Hornblower and the Crisis

“We’ve settled it,” said Baddlestone’s voice — Hornblower recognized the silhouette at once, now.

“Where’s Meadows?” croaked Hornblower, his throat still dry with tension.

“He’s a goner,” answered Baddlestone, with a wave of his arm.

The cabin door swung open again as if in response, throwing an arc of light over the deck, and Hornblower remembered. On the far side of the scuttle lay two corpses. That one must be Meadows, lying half on his side, arms and legs asprawl. Standing out from his chest was the handle of a rapier, and it became apparent that two feet of the blade stuck out through his back so as to maintain him in that position. In the black face the teeth shone whitely, as Meadows had bared them in the ferocity of his attack; the swaying lights made his mouth look as if his lips were still going through contortions of rage. Beyond him lay the French captain in white shirt and breeches — only partly white now — but where face and head should be there was only something horrible. On the deck lay the cutlass which had dealt the shattering blow, wielded in one final explosion of Meadows’ vast strength as the rapier went through his heart. Years ago the émigré French nobleman who had given Hornblower fencing lessons had spoken of the ‘coup des deux veuves’, the reckless attack that made two widows — here was an example of it.

“Any orders, sir?” Here was Bush recalling him to reality.

“Ask Captain Baddlestone,” replied Hornblower.

A touch of formality would clear the nightmares from his mind, but at the same instant something else occurred to remind him that action was still instantly demanded. There was a crashing sound beside him and a jarring shock felt in the soles of his feet told him that the Frenchmen below were battering at the scuttle. From forward there came similar noises and a voice hailed.

“Cap’n, sir! They’re trying to bash up the hatch cover!”

“There was a whole watch below when we boarded,” said Baddlestone.

Of course, that would help to account for the comparative ease of the victory — thirty armed men attacking fifty men surprised and unarmed. But it meant that fifty enemies — more, including idlers — were below and refusing to be subdued.

“Get for’rard and deal with it, Bush,” said Hornblower — it was only when Bush had departed that Hornblower realized that he had omitted the vital ‘Mr’. He must be quite unstrung.

“We can keep ‘em down all right,” said Baddlestone.

It would hardly be possible for the men below to force their way to the deck through a hatchway or scuttle efficiently guarded, even if the covers were to be pounded to fragments as was clearly happening at the moment. But to maintain guards every moment, over the scuttle and the hatchway and the prisoners aft by the taffrail, and at the same time to provide crews to handle the brig and the Princess meant a good deal of strain.

The light was playing strange tricks; the unma

“They’ve cut the tiller ropes down belong,” he reported to Baddlestone.

At that moment there was a sledgehammer blow on the deck under their feet, which made them leap in surprise.

Hornblower felt his feet tingling as though from a violent impact.

“What the devil—?” he asked.

Before he could answer there was another enormous blow against the underside of the deck, and, staring downwards, he could see a tiny glimmer of light some inches from his right foot; there was a small jagged hole there.

“Come away!” he said to Baddlestone and retreated to the scuppers. “They’re firing muskets down there!”

A one ounce musket ball fired at a range of no more than an inch or two would strike the deck with the force of twenty sledgehammers, and it would pierce the one inch plankwith residual velocity sufficient, doubtless, to shatter a leg or two or take a life.

“They guessed there’d be someone standing near the wheel,” said Baddlestone.

Splintering crashes forward told how the Frenchmen were destroying the hatchcover there, and now there began a similar noise from the scuttle aft; it sounded as if they had found an axe down below and were using it.

“It’s not going to be easy to sail her home,” said Baddlestone; the whites of his eyes indicated that he was turning an inquiring gaze on Hornblower.

“If they won’t surrender it’s going to be damned difficult,” said Hornblower.

Often when the deck of a ship was carried by a rush the survivors below were demoralized sufficiently to yield, but should they determine on resistance the situation became complicated, especially when, as in the present case, the numbers below were far greater than the numbers above and were apparently being led by someone of energy and courage. Hornblower had once or twice envisaged such a situation, but even his imagination had not gone as far as picturing musket balls being fired up through the deck.

“If we get the brig underway,” he said, “there’s the relieving tackles—”

“And Hell to pay,” said Baddlestone.

It was possible to steer a ship after a fashion by adroit handling of the sails if the rudder were useless, but down below there were the relieving tackles, and half a dozen sturdy men heaving on them could drag the rudder round, not merely nullifying the efforts of the men on deck but actually imperilling the ship by laying her unexpectedly aback.

“We’ll have to bolt for it,” said Hornblower; it was an irritating, an infuriating suggestion to have to make, and Baddlestone reacted with a string of oaths worthy of the dead Meadows.

“No doubt you’re right,” he said at the end of it. “Ten thousand pounds apiece! We’ll burn her — set her on fire before we go.”

“We can’t do that!” Hornblower’s reply was jerked from him even before he had time to think.

Fire in a wooden ship was the deadliest of enemies; if they left the brig well alight on their departure no efforts on the part of the Frenchmen left behind would extinguish the flames. Fifty — sixty — seventy Frenchmen would burn to death if they did not leap overboard to drown. He could not do it — at least he would not do it in cold blood: the alternative was already forming in his mind.

“We can leave her a wreck,” he said. “Cut the jeers, cut the halliards — cut the forestay, for that matter. Five minutes’ work and it’ll take ‘em the best part of a day before they can get sail on her again.”

Perhaps it was the appeal to the demon of destruction that made up Baddlestone’s mind for him.

“Come on!” he said. “Let’s get ‘em to work.”

It called for only the smallest amount of organization; the men they commanded were many of them trained officers who could grasp the situation with the briefest explanation. There were plenty of men to mount guard at the scuttle and at the hatch (whose cover was rapidly disintegrating under the force of axeblows from beneath) while the party to wreak destruction was told off and sent on its mission. It was as the turmoil began that Hornblower remembered one of the important duties of a King’s officer in a captured ship; his mind seemed to be working jerkily, with flashes of clarity like lightning through the sombre cloud that oppressed it.

He dashed into the captain’s cabin; as be expected, there stood the captain’s desk, and as he should have expected, it was locked. He fetched a handspike from the nearest gun, and it was only a minute’s work with the aid of its powerful leverage to wrench the desk open. There were the ship’s papers, letter book and fair log and all. Here was something unusual, too, which he found when he began to gather them up. Something flat, rectangular, and heavy — a sheet of lead bound with tarred twine, at first sight. A further glance showed that it was actually a sandwich of lead, with papers enclosed. Undoubtedly those papers were unusually important dispatches, probably, or, if not, they would be additions and changes in the signal book. The leaden casing told its own story — it was to be thrown overboard if the ship were to be in danger of capture; a blow from Meadows’ cutlass had put an end to that scheme.