as he
did, that there was nothing to go on for. The rebellion was at an end,
whether they marched till they died or gave up now. The thunderstorm,
the flooding of the ford, had balked it. The men were realists after
this experience of guerrilla warfare, and knew that anything further
they did would be only a gesture. They all knew of Clausen's
proclamation offering amnesty, too. Brown was at his side, eloquent in
his silence, a hand on the butt of a pistol in his belt. Brown, himself,
Marie; the Count and Annette, for what they were worth. One or two
more--old Fermiac for one--were all he could count on. It would be
enough for the moment. He could shoot a couple of the most obstinate of
the objectors, and the rest would get to their feet and march, sulkily.
But he could hardly keep unwilling men together in a march in darkness.
They could slip away too easily; nor would it be difficult for someone
more discontented or desperate than the others to slip a knife into his
back on the march, or put the muzzle of his musket to his ribs and pull
the trigger. He was prepared to face that risk, he was prepared to kill
a couple of malcontents, but he could see no real benefit from such
action. There was one thing left for him to do, the last resource of the
hunted guerrilla leader, to disperse his band and hope for better days
to come. It was a bitter pill to swallow, especially in view of the
desperate danger to Marie and the Count, but it was not a matter of
choosing the best of possible alternatives. He had to choose the least
bad. But failure was a horrible thing.

"Very well," he said. "It is here that we say goodbye."

Some of the men stirred at those words.

"'Oratio!" said Marie, and then ceased abruptly. She had learned the
lessons of discipline.

"Your lives are safe," went on Hornblower. "You have all read Clausen's
proclamation. Tomorrow--tonight if you will--you can make your way to
the troops and surrender. You can go to your homes. Madame and the Count
and I go on, for go on we must. And we would even if we need not."

The men were stunned into silence by his words. No one stirred, no one
spoke in the darkness. The two weeks of toil and danger and hardship
through which they had just passed seemed like a lifetime to most of
them, and it was hard to realise that a lifetime had come to an end.

"We shall return," continued Hornblower. "Remember us when you are in
your homes. Think of us. We shall return with a fresh call to arms. Then
we shall all of us gather again in our strength to thrust down the
tyrant. Remember that. And now one last cheer for the King! _Vive le
Roi!_"

They cheered, feebly enough, but Hornblower had achieved what he set out
to do. He had saved the seeds of a later rebellion; when Clausen's
division should move away it would be possible to set the Nivernais in a
turmoil once more should a leader arise--should he and the Count ever
succeed in making their way back into the province. It was a desperate,
slight hope, but it was all that remained.

"In the name of God!" said Fermiac. "I come with you now."

"I also," said another voice in the darkness.

Perhaps with these Frenchmen it might be possible now to make an
hysterical appeal to them, carry them away on a wave of emotion, set
them marching once more. Hornblower felt the temptation, and he had to
balance the pros and cons coldly. That sort of hysteria would hardly
survive the shock of the men's feeling their leg weariness. Some of the
men simply could not march farther. It would not do; by dawn next day he
would not have six men with him, and time would have been irretrievably
lost.

"Thank you," said Hornblower. "I shall remember that in time to come,
Fermiac, my friend. But we must ride, and ride hard. Four of us and six
horses gives us the best chance. Go back to your wife, Fermiac, and try
not to beat her on Saturday nights."

He even got a laugh by that, at this moment of all moments. It helped to
keep the parting on a sane level, the level he was aiming at with an eye
to the future. Yet he knew there was no future; he knew it in his soul,
in his bones, even while he gave the order for the pack-horses to be
stripped of their loads, even while he forced Brown in a bitter argument
to leave Annette behind and make her life safe. He was going to die;
probably Brown was going to die. And Marie, dear Marie--while his spirit
tossed on wave after wave of emotion, of remorse and self-condemnation,
of fear and regret, uncertainty and despair, his love for her endured
and increased, so that her name was in his mind as a constant
accompaniment to his thoughts, so that her image was in his mind's eye
whatever else he was picturing. Dear Marie, sweet, beloved Marie.

She was leading a spare horse, and Brown was leading the other; the four
of them were mounted on the best of the six. The animals slipped and
plunged over the rough surface at the water's edge until they reached
the path above the river. They walked dispiritedly through the darkness.
Hornblower could hardly sit in his saddle with his weariness; he felt
giddy and sick, so that he had to hold on to the pommel of the saddle in
front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment and instantly seemed to be
swept over some vast smooth declivity, like the boat going over the
cataract of the Loire four years before; he was almost out of his saddle
before he recovered himself, jerking himself upright and clinging to the
pommel like a drowning man. Yet at the foot of the declivity he had
known that Marie was waiting for him with the brooding love in her eyes.

He shook off delirium. He had to make plans, to think how they could
escape. He called up before his mind's eye the map of the country, and
marked on it what he knew of the situation of Clausen's flying columns.
They constituted a semicircular cordon, whose diameter was the river,
and at whose centre he found himself at present. So far he had buoyed
himself up in this danger with the hope of passing the river by Marie's
ford. Hard on their heels, he knew, was marching a half-battalion of the
14th Leger, which had apparently been given the duty of direct pursuit
while the other columns headed him off. At nightfall that half-battalion
was presumably six or seven miles behind, unless--as might easily be the
case--its commanding officer forced his men to march on in the darkness.
Should he try to pierce the cordon or try to pass the river?

The Count's horse in front of him fell with a crash and a clatter, and
his own nearly threw him as it plunged to avoid treading on it.

"Are you hurt, sir?" came Brown's voice in the darkness; he must have
slipped down instantly from the saddle despite the handicap of a led
horse.

"No," said the Count, quietly. "But I'm afraid the horse is."

There was a chink of bridles as Brown and the Count felt about in the
dark.

"Yes. He's slipped his shoulder, sir," reported Brown at length. "I'll
change saddles to the other horse."

"Are you sure you are not hurt, Father?" asked Marie, using the intimate
form of address which was by no means the rule between them.

"Not in the least, dear," answered the Count, in just the same tone as
he would use in a drawing-room.

"If we turn this horse loose they'll find it when they come along, my
lord," said Brown.

"They" meant the pursuing troops, of course.

"Yes," said Hornblower.

"I'll take him away from the path and shoot him, my lord."

"You won't be able to lead him far," said the Count.

"A few yards may be enough," said Brown, "if you'll be kind enough to
hold these two horses, sir."

They sat and stood while Brown persuaded the suffering creature to
hobble away to his doom. Through the gentle noise of the rain they heard
the click as the pistol misfired, waited while Brown reprimed, and then
heard the crack of the weapon.

"Thank you, sir," Hornblower heard Brown say, presumably as he took over
the horse the Count had been holding, and then he added, "Can I take
over your led horse, madame?"

Hornblower made up his mind at that moment.

"We will keep along the river bank a little longer," he said. "Then we
can rest until dawn, and try to make a crossing."




CHAPTER XX


They all of them slept a little that night, an hour or so altogether
perhaps, in fits and snatches. They were all of them wearing clothing
completely saturated, and although in the dark they found a bit of
grassy bank on which to lie, the rock was only just below the surface
and made itself felt. But such was their fatigue and shortage of sleep
that they lost consciousness now and then, forgot the cold and their
aching joints. It was the most natural thing in the world that
Hornblower and Marie should lie in each other's arms, with his wet cloak
beneath them and hers above. It was warmer that way. Probably they would
have slept in each other's arms if they had been nothing to each other;
and in one way, as a result of their fatigue, they _were_ nothing to
each other. The great surge of love and tenderness which Hornblower
experienced had nothing to do with the contact of his battered body
against Marie's. He was too cold and too tired for passion to rouse
itself at all. But Marie lay in the darkness with an arm over him; she
was younger and less weary than he was, and maybe she loved more dearly.
There was one blessed half-hour after the rain ceased, before the coming
of light, when Hornblower slept tranquilly with his head on her
shoulder, when he was all hers. War was behind them and death in front
of them, and nothing could come between them at that moment. Maybe that
was the happiest half-hour that Hornblower had ever given her.

Hornblower woke with the first beginning of light. A heavy mist had
arisen from the river and the saturated fields, and through it he saw a
faint object a few yards away, which with difficulty he recognised as
the Count, sitting up enveloped in his cloak. Brown lay beside him
snoring gently--apparently they two had slept together as well. It took
Hornblower a moment or two to collect his faculties; the roar of the
rapid river close at hand was the next thing he recognised. He sat up
and Marie woke beside him. He stood up, to be sharply reminded of the
pain in his blistered feet and the ache in every joint. The pain was
hard to ignore, for every step was torture, as frightful as anything the
Middle Ages ever devised, but he said no word about it.

Soon they were on their way, mounted on horses that seemed in no better
condition than the night before. This was the life that killed horses.
The day was clearing fast; Hornblower expected one of those typical
summer days of central France, breezy and sunny together. He could
expect the mist to vanish altogether in an hour or less. Beside them the
river roared and sang; when the mist thinned they could see its wide
grey surface streaked with white. Not far on their right hand was the
great road to Briare and Paris; what they were following was the country
path skirting the flood plain. With the river beside him Hornblower
sketched rapidly what he intended to do to cross. That great expanse of
water concealed shallows over much of its width, as they all knew. The
main body of water and the main current was to be found in one channel,
sometimes on this side, sometimes on that, sometimes in the middle--how
well he remembered that phenomenon from the days when he had escaped
down the river in a small boat! If they could get themselves across this
channel, and swim the horses over, the shallows would hardly delay them.
At Marie's ford they had relied on a ridge of rock which crossed the
channel near enough to the surface to be passable at low water; as that
ridge had failed them they must rely on other means. Even a little
rowing-boat such as most riverside farms possessed would suffice.
Marie's ford would have been far better, in that the pursuers would have
no means of guessing that they had crossed, but anything was better than
nothing. Across the river they could steal fresh horses for themselves
and shake off pursuit. The Count snorted a little when Hornblower used
the word "steal"; but did not carry his protest into actual words.

The sun had broken through the mist now, and was shining at them almost
level over the ridge on their right hand; the river's surface still
steamed a little. Certainly it was going to be a hot day. And then they
saw what they were seeking, a small farm and outbuildings sheltering
below the ridge and above the water's edge. It stood bold and black
against the mist with the sun on it. The instinct of war made them wheel
instantly into a low basin screened by willows, and dismount for
concealment.

"Shall I go ahead, my lord?" asked Brown.

Perhaps it was his way of keeping himself sane, thus to speak formally
and with the bearing of the good servant.

"Yes, go on," said Hornblower.

Hornblower edged himself forward to a position of advantage whence he
could watch Brown carefully worm his way towards the farm. If there were
troops anywhere near, they would be quartered here. But then, on the
other hand, at this time in the morning troops would be moving about
round the outbuildings, and not a uniformed man was visible. A young
woman made her appearance, and then an old man, while Hornblower
watched. And then he saw something else, something which made him choke
with anticipation and hope. Lying on the rocky bank of the river, at the
water's edge below the farm, was a boat--the outline was unmistakable.
The young woman was on her way towards the vineyard above the farm, when
Brown, concealed in the ditch, attracted her attention. Hornblower saw
the two in conversation, saw Brown rise to his feet, and walk towards
the building. A minute later he appeared again and waved an arm to tell
them all was well. They mounted, and with Marie leading Brown's horse
and Hornblower leading the spare, they trotted down to the farm. Brown
awaited them, his pistol handy in his belt, and the old man stared at
them as they dismounted. They were something to stare at, Hornblower
realised, dirty and bedraggled and unshaven. Marie looked like a
beggar's wench.

"The Frogs were here yesterday, my lord," said Brown. "Cavalry, the same
Hussars as we beat last week, as far as I can make out. But they left
early yesterday morning."

"Very good," said Hornblower. "Let's get the boat launched."

"The boat!" exclaimed the old man, staring at them. "The boat!"

"Why do you say that?" asked Hornblower sharply, wondering with a pang
what fresh blow Fate had to deal him.

"Look at the boat!" said the old man.

They walked down towards it. Someone with an axe had struck it four
powerful blows; in four different places the bottom was smashed in.

"The Hussars did that," piped the old man, dwelling on the horrid
details with zest. "'Smash that boat,' said the officer, so they smashed
it."

The troops had been as fully aware, of course, as Hornblower had been of
the importance of keeping the river barred. They had taken all the
precautions they could think of to prevent unauthorised persons
crossing. That was why Marie's ford would have been invaluable if they
had been able to cross it yesterday.

It was a staggering blow; Hornblower looked out over the raging river
and the fields and vineyards warm in the young day. Marie and the Count
were waiting for a decision from him.

"We can make that boat float," said Hornblower. "The oars are still
here. Two empty kegs fastened under the thwarts--there'll be kegs to be
found here, seeing they make wine. We can patch a little, stuff the
holes, and with the kegs to keep her afloat we'll cross all right.
Brown, you and I had better get it done."

"Aye aye, sir," said Brown. "There'll be tools in the wagon shed
yonder."

It was necessary to guard against surprise; the repair work on the boat
would take some hours.

"Marie," said Hornblower.

"Yes, 'Oratio?"

"Ride up above the vineyard there. Keep a watch on the highroad.
Remember to keep yourself and your horse hidden."

"Yes, 'Oratio."

Simply "Yes, 'Oratio," as Hornblower realised a moment later. Any other
woman would have made it clear by word or intonation that the last
sentence of his instructions was superfluous to someone who had learned
her job. As it was she mounted and rode off in simple obedience.
Hornblower caught the Count's eye. He wanted to tell him to rest--the
Count's face was as grey as the stubble that grew thick on his
cheeks--but he refrained from brutally saying so. It was necessary to
keep the Count in good spirits, and that was not the way to do so.

"We shall need your help, sir, soon," he said. "Can we call on you when
it is needed?"

"Of course," said the Count.

Brown appeared with barrel staves, hammer, and nails, some lengths of
cord.

"Excellent!" said Hornblower.

Feverishly they went to work on the boat. In two places both strakes and
frames were smashed. To patch the holes was a comparatively simple
matter, but the broken frames presented a more difficult problem. To
cross that fast current they would have to row vigorously, and the boat
might buckle under the strain. The simplest way to stiffen it would be
to strengthen the strakes with one or two diagonal thicknesses of new
planking.

"When we turn her over we'll see how she looks," said Hornblower.

The hammers rang out as they drove the nails home and clinched them.
Hornblower thought of the lusty tugs on the oars necessary to drive the
boat through those turbulent waters. Both longitudinally and
transversely the strain on the fabric would be severe. They worked
furiously. The old man hovered round them. He expected the Hussars back
again at any moment, he said--they were constantly patrolling along the
river bank. He told them this with that seeming delight in calamity that
distinguished his type.

And he had hardly repeated his warning when the sound of hoofs caused
them to look up from their work; it was Marie, pushing her horse down
the slope as hard as it would move.

"Hussars!" she said briefly. "Coming along the main road from the south.
Twenty of them, I should think."

It did not seem possible that Fate could be as unkind as she appeared to
be. Another hour's work would see the boat ready to float.

"They'll come down here," said the old man gloatingly. "They always do."

Once more it was a matter for instant decision.

"We must ride off and hide," said Hornblower. "Nothing else for it. Come
on."

"But the repairs on the boat, sir? They'll see 'em," said Brown.

"They were only a mile away," said Marie. "They'll be here in five
minutes."

"Come on," said Hornblower. "Count, please get on your horse."

"Tell the Hussars if they come it was you who was making these repairs,"
said Brown to the old man. Brown thrust his shaggy face close to the
wrinkled one.

"Come along, Brown," said Hornblower.

They rode back to the hollow place where they had hidden themselves
before. They tethered the horses to the willows, and crawled back among
the rocks to watch. They had hardly settled themselves when a murmur
from Marie called their attention to the coming of the Hussars. It was
only a small patrol--half a dozen troopers and a non-commissioned
officer. The plumed busbies came in sight first, over the ridge, and
then the grey jackets. They trotted down the cart-track beside the
vineyard to the farm. The old man was waiting for them at the entrance
to the courtyard, and the fugitives watched as they reined up and
questioned him. There was a catch in Hornblower's breath as he watched
the old man, his face raised to the mounted men, replying to the
questions. Hornblower saw the non-commissioned officer lean out of his
saddle and take the old man by the breast of his coat and shake him. He
knew now they would get the truth out of him. Those threats in Clausen's
proclamation were not empty ones. A single reminder would make the old
man talk--he would only hesitate long enough to salve his conscience.
The non-commissioned officer shook him again; a trooper apparently idly
walked his horse towards the river and the boat and returned at once
with the news of the repairs. Now the old man was talking; excitement
was infecting the Hussars' horses, which were moving about restlessly.
At a wave from the non-commissioned officer's hand a trooper set his
horse up the slope, clearly to carry word to the remainder of the
squadron. The old man was pointing in their direction; the Hussars
wheeled their horses about, and, spreading out, began to trot towards
them. This was the end.

Hornblower glanced at his companions, who looked back at him. In the
flying seconds minds worked quickly. There was no purpose in trying to
ride away--the fresh horses of the Hussars would overtake them in an
instant. The Count had drawn his pistols and looked to the priming.

"I left my musket at the ford," said Marie, in a choking tone, but she,
too, had a pistol in her hand.

Brown was coolly looking about him at the tactical situation.

They were going to fight it out to the very end, then. All the feeling
of finality, of inevitability, that had haunted Hornblower from the very
beginning of the rebellion--since the interview with the Duchess of
d'Angoulme--came over him with renewed force. This was indeed the end.
To die among the rocks today, or before a firing party tomorrow. Neither
of them very dignified ends, but perhaps this one was the better. Yet it
did not seem right or fitting that he should die now. For the moment he
could not accept his fate with the apparent indifference of his
companions; he knew actual fear. Then it passed as suddenly as it came,
and he was ready to fight, ready to play out the losing hand to the drop
of the last card.

A trooper was riding towards them, not more than a few yards away now.
Brown levelled his pistol and fired.

"Missed him, by God!" said Brown.

The Hussar reined his horse round and galloped out of range; the sound
of the shot attracted the notice of all the rest of the patrol, which
promptly sheered away out of musket-shot and began to circle, spreading
out. The forlorn situation of the group in the rocky hollow must have
become apparent to them immediately. Any attempt on the fugitives' part
to escape must result in their being immediately ridden down, so that
there was no need for hurry. The Hussars sat their horses and waited.

It was not more than half an hour before reinforcements arrived, two
more troops under an officer whose aigrette and gold-laced dolman
displayed the dandyism traditional in the Hussar regiments; the
trumpeter beside him was nearly as resplendent. Hornblower watched as
the sergeant's hand pointed out the tactical situation, and then he saw
the officer's hand indicate the movements he wanted his men to make. The
officer could see at a glance the ground was too broken for concerted
mounted action; with disciplined rapidity the new arrivals dismounted,
and the horses were led off by threes while the remainder of the two
troops, carbine in hand, prepared to advance in skirmishing order
against the hollow from two directions. For dismounted cavalry deployed
as skirmishers, with their long boots and spurs and inaccurate carbines
and lack of drill Hornblower would nominally have felt nothing but
contempt, but fifty of them advancing against three men and a woman
armed only with pistols meant defeat and death.

"Make every shot tell, this time," said Hornblower--the first words
anyone had spoken for a long time.

Brown and the Count were lying in niches between rocks; Marie was
crawling round so as to bring herself to face the flanking column. At a
hundred yards the skirmishers grew more cautious, stealing forward
trying to shelter themselves behind bushes and rocks, and obviously
expecting the musket-shots that did not come. One or two of them fired
their carbines, so wildly that Hornblower did not even hear the bullets;
he could imagine the non-commissioned officers rating the men who were
thus wasting ammunition. They were within possible range now of his own
rifled pistols--Barbara's gift to him. He lay with his right arm
extended, his forearm supported on the rock that sheltered him, and took
prolonged and careful aim at the easiest mark before him--a Hussar
walking towards him in the open, his carbine across his body. He pressed
the trigger, and through the smoke saw the Hussar whirl round and fall,
to rise to a sitting position a moment later with his hand to his
wounded arm. Hot with a new battle fury, Hornblower fired the other
barrel, and the Hussar fell back, limp and motionless; Hornblower cursed
himself for wasting a shot and for killing a wounded man who would have
been out of the battle in any event. A fierce yell went up from the ring
of skirmishers, while Hornblower reloaded his empty pistol, restraining
himself as his fever tempted him to hurry. He poured the charges into
the barrels, wrapped the bullets and rammed them home, and carefully
placed the caps upon the nipples. The sight of their comrade's fall had
instilled extra caution into the skirmishers, despite their battle
yell--no one wished to be the next inglorious victim. That was a
sergeant, there, calling to his men to come on. Hornblower sighted again
and fired, and the sergeant dropped. This was better. There was a savage
satisfaction in killing when he was about to be killed. Carbines were
firing from all round the ring; Hornblower could hear the bullets
passing overhead.

At that moment a loud fanfare from the trumpet attracted the attention
of everyone; it was repeated, and Hornblower looked round while the
carbine-fire died away. The officer was walking his horse towards them,
a white handkerchief waving from his hand, while the trumpeter rode
close behind blowing for a parley in accordance with military etiquette.

"Shall I kill him, sir?" asked Brown.

"No," said Hornblower. It would be pleasant to take the officer with him
to hell, but it would give Bonaparte too good an opportunity to sully
his name and thus discredit the Bourbon movement. He knelt up behind his
rock and shouted, "Come no farther!"

The officer reined up.

"Why not surrender?" he shouted back. "You have nothing to gain by
further resistance."

"What terms do you offer?"

The officer with difficulty suppressed a shrug.

"A fair trial," he shouted back. "You can appeal to the mercy of the
Emperor."

The irony of those sentences could not have been greater if it had been
deliberate.

"To hell with you!" yelled Hornblower. "And to hell with the 10th
Hussars! Run, or I fire!"

He raised his pistol, and the officer hastily wheeled his horse and
trotted back without dignity. Why should it be that with death only half
an hour away there should be any satisfaction in thus humiliating the
man? He had only been doing his duty, trying to save the lives of his
men; why this bitter personal animosity? This insane self-analysis
coursed through Hornblower's mind even while he dropped on his stomach
again and wriggled into a firing position. He had time to think scorn of
himself before a bullet passing close above his head drove him to think
about nothing save the business in hand. If the Hussars would only rise
to their feet and charge in they might lose half a dozen lives but it
would be over quickly. Marie's pistol cracked not far from his right
hand, and he looked round at her.

At that moment it happened; Hornblower heard the impact of the bullet,
saw the force of it half roll her over. He saw the puzzled look on her
face, saw the puzzled look change to a grimace of agony, and without
even knowing what he was doing he sprang to her and knelt beside her. A
bullet had struck her on the thigh; Hornblower turned back the short
skirt of her riding habit. One leg of her dark breeches was already
soaked with blood, and while he was gathering himself to act he twice
saw the blood pulsate redly--the great artery of the thigh was torn. A
tourniquet--pressure--Hornblower's mind hastily recalled all it had ever
learned about emergency treatment of the wounded. He thrust his fingers
into her groin, unavailingly, the folds of the breeches baulking his
attempt to apply pressure to the artery. Yet every moment was precious.
He felt for his penknife to rip open her breeches, and at the same time
a shattering blow on his shoulder flung him onto the ground beside her.
He had heard nothing of the Hussars' charge, nothing of the pistol-shots
fired by Brown and the Count unavailingly to turn the charge back. Until
the carbine-butt struck him down he had been ignorant of what was going
on. Even as it was he struggled to his knees again with only the thought
in his head of the urgent need to stop the artery. He vaguely heard a
shout beside him as a sergeant stopped a trooper from striking him
again, but he thought nothing of it. He opened his knife, but Marie's
body was limp and lifeless under his hands. He glanced at her grimy
face; it was white under the dirt and sunburn, her mouth hung open, and
her eyes stared up at the sky as only the eyes of the dead stare.
Hornblower knelt, looking down on her, his open penknife still in his
hand, completely numb. The penknife fell from his fingers, and he became
aware of another face beside his own looking down on Marie.

"She is dead," said a French voice. "A pity."

The officer rose again to his feet, while Hornblower knelt over the
body.

"Come, you," said a harsher voice, and Hornblower was roughly shaken by
a hand on his shoulder. He stood up, still dazed, and looked round him.
There was the Count, on his feet, between two Hussars; there was Brown
sitting on the ground with his hand to his head slowly recovering from
the blow which had struck him senseless, while over him stood a trooper
with his carbine cocked.

"Madame's life would have been spared after trial," said the officer,
his voice coming from miles away. The bitterness of that remark helped
to clear the fog from Hornblower's brain. He made a wild movement, and
two men sprang forward and seized his arms, sending a wave of agony
through his shoulder where the carbine-butt had struck him. There was a
momentary pause.

"I shall take these men to headquarters," announced the officer.
"Sergeant, take the bodies down to the farmhouse. I will send you orders
later."

A low moan came from the Count's lips like the cry of a hurt child.

"Very well, sir," said the sergeant.

"Bring the horses up," went on the officer. "Is that man well enough to
ride? Yes."

Brown was looking dazedly around him, one side of his face swollen and
bruised. It was all like a dream, with Marie lying there glaring at the
sky.

"Come along," said someone, and they dragged at Hornblower's arms to
lead him out of the hollow. His legs were weak under him, his blistered
feet resented the movement, and he would have fallen if they had not
helped him up and dragged him forward.

"Courage, coward," said one of his guards.

No one--save himself--had ever called him that before. He tried to shake
himself free, but they only held him the harder, his shoulder paining
him excruciatingly. A third man put his hands on his back and all three
ran him up out of the hollow without dignity. Here were the horses, a
hundred of them, moving about restlessly still under the influence of
the recent excitement. They shoved him up into the saddle of a horse,
and divided the reins, a trooper mounting on each side and taking half
the reins each. It added to Hornblower's feeling of helplessness to sit
in a saddle with no reins to hold, and he was so exhausted that he could
hardly sit upright. As the horse fidgeted under him he saw Brown and the
Count made to mount as well, and then the cavalcade moved up to the
road. There they broke into a rapid trot, which tossed him about in his
saddle as he held onto the pommel. Once he came near to losing his
balance, and the trooper beside him put an arm round him and hove him
back into a vertical position.

"If you fell in a column like this," said the trooper, not unkindly,
"that would be the end of your troubles."

His troubles! Marie was dead back there, and it might just as well have
been his own hand that killed her. She was dead--dead--dead. He had been
mad to try to start this rebellion, madder still, infinitely madder, to
allow Marie to take part in it. Why had he done it? And a man more
skilful with his hands, more ready of resource, would have been able to
compress that spouting artery. Hankey, the surgeon of the _Lydia_, had
said once (as though licking his lips) that thirty seconds was as long
as anyone ever lived after the femoral artery was cut. No matter. He had
allowed Marie to die under his hands. He had had thirty seconds, and he
had failed. Failed everywhere, failed in war, failed in love, failed
with Barbara--God, why did he think of Barbara?

The pain in his shoulder may have saved him from madness, for the
jolting of the horse was causing him agony of which he could no longer
remain ignorant. He slipped his dangling hand between the buttons of his
coat as a makeshift sling, which brought him a little relief, and a
short while later he received further relief when a shouted order from
the officer at the head of the column reduced the horses' pace to a
walk. Exhaustion was overcoming him, too; although thoughts were
whirling through his brain they were ceasing to be well-defined and
logical thoughts--rather were they nightmare images, terrifying but
blurred. He had sunk into a delirious stupor when a new order which sent
the horses into a trot again roused him from it. Walk and trot, walk and
trot; the cavalry was pushing along the road as fast as the horses could
go, hurrying him to his doom.

The chteau, guarded by half a battalion of soldiers, was General
Clausen's headquarters; the prisoners and their escorts rode into the
courtyard and dismounted there. The Count was almost unrecognisable by
reason of the grey stubble thick over his face; Brown, as well as being
bearded, had one eye and cheek swollen purple with a bruise. There was
no time to exchange more than a look, no time for a word, when a dapper
dismounted officer came out to them.

"The General is waiting for you," he said.

"Come along," said the Hussar officer.

Two soldiers put their hands under Hornblower's arms to urge him
forward, and once again his legs refused to function. There was not a
voluntary contraction left in his muscles, and his blistered feet
flinched from any contact with the earth. He tried to take a step, and
his knees gave way under him. The Hussars held him up, and he tried
again, but it was unavailing--his legs floundered like those of a
leg-weary horse, and, indeed, for the same reason.

"Hurry up!" snapped the officer.

The Hussars supported him, and with his legs half trailing, half
walking, they dragged him along, up a brief marble stair under a
portico, and into a panelled room where behind a table sat General
Clausen--a big Alsatian with bulging blue eyes and red cheeks and a
bristling red moustache. The blue eyes bulged a little wider still at
the sight of the three wrecks of men dragged in before him. He looked
from one to another with uncontrolled surprise; the dapper aide-de-camp
who had slipped into a seat beside him, with paper and pens before him,
made more effort to conceal his astonishment.

"Who are you?" asked the General.

After a moment the Count spoke first.

"Louis-Antoine-Hector Savinien de Ladon, Comte de Graay," he said, with
a lift of his chin.

The round blue eyes turned towards Brown.

"And you?"

"My name is Brown."

"Ah, the servant who was one of the ringleaders. And you?"

"Horatio, Lord Hornblower." Hornblower's voice cracked as he spoke; his
throat was parched.

"Lord 'Ornblower. The Comte de Graay," said the General, looking from
one to the other. He made no spoken comment--his mere glance was a
commentary. The head of the oldest family in France, the most
distinguished of the younger officers of the British Navy--these two
exhausted tatterdemalions.

"The court martial which will try you will assemble this evening," said
the General. "You have today in which to prepare your defence."

He did not add "if any."

A thought came into Hornblower's mind. He made himself speak.

"This man Brown, monsieur. He is a prisoner of war."

The arched sandy eyebrows arched higher yet.

"He is a sailor of His Britannic Majesty's Navy. He was doing his duty
under my orders as his superior officer. He is not amenable to court
martial in consequence. He is a legitimate combatant."

"He fought with rebels."

"That does not affect the case, sir. He is a member of the armed forces
of the British Crown, with the grade of--of----"

For the life of him Hornblower could not remember the French equivalent
of "coxswain," and for lack of anything better he used the English word.
The blue eyes suddenly narrowed.

"This is the same defence as you will be putting forward at your court
martial," said Clausen. "It will not avail you."

"I had not thought about my defence," said Hornblower, so genuinely that
his tone could not but carry conviction. "I was only thinking about
Brown. There is nothing of which you can accuse him. You are a soldier
yourself, and must understand that."

His interest in the present discussion made him forget his weariness,
made him forget his own instant peril. The genuineness and sincerity of
his anxiety about Brown's welfare had their effect on Clausen, who could
not fail to be affected by these pleadings for a subordinate by a man
who himself was about to lose his life. The blue eyes softened with a
hint of admiration that was lost on Hornblower, keen-witted and
sympathetic though the latter was. To him it was such an obvious thing
to do to look after Brown that it did not cross his mind that it might
be admirable as well.

"I will take the matter under consideration," said Clausen, and then,
addressing the escort, "Take the prisoners away."

The dapper aide-de-camp whispered hurriedly to him, and he nodded with
Alsatian solemnity.

"Take what measures you think fit," he said. "I make you responsible."

The aide-de-camp rose from his seat and accompanied them out of the hall
as the soldiers helped Hornblower to walk. Once through the door the
aide-de-camp issued his orders.

"Take that man"--indicating Brown--"to the guardhouse. That man"--this
was the Count--"to the room there. Sergeant, you will have charge of
him. Lieutenant, you will be personally responsible for this man
'Ornblower. You will keep two men with you, and you and they will never
let him out of your sight. Not for a moment. There is a dungeon under
the chteau here. Take him to it, and stay there with him, and I will
come and inspect at intervals. This is the man who escaped four years
ago from the Imperial gendarmerie, and who has already been condemned to
death in his absence. He is desperate, and you can expect him to be
cunning."

"Very well, sir," said the lieutenant.

A stone staircase led down to the dungeon, a relic of the not so distant
days when the lord of the manor had the right of the high justice, the
middle and the low. Now the dungeon showed every sign of long disuse
when the clashing bars opened the door into it. It was not damp; on the
contrary, it was thick with dust. Through the high barred window came a
shaft of sunlight, just sufficient to illuminate the place. The
lieutenant looked round at the bare walls; two iron chains stapled to
the floor comprised the only furniture.

"Bring some chairs," he said to one of the men with him, and, after a
glance at his weary prisoner, "And find a mattress and bring that, too.
A palliasse of straw at the least."

It was chill in the dungeon, and yet Hornblower felt sweat upon his
forehead. His weakness was growing with every second, his legs giving
way under him even while he stood still, his head swimming. The mattress
had hardly been laid upon the floor before he staggered to it and
collapsed across it. Everything was forgotten in that moment, even his
misery regarding Marie's death. There was no room for remorse, none for
apprehension. He lay there face downward, not quite unconscious, not
quite asleep, but oblivious; the throbbing in his legs, the roaring in
his ears, the pain in his shoulder, the misery in his soul--all these
were nothings at that moment of collapse.

When the bars at the door clashed to herald the entrance of the
aide-de-camp Hornblower had recovered somewhat. He was still lying face
downward, by now almost enjoying the lack of need to move or think, when
the aide-de-camp came in.

"Has the prisoner spoken at all?" he heard the aide-de-camp ask.

"Not a single word," said the lieutenant.

"The depths of despair," commented the aide-de-camp with facile
sententiousness.

The remark irritated Hornblower, and he was further annoyed at being
caught in such an undignified attitude. He turned over and sat up on his
palliasse and glared up at the aide-de-camp.

"You have no requests to make?" asked the latter. "No letters you wish
to write?"

He did not wish to write a letter upon which his gaolers would fall like
vultures upon a corpse. Yet he had to be exigent, had to do something to
remove that impression of being in despair. And with that he knew what
he wanted and how desperately he wanted it.

"A bath," he said. He put his hand to his hairy face. "A shave. Clean
clothes."

"A bath?" repeated the aide-de-camp, a little startled. Then a look of
suspicion came into his face. "I cannot trust you with a razor. You
would try to cheat the firing party."

"Have one of your men shave me," said Hornblower, and seeking for
something to say to irritate he added, "You can tie my hands while he
does it. But first a bucket of hot water, soap, and a towel. And a clean
shirt at least."

The aide-de-camp yielded.

"Very well," he said.

A queer mood of light-headed exaltation came to Hornblower's rescue. It
was nothing to strip himself naked under the eyes of four curious men,
to wash the filth from his body and to towel himself dry, ignoring the
pain in his injured shoulder. It was not the legendary and strange
Englishman that they were interested in so much as in the man about to
die. This man soaping himself was shortly to pass through the gates
ahead of them all; this white body was soon to be torn asunder by musket
bullets. Telepathically he felt his gaolers' morbid curiosity, and
proudly and disdainfully he would indulge it. He dressed himself again
while they watched his every movement. A trooper came in with his hands
full of lather-bowls and razors.

"The regimental barber," said the aide-de-camp. "He will shave you."

There was no suggestion now of tying his hands; as Hornblower sat with
the razor rasping over his throat he thought of reaching suddenly up and
grasping the blade. His jugular vein, his carotid artery were there; one
deep cut at the side and he would be out of his torment, and there would
be the additional satisfaction of having completely outwitted the
supercilious aide-de-camp. The temptation was momentarily keen; he could
visualise his corpse collapsing in the chair, blood pouring from his
throat, to the consternation of the officers. So clear was the vision
for the moment that he dallied with it, enjoying it. But the fate of a
suicide would not arouse nearly as much resentment as a judicial murder.
He must let Bonaparte kill him, he must make that one last sacrifice to
his duty. And Barbara--he would not like Barbara to think of him as a
suicide.

The barber held a mirror before him just in time to break this new chain
of thought; the face he looked at was the same familiar one, deeply
sunburned. The lines about his mouth were perhaps more noticeable. The
eyes were perhaps more pathetic than ever, more appealing. Disgustingly
the forehead was a little higher, the scalp more visible. He nodded his
approval to the barber, and rose to his feet as the towel was taken from
under his chin, making himself stand firm despite the pain of the
blisters on his feet. He swept his glance imperiously round, abashing
the curious stares. The aide-de-camp pulled out his watch, most likely
to conceal some embarrassment.

"In an hour the court martial will assemble," he said. "Do you wish for
food?"

"Certainly," said Hornblower.

They brought him an omelette, bread, wine, cheese. There was no
suggestion that anyone should eat with him; they sat and stared as he
carried each mouthful to his lips. He had not eaten for a long time, and
now that he felt clean he was ravenously hungry. Let them stare; he
wanted to eat and drink. The wine was delicious, and he drank of it
thirstily.

"The Emperor won two great victories last week," said the aide-de-camp
suddenly, breaking into Hornblower's mood. Hornblower paused in the act
of wiping his mouth with his napkin to stare at him.

"Your Wellington," went on the aide-de-camp, "has met his destiny at
last. Ney beat him thoroughly at a place south of Brussels called Les
Quatre Bras, and on the same day His Majesty destroyed Blucher and the
Prussians at Ligny, which is the old battlefield of Fleurus, according
to the map. It was a pair of victories as decisive as Jena and
Auerstadt."

Hornblower forced himself to complete the wiping of his mouth apparently
unmoved. He addressed himself to pouring himself out another glass of
wine; he felt that the aide-de-camp, annoyed by his apparent
indifference to his fate, was telling him this news in an endeavour to
penetrate his armour. He tried to think of a riposte.

"How did this news reach you?" he asked, apparently all polite
attention.

"The official bulletin reached us three days back. The Emperor was in
full march for Brussels."

"My felicitations, monsieur. For your sake I hope the news is true. But
is there not a saying in your army about 'to lie like a bulletin'?"

"This bulletin is from the Emperor's own headquarters," said the
aide-de-camp indignantly.

"Then there can be no doubt about it, of course. Let us hope that Ney
informed the Emperor correctly of the facts, for his defeat of
Wellington is a remarkable reversal of history. In Spain Wellington
defeated Ney several times, as well as Massena and Soult and Victor and
Junot and all the others."

The aide-de-camp's expression showed how much the speech nettled him.

"There can be no doubt of this victory," he said, and he added
viciously, "Paris will hear the same day of the Emperor's entry into
Brussels and of the final suppression of brigandage in the Nivernais."

"Oh," said Hornblower politely, with raised eyebrows. "You have brigands
in the Nivernais? I commiserate with you, sir,--but I met none in my
travels through the country."

The aide-de-camp's mortification showed in his face more plainly than
ever, and Hornblower sipped his wine and felt pleased with himself. What
with the wine and his light-headed elation he could find little to fear
in the prospect that soon he would be condemned to death. The
aide-de-camp rose and clanked out of the cell, while Hornblower pushed
back his chair and stretched his legs with an elaborate pose of
well-being that was only partly assumed. They sat on in silence, himself
and his three watchers, for some considerable time before the clash of
the bars told of the door being opened afresh.

"The court is waiting. Come," said the aide-de-camp.

No sense of well-being could disguise from Hornblower the soreness of
his feet. He tried to walk with dignity, but he could only limp
grotesquely--he remembered how only yesterday he had found that the
first hundred yards after a halt was acutely painful until his feet grew
numb. And today it was far less than a hundred yards to the great hall
of the chteau. As Hornblower and his escort came up onto ground level
they met the Count, walking between two Hussars, and the groups paused
for a moment.

"My son, my son," said the Count, "forgive me for what I have done."

There was nothing odd to Hornblower's mind in being addressed as "son"
by the Count. Quite automatically he made the equivalent reply.

"There is nothing for me to forgive, Father," he said, "but it is I who
ask forgiveness."

What compelling motive was it that made him drop on his knee and bow his
head? And why did an old free-thinker and Voltairean like the Count
extend his hand to him?

"Bless you, my son. God bless you," he said.

Then he passed on, and when Hornblower looked back the grey head and
spare figure turned the corner and disappeared.

"He is to be shot at dawn tomorrow," explained the aide-de-camp, as he
opened the door into the great hall.

Clausen at his table was now flanked by three officers on either side,
and at each end of the table sat a junior officer with papers before
them. Hornblower hobbled towards them, struggling and failing to walk
with any dignity. When he reached the table the officer at one end rose.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Horatio, Lord Hornblower, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the
Bath, Commodore in His Britannic Majesty's Navy."

The court exchanged glances; the officer at the other end of the table,
who was apparently acting as secretary, scribbled furiously. The officer
who had asked the question--clearly the prosecutor--turned to address
the court.

"The prisoner has admitted his identity. And I understand that he had
previously already done so, to General Count Clausen and to Captain
Fleury. His appearance also corresponds with his published description.
It is submitted, then, that his identity is proved."

Clausen looked round at his fellow judges, who nodded.

"It only remains, then," went on the prosecutor, "to submit to the court
the verdict of a court martial held on June 10th, 1811, wherein this
said 'Oratio 'Ornblower was condemned to death, he having purposely
absented himself, on charges of piracy and violation of the laws of war;
that sentence being confirmed on June 14th of the same year by His
Imperial and Royal Majesty the Emperor. The judges will find attested
copies before them. I must request that the death sentence be enforced."

Again Clausen looked at his fellow judges, and received a sixfold nod.
Clausen looked down at the table before him, and drummed for a moment
with his fingers before he looked up again. He was making himself meet
Hornblower's eyes, and when he did Hornblower's strange clairvoyance
told him of the repeated orders that had come from Bonaparte to
Clausen--"this Hornblower is to be taken and shot wherever found," or
something to that effect. There was a decided apology in Clausen's blue
eyes.

"It is the order of this military commission," said Clausen slowly,
"that the said 'Oratio 'Ornblower suffer death by shooting at dawn
tomorrow, immediately after the execution of the rebel Graay."

"Pirates are hanged, Your Excellency," said the prosecutor.

"It is the order of this commission that 'Ornblower be shot," repeated
Clausen. "Remove the prisoner. The commission is terminated."

There it was. Hornblower knew that every eye was on his back as he
turned away and walked down the hall. He wished he could stride out,
head up and shoulders back, but he could only hobble out, with halting
steps and shoulders bent. He had had no opportunity to say a word in his
own defence, and perhaps it was as well. He might have stammered and
hesitated, tongue-tied, for he had made no speech ready. He hobbled down
the steps. At least he was to be shot and not hanged--but would the
impact of the bullets on his chest be any less agonising than the
tightening of the rope round his throat? He stumbled into the cell,
which was now quite dark. He found the mattress and sat down on it. This
was final defeat--he had not looked upon it in that light before.
Bonaparte had won the last round of the struggle he had waged against
him for twenty years. There was no arguing with bullets.

They brought in three candles, which brightly lit the cell. Yes, this
was defeat. With bitter self-contempt Hornblower remembered so recently
preening himself on his silly verbal victories over the aide-de-camp.
Fool that he was! The Count condemned to death, and Marie--oh, Marie,
Marie! He found actual tears in his eyes, and he hurriedly shifted his
position on the mattress so that the watchers should not see them. Marie
had loved him, and his own folly had killed her. His own folly and
Bonaparte's superior genius. God, if only he could have the chance to
live the last three months over again. Marie, Marie. He was going to
sink his head into his hands, and checked himself when he remembered
there were three pairs of eyes stolidly watching him. He must not have
it said of himself that he died like a coward. For little Richard's
sake, for Barbara's sake, that must not be. Barbara would love and
cherish Richard, he could be sure of that. What would she think of her
late husband? She would know--she would guess--why he had come to
France, and she would guess at his infidelity. She would be deeply hurt.
She would be blameless if she held no allegiance to his memory. She
would marry again. Still young, beautiful, wealthy, well-connected; of
course she would. O God, that added to the pain, to think of Barbara in
another man's arms, laughing with the joy of it. And yet he had lain in
Marie's. Oh, Marie.

His nails were hurting his palms, so tightly were his fists clenched. He
glanced round to find the eyes still on him. He must show no weakness.
If that thunderstorm had not burst and flooded the Loire, he would still
be at liberty, Marie would still be alive, the rebellion would still be
active. It had called for the direct interposition of fate as well as
Bonaparte's genius to defeat him. Those battles that had been fought in
Belgium--maybe the bulletins had lied about Bonaparte's victories. Maybe
they were not decisive. Maybe Clausen's division, kept inactive in the
Nivernais, might have made them decisive had it been present.
Maybe--what a fool he was to try to comfort himself with these vain
delusions! He was going to die, he was going to solve the mystery that
he had only sometimes allowed himself to think about. By this time
tomorrow--in a few hours--he would have gone the road so many others had
trodden before him.

They were lighting fresh candles; the old ones were burned to stubs. Was
the night then passing so fast? Dawn would be here soon, soon--day
breaks early in June. He met the eyes of one of the watchers, although
the latter tried to evade his glance. He tried to force himself to
smile, and knew instantly that the smile was lopsided and forced. A
rattle outside the door. That could not be that they were coming for him
already? Yes it was, the bars were clashing, the door was opening, the
aide-de-camp was entering. Hornblower tried to rise to his feet, and to
his horror found that his legs were too weak to support him. He made
another effort to stand, unavailing again. He must sit and let them drag
him out like a coward. He forced himself to raise his chin and look at
the aide-de-camp, trying not to make it the fixed and glassy stare he
knew it to be.

"It is not death," said the aide-de-camp.

Hornblower looked; he tried to speak, but no word came from his open
mouth. And the aide-de-camp was trying to force a smile, too--an
ingratiating smile.

"There is news from Belgium," said the aide-de-camp. "The Emperor has
been defeated in a great battle. At a place called Waterloo. Already
Wellington and Blucher are over the frontier and marching on Paris. The
Emperor is there already and the Senate are demanding that he abdicate
again."

Hornblower's heart was pounding so hard that he was still incapable of
speech.

"His Excellency the General," went on the aide-de-camp, "has decided
that in this case the executions are not to take place this morning."

Hornblower found speech at last.

"I will not insist," he said.

The aide-de-camp went on to say something about the restoration of His
Most Christian Majesty, but Hornblower did not listen to him. He was
wondering about Richard. And Barbara.






[End of Lord Hornblower, by C. S. Forester]
