The Commodore

“Is there anything about troop movements?” asked Hornblower.

“Yes, sir. I was surprised at the freedom with which they were mentioned. The Imperial Guard is at Dresden. There’s the First, the Second”—Braun turned the page—“and the Ninth Army Corps all mentioned. They are in Prussia—headquarters Danzig—and Warsaw.”

“Nine army corps,” reflected Hornblower. “Three hundred thousand men, I suppose.”

“There’s a paragraph here which speaks of Murat’s reserve cavalry. It says ‘there are forty thousand men, superbly mounted and equipped’. Bonaparte reviewed them.”

An enormous mass of men was obviously accumulating on the frontier between Bonaparte’s Empire and Russia. Bonaparte would have the Prussian and Austrian armies under his orders too. Half a million men—six hundred thousand men—the imagination failed to grasp the figures. A vast tide of humanity was piling up here in eastern Europe. If Russia failed to be impressed by the threat, it was hard to believe that anything could survive the onrush of such a mass of men. The doom of Russia appeared to be sealed; she must either submit or be destroyed. No continental nation yet had successfully opposed Bonaparte, although every single one had felt the violence of his attack; only England still withstood him, and Spain still fought on although his armies had ravaged every village and every valley in the unhappy peninsula.

Doubt came back into Hornblower’s mind. He could not see that Bonaparte would derive any benefit from the conquest of Russia proportionate to the effort needed, or even proportionate to the slight risk involved. Bonaparte ought to be able to find a far more profitable employment for the men and the money. Probably there would be no war. Russia would submit, and England would face a Europe every square mile of which would be in the tyrant’s hands. And yet—

“This one is the Warsaw Gazette, sir,” went on Braun. “A little more official, from the French point of view, even than the other one, although it’s in the Polish language. Here is a long article about Russia. It speaks of ‘the Cossack menace to Europe’. It calls Alexander ‘the barbarian ruler of a barbarian people’. ‘The successor of Genghis Khan.’ It says that ‘St Petersburg is the focus of all the potential anarchy of Europe’—‘a menace to the peace of the world’—‘deliberately hostile to the benefits conferred upon the world by the French people’.”

“And that must be published with Bonaparte’s consent,” commented Hornblower, half to himself, but Braun was still deep in the article.

“’The wanton ravisher of Finland,’” read Braun, more than half to himself. He raised his green eyes from the sheet. There was a gleam of hatred in them that startled Hornblower; it reminded him of what he was in a fair way to forget, that Braun was a pe

Braun would bear watching, thought Hornblower—that would be something more to bear in mind, as if he did not have enough worries or carry enough responsibility already. He could joke with Bush about the Swedes and the Russians, but secretly anxiety was gnawing at him. The Swedes might well be exasperated by the destruction of the Blanchefleur in Pomeranian waters. That might be the last straw; Bernadotte might at this very moment be contemplating wholehearted alliance with Bonaparte and war with England. The prospect of the enmity of Sweden as well as that of France might easily break down Russia’s resolution. England might find herself with the whole world in arms against her as a result of Hornblower’s action. A fine climax that would be to his first independent command. Those cursed brothers of Barbara’s would sneer in superior fashion at his failure.

Hornblower shook himself with an effort out of this nightmare, to find that Braun was obviously still in his. The hatred in his eyes, the intensity of his expression were quite startling. And then someone knocked on the cabin door and Braun came out of his dream and slipped instantly into his old attitude of attentive deference.

“Come in,” shouted Hornblower.

It was one of the midshipmen of the watch.

“Mr. Montgomery sent me with this signal from Raven, sir.”

He held out the slate; it was scrawled with the words written on it by the signal officer.

Have met Swedish vessel desirous of speaking with Commodore.

“I’ll come on deck,” said Hornblower. “Ask the captain if he’ll be kind enough to come too.”

“The cap’n’s on deck, sir.”

“Very good.”

Bush and Montgomery and half a dozen officers had their glasses trained towards the topsails of the Raven at her station far out on the port beam as the squadron swept up the Baltic. There was still an hour of daylight left.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “I’d be obliged if you would have the helm put up and run down towards her.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And signal for the squadron to take up night stations, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Nonsuch heaved her ponderous self about, lying over as she took the wind abeam while the watch hauled aft on the starboard braces.

“There’s a sail just astern of Raven, sir,” said Montgomery. “Looks like a brig. A Swede from the cut of her tops’ls, sir. One of those Baltic traders you see in Leith Roads.”

“Thank you,” said Hornblower.

It would not be long before he heard what the news was. It might well be—it probably would be—something desperately unpleasant. Some new load of responsibility for his shoulders, for certain, even if it told of no actual disaster. He found himself envying Montgomery his simple duties of officer of the watch, with nothing more to do than simply obey orders and keep an eye on the weather, with the blessed obligation of having to refer all important decisions to a superior. Hornblower made himself stand still on the quarter-deck, his hands clasped behind him, as Nonsuch and the brig approached each other, as first the brig’s courses and then her hull came up over the horizon. To the west the sky was a flaming crimson, but twilight lingered on as the brig came up into the wind.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “will you heave to, if you please? They are putting a boat overside.”

He would not display vulgar curiosity by staring at the boat as it was launched, or by looking down into it as it came alongside; he paced peacefully up and down the quarter-deck in the lovely evening, looking in every direction save towards the boat, while the rest of the officers and the men chattered and stared and speculated. Yet Hornblower, for all his air of sublime indifference, turned to face the entry-port at the exact moment when the visitor was coming in over the side. The first thing Hornblower saw was a fore-and-aft cocked hat with a white plume that seemed familiar, and then under the hat appeared the heavy face and portly form of Baron Basse. He laid the hat across his chest to make his bow just as he had done before.

“Your servant, sir,” said Hornblower, saluting stiffly. He was handicapped by the fact that although he could remember Basse very well, and could have described him to perfection, he did not remember his name. He turned to the midshipman of the watch. “Pass the word for Mr. Braun.”