Hornblower and the Crisis

“You seem to have made good use of your time in Ferrol, Captain,” said Barrow.

Hornblower would have shrugged his shoulders, but restrained himself in time from indulging in so unEnglish a gesture. The memory of that desperately unhappy time came back to him in a flood and he was momentarily lost in retrospective misery. He came back into the present to find Barrow’s eyes still fixed on him with curiosity, and he realized, selfconciously, that for a moment he had allowed Barrow a glimpse into his i

“At least I managed to learn to speak a little Spanish,” he said; it was an endeavour to bring a trace of frivolity into the conversation, but Barrow continued to treat the subject seriously.

“Many officers would not have taken the trouble,” he commented.

Hornblower shied away from this personal conversation like a skittish horse.

“There’s another aspect to the question of Ferrol,” he said, hurriedly.

“And what is that?”

“The town and its facilities as a naval base lay at the far end of long and difficult roads over mountain passes, whether by Betanzos or Villalba. To support a fleet there under blockade, to keep it supplied by road with the hundreds of tons of necessary stores, might be more than the Spaniards could manage.”

“You know something of these roads, Captain?”

“I was marched over them when I was a prisoner.”

“Boney’s Emperor now and the Dons are his abject slaves. If anyone could compel them to attend to their business it would be Boney.”

“That’s very likely, sir.” This was more a political question than a naval one, and it would be presumption on his part to make further comment.

“So we’re back,” said Barrow, half to himself, “to where we’ve been ever since ‘95, waiting for the enemy to come out and fight, and in your opinion in a worse situation than usual, Captain.”

“That’s only my opinion, sir,” said Hornblower hastily.

These were questions for Admirals, and it was not healthy for junior officers to become involved in them.

“If only Calder had thrashed Villeneuve thoroughly!” went on Barrow. “Half our troubles would be over.”

Hornblower had to make some reply or other, and he had to think fast for noncommital words that would not imply a criticism of an Admiral by a junior officer.

“Just possibly, sir,” he said.

He knew that as soon as the news of the battle of Cape Finisterre was released the British public would boil with rage. At Camperdown, at the Nile, and at Copenhagen victories of a

That led to the next thought; a political upheaval would sweep away the Cabinet, including the First Lord, and possibly even the Secretariat — this very man to whom he was talking might be looking for new employment (with a black mark against his name) within a month. It was a tricky situation, and Hornblower suddenly felt overwhelmingly desirous that the interview should be ended. He was horribly hungry and desperately fatigued. When the door opened to admit Dorsey he looked up with relief.

Dorsey halted at sight of Barrow.

“The Secretary is with His Lordship,” explained the latter. “What is it, Mr. Dorsey?”

“I’ve opened the dispatch that Captain Hornblower captured, sir. It’s — it’s important, sir.”

Dorsey’s glance wavered over to Hornblower and back again.

“I think Captain Hornblower is entitled to see the results of his efforts,” said Barrow, and Dorsey came forward with relief and laid on the table the objects he was carrying.

First there were half a dozen discs of white wax laid out on a tray.

“I’ve reproduced the seals,” explained Dorsey. “Two copies of each. That sealcutter in Cheapside can cut a seal from these so that Boney himself couldn’t tell the difference. And I’ve managed to lift the originals without damaging them too much — the hot knife method, you understand, sir.”

“Excellent,” said Barrow, examining the results. “So these are the new seals of the new Empire?”

“Indeed they are, sir. But the dispatch — It’s the greatest of prizes. See here, sir! And here!”

He stabbed excitedly at the paper with a gnarled finger. At the foot of the sheet, which was covered with paragraphs of careful handwriting, there was a crabbed signature. It had been written by a careless hand, and was surrounded by little ink blots as a result of the spluttering of a protesting pen. It was not really legible; Hornblower could read the first letters, ‘Nap—’ but the remainder was only a jagged line and a flourish.

“That’s the first signature of this sort which has come into our possession, sir,” explained Dorsey.

“Do you mean he has always signed ‘N. Bonaparte’ before?” asked Hornblower.

“Just ‘Bonaparte’,” said Dorsey. “We have a hundred, a thousand specimens, but not one like this.”

“He hasn’t adopted the Imperial style, all the same,” said Barrow, examining the letter. “Not yet at least. He calls himself ‘I’ and not ‘we’. See here, and here.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” said Dorsey, “not that I’m familiar with French. But here’s something else, sir. And here.”

The superscription said ‘Palais des Tuileries’ and ‘Cabinet Impériale’.

“These are new?” asked Barrow.

“Yes, indeed, sir. Until now he did not call it a palace, and it was the ‘Cabinet of the First Consul’.”

“I wonder what the letter says?” interposed Hornblower. So far only the technical details had occupied their attention, like people judging a book by its binding without a thought for its contents. He took it from Dorsey’s hand and began to read.

“You read French, sir?” asked Barrow.

“Yes,” said Hornblower, a little offhandedly as he concentrated on his reading. He had never read a letter from an Emperor before.

Monsieur le Général Lauriston, the letter began. The first paragraph was taken up with allusions to the instructions already sent by the Ministries of Marine and of War. The second dealt with the relative seniority of General Lauriston and of various subordinates. The final one was more flamboyant.

“Hoist my flags over that beautiful continent, and if the British attack you, and you experience some bad luck, always remember three things, activity, concentration of forces, and the firm resolution to die with glory. These are the great principles of war which have brought me success in all my operations. Death is nothing, but to live defeated and without glory is to die every day. Do not worry about your family. Think only about that portion of my family which you are going to reconquer.”

“It reads like a counsel of despair, sir,” said Hornblower. “Telling him to fight to the last.”

“No mention of sending him reinforcements,” agreed Barrow. “Quite the opposite, in fact. A pity.”

To reinforce the West Indies would necessitate risking some of Bonaparte’s naval forces at sea.

“Boney needs a victory here first, sir,” suggested Hornblower.

“Yes.”

Hornblower found his own bitter smile repeated by Barrow. A victory won by Bonaparte in home waters would mean the conquest of England, the automatic fall of West Indies and East Indies, of Canada and the Cape, of the whole Empire; it would mean an alteration in the destiny of all mankind.

“But this—” said Barrow with a wave of the dispatch. “This may play its part.”

Hornblower had already learned the importance of negative information, and he nodded agreement. And it was at that moment that Marsden returned to the room, with a fistful of papers.