Flying Colours

There had been no hope of escape without the means of transporting a helpless cripple; now, not twenty feet from him, there was the ideal means—the boat which rocked to its moorings at the river bank. On a night like this it was easy to lose one’s way altogether—except in a boat on a river; in a boat one had only to keep shoving off from shore to allow the current to carry one away faster than any horse could travel in these conditions. Even so, the scheme was utterly harebrained. For how many days would they be able to preserve their liberty in the heart of France, two able-bodied men and one on a stretcher? They would freeze, starve—possibly even drown. But it was a chance, and nothing nearly as good would present itself (as far as Hornblower could judge from his past observations) between now and the time when the firing party at Vince

Brown came stamping round the coach and Hornblower addressed him, contriving with great effort to keep his voice low and yet matter-of-fact.

“We’re going to escape down the river in that boat, Brown,” he said.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Brown, with no more excitement in his voice than if Hornblower had been speaking of the cold. Hornblower saw his head in the darkness turn towards the nearly visible figure of Caillard, pacing restlessly in the snow beside the coach.

“That man must be silenced,” said Hornblower.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Brown meditated for a second before continuing. “Better let me do that, sir.”

“Very good.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes.”

Brown took two steps towards the unsuspecting figure.

“Here,” he said. “Here, you.”

Caillard turned and faced him, and as he turned he received Brown’s fist full on his jaw, in a punch which had all Brown’s mighty fourteen stone behind it. He dropped in the snow, with Brown leaping upon him like a tiger, Hornblower behind him.

“Tie him up in his cloak,” whispered Hornblower. “Hold on to his throat while I get it unbuttoned. Wait. Here’s his scarf. Tie his head up in that first.”

The sash of the Legion of Honour was wound round and round the wretched man’s head. Brown rolled the writhing figure over and with his knee in the small of his back tied his arms behind him with his neckcloth. Hornblower’s handkerchief sufficed for his ankles—Brown strained the knot tight. They doubled the man in two and bundled him into his cloak, tying it about him with his swordbelt. Bush, lying on his stretcher in the darkness of the coach, heard the door open and a heavy load drop upon the floor.

“Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower—the formal ‘Mr’ came naturally again now the action had begun again—“We are going to escape in the boat.”

“Good luck, sir,” said Bush.

“You’re coming too. Brown, take that end of the stretcher. Lift. Starboard a bit. Steady.”

Bush felt himself lifted out of the coach, stretcher and all, and carried down through the snow.

“Get the boat close in,” snapped Hornblower. “Cut the moorings. Now, Bush, let’s get these blankets round you. Here’s my cloak, take it as well. You’ll obey orders, Mr. Bush. Take the other side, Brown. Lift him into the stern-sheets. Lower away. Bow thwart, Brown. Take the oars. Right. Shove off. Give way.”

It was only six minutes from the time when Hornblower had first conceived the idea. Now they were free, adrift on the black river, and Caillard was gagged and tied into a bundle on the floor of the coach. For a fleeting moment Hornblower wondered whether Caillard would suffocate before being discovered, and he found himself quite indifferent in the matter. Bonaparte’s personal aides-de-camp, especially if they were colonels of gendarmerie as well, must expect to run risks while doing the dirty work which their situation would bring them. Meanwhile he had other things to think about.

“Easy!” he hissed at Brown. “Let the current take her.”

The night was absolutely black; seated on the stern thwart he could not even see the surface of the water overside. For that matter, he did not know what river it was. But every river runs to the sea. The sea! Hornblower writhed in his seat in wild nostalgia at a vivid recollection of sea breezes in the nostrils and the feel of a heaving deck under his feet. Mediterranean or Atlantic, he did not know which, but if they had fantastic luck they might reach the sea in this boat by following the river far enough, and the sea was England’s and would bear them home, to life instead of death, to freedom instead of imprisonment, to Lady Barbara, to Maria and his child.

The wind shrieked down on them, driving snow down his neck—thwarts and bottom boards were thick with snow. He felt the boat swing round under the thrust of the wind, which was in his face now instead of on his cheek.

“Turn her head to wind, Brown,” he ordered, “and pull slowly into it.”

The surest way of allowing the current a free hand with them was to try to neutralize the effect of the wind—a gale like this would soon blow them on shore, or even possibly blow them upstream; in this blackness it was impossible to guess what was happening to them.

“Comfortable, Mr. Bush?” he asked.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Bush was faintly visible now, for the snow had driven up already against the grey blankets that swathed him and could just be seen from where Hornblower sat, a yard away.

“Would you like to lie down?”

“Thank you, sir, but I’d rather sit.”

Now that the excitement of the actual escape was over, Hornblower found himself shivering in the keen wind without his cloak. He was about to tell Brown that he would take one of the sculls when Bush spoke again.

“Pardon, sir, but d’you hear anything?”

Brown rested on his oars, and they sat listening.

“No,” said Hornblower. “Yes, I do, by God!”

Underlying the noise of the wind there was a distant monotonous roaring.

“H’m,” said Hornblower, uneasily.

The roar was growing perceptibly louder; now it rose several notes in the scale, suddenly, and they could distinguish the sound of ru

“Jesus!” said Brown in the bows.

Now the boat was spi

“Give me a scull,” he snapped at Brown. “You fend off port side. I’ll take starboard.”

He groped in the darkness, found a scull, and took it from Brown’s hand; the boat spun, hesitated, plunged again. All about them was the roar of the rapid. The starboard side of the boat caught on a rock; Hornblower felt icy water deluge his legs as it poured in over the side behind him. But already he was thrusting madly and blindly with his scull against the rock, he felt the boat slip and swing, he thrust so that the swing was accentuated, and next moment they were clear, wallowing sluggishly with the water up to the thwarts. Another rock slid hissing past, but the roar of the fall was already dwindling.

“Christ!” said Bush, in a mild tone contrasting oddly with the blasphemy. “We’re through!”

“D’you know if there’s a bailer in the boat, Brown?” demanded Hornblower.