Hornblower and the Crisis

Now for the goodbyes.

“I said goodbye to most of you gentlemen only a few days back, and now I have to do so again. And a good deal has happened since then.”

“Yes, sir!” an emphatic agreement, voiced by Bush as the only commissioned officer present.

“Now I’m saying goodbye once more. I said before that I hoped we’d meet again, and I say it now. And I say ‘thank you’, too. You know I mean both those.”

“It’s us that have to thank you, sir,” said Bush, through the inarticulate murmurs uttered by the others.

“Goodbye, you men,” said Hornblower to the other group. “Good luck.”

“Goodbye and good luck, sir.”

He turned away; there was a dockyard labourer available to wheel away his gear on a barrow, on which he could also lay the blanketbundle which swung from his hand; it might be vastly precious but it would not be out of his sight, and he had his dignity as a captain to consider. That dignity Hornblower felt imperilled enough as it was by the difficulty he experienced in walking like a landsman; the cobbles over which he was making his way seemed as if they could not remain level. He knew he was rolling in his gait like any Jack Tar, and yet, try as he would, he could not check the tendency while the solid earth seemed to seesaw under his feet.

The labourer — as might have been expected — had no knowledge of where the admiral commanding the port was to be found; he did not know even his name, and a passing clerk had to be stopped and questioned.

“The port admiral?” The lardfaced clerk who repeated Hornblower’s words was haughty, and Hornblower was battered and dishevelled, his hair long and tousled, his clothes rumpled, all as might be expected after nearly two weeks of crowded life in a waterhoy. But there was an epaulette, albeit a shabby one, on his left shoulder, and when the clerk noticed it he added a faint “Sir.”

“Yes, the port admiral.”

“You’ll find him in his office in the stone building over there.”

“Thank you. Do you know his name?”

“Foster. RearAdmiral Harry Foster.”

“Thank you.”

That must be Dreadnought Foster. He had been one of the board of captains who had examined Hornblower for Lieutenant all those years ago in Gibraltar, the night the Spaniards sent the fireships in.

The marine sentry at the outer gate presented arms to the epaulette, but he was not so wooden as to allow to pass u

“From the Guèpe, sir?” asked the lieutenant.

“Yes,” answered Hornblower in surprise.

“The Admiral will see you, sir.”

It was only yesterday, when Hornblower had examined the log more carefully in the troy, that he had discovered the French brig’s name. It was only an hour ago that the Princess had made contact with the land, and yet the story was already known in the Admiral’s office; at least it would save a little time — Maria would be waiting at the dockyard gate.

Dreadnought Foster was just as Hornblower remembered him, swarthy, with an expression of sardonic humour. Luckily he appeared to have no recollection of the nervous midshipman whose examination had been fortunately interrupted that evening in Gibraltar. Like his flaglieutenant he had heard something of the story of the capture of the brig already — one more example of the speed with which gossip can fly — and he grasped the details, as Hornblower supplied them, with professional ease.

“And those are the documents?” he asked, when Hornblower reached that point in his sketchy narrative.

“Yes, sir.”

Foster reached out a large hand for them.

“Not everyone would have remembered to bring them away, Captain,” he said, as he began to turn them over. “Log. Day book. Station bill. Quarter bill. Victualling returns.”

He had noticed the lead covered dispatch first of all, naturally, but he had laid it aside to examine last.

“Now what do we have here?” He studied the label. “What does ‘S.E.’ mean?”

“Son Excellence — His Excellency, sir.”

“His Excellency the Captain General of — what’s this, Captain?”

“Windward Isles, sir.”

“I might have guessed that seeing it says ‘Martinique’,” admitted Foster. “But I never had a head for French. Now—”

He fingered the penknife on his desk. He studied the tarred twine that bound the leaden sandwich. Then he put the knife down reluctantly and looked up at Hornblower.

“I don’t think I’d better meddle,” he said. “This’ll be best left for Their Lordships.”

Hornblower had had the same thought although he had not ventured to voice it. Foster was looking at him searchingly.

“You intend going to London, of course, Captain?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Naturally. You want a ship, I think.”

“Yes, sir. Admiral Cornwallis named me for promotion last month.”

“Well — This—” Foster tapped the dispatch. “This will save you time and money. Flags!”

“Sir!” The flaglieutenant was instantly in attendance.

“Captain Hornblower will need a postchaise.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Have it at the gate immediately.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Have a travel warrant made out for London.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Foster turned his attention once more to Hornblower and smiled sardonically at the bewilderment and surprise he saw in his face. For once Hornblower had been caught off his guard and had allowed his emotions to show.

“Seventeen guineas that will cost King George, God bless him,” said Foster. “Aren’t you grateful for his bounty?”

Hornblower had regained control over himself; he was even able to conceal his irritation at his lapse.

“Of course, sir,” he said, in almost an even tone and with an expressionless face.

“Every day — ten times a day sometimes,” said Foster, “I have officers coming in here, even admirals sometimes, trying to get travel warrants to London. The excuses I’ve heard! And here you don’t care.”

“Of course I’m delighted, sir,” said Hornblower. “And greatly obliged, too.”

Maria would be waiting at the gate, but he was too proud to show any further weakness under Foster’s sardonic gaze. A King’s officer had his duty to do. And it was less than three months since he had last seen Maria; some officers had been parted from their wives since the outbreak of war more than two years ago.

“No need to be obliged to me,” said Foster. “This is what decided me.”

’This’ was of course the dispatch which he tapped again.

“Yes, sir.”

“Their Lordships should think it’s worth seventeen guineas. I’m not doing it for your sweet sake.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Oh yes. And I’d better give you a note to Marsden. It will get you past the doorkeeper.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Those last two speeches — Hornblower digested them while Foster scribbled away at the letter — were hardly tactful when considered in relation to each other. They implied a certain lack of charm. Marsden was the Secretary to the Lords of the Admiralty, and the suggestion that Hornblower needed a note to gain admittance was an unexpressed but disparaging comment on his appearance.

“Chaise will be at the gates, sir,” a

“Very well.” Foster sanded his letter and poured the sand back into the caster, folded the letter and addressed it, sanded it once more, and once more returned the sand. “Seal that, if you please.”

As the flaglieutenant busied himself with candle and wax and seal Foster folded his hands and looked over again at Hornblower.

“You’re going to be pestered for news at every relay,” he said. “The country can’t think about anything except ‘What’s Nelson doing?’ and ‘Has Boney crossed yet?’. They’ll discuss Villai