Cecil Forester: Lord Hornblower

“Land!” yelled a voice from the masthead. “Land on the port bow.”

It was rather thick weather, typical Channel weather for the end of the year, but in the growing light Hornblower could see the dark line against the grey. Freeman was scrutinising the coast through his glass.

“That’s the south shore of the Bay,” said Freeman. “There’s the Cane river.”

Hornblower was only just beginning to realise that Freeman was anglicising the pronunciation of ‘Caen’ when Freeman trained his telescope round and gave a string of more surprising examples still of what an Englishman can do to French names.

“Yes, there’s Cape dee lay Heave, and Harbour-Grace,” he said.

The growing light revealed the Porta Coeli ’s position, over towards the southern shore of the estuary of the Seine.

“That was an excellent piece of navigation last night, Mr. Freeman.”

“Thank you, Sir Horatio.”

Hornblower would have added more words of warmer praise, if it had not been for Freeman’s rather chilling manner; he supposed Freeman was entitled to be short-tempered before breakfast if he wished. And any capable lieutenant was entitled to be jealous of a captain; in the opinion of every ambitious lieutenant a captain was just a lieutenant who had been lucky and who would continue to be lucky, drawing three times a lieutenant’s pay and prize-money, reaping the harvest of the lieutenant’s labours, and secure in the knowledge that time would make an admiral of him in the end while the lieutenant’s promotion still depended on the whims of his superiors. Hornblower could remember feeling just the same when he was a lieutenant; for Freeman to show it was natural even though foolish.

The leadsman’s cry in the chains indicated that the water was shoaling again; they had left the middle ground far behind them and had now crossed the southerly channel of the estuary. There was still plenty of water for the Porta Coeli ; she had been expressly designed for this very purpose of penetrating into inlets and estuaries, carrying the war as close to Bonaparte’s shores as might be. Bonaparte’s dominion stopped short at the line which the shot from his shore batteries could reach, and beyond that line England ruled supreme and unchallenged.

“Sail on the lee bow!” yelled the lookout.

Freeman swung himself up to the lee main-shrouds with the agility of an ape; braced against the ratlines, he trained his glass forward.

“A brig, sir,” he hailed down to Hornblower, and a few seconds later “That’s Flame all right, sir.”

“Put the helm up and we’ll bear down on her, Mr. Freeman, if you please.”

Flame was exactly where one would expect to find her, close up under the lee of the land, sheltered from any gale from northwest round to east; and free to consult her own safety whether attacked by British or French. Soon Hornblower’s own glass picked her out from the grey murk. A trim, beautiful little vessel, lying hove-to on the edge of the shoals. She showed no signs, at that distance at least, of any disorder on board. Hornblower wondered how many telescopes there were being trained upon the Porta Coeli, what anxious debate was being held on board by men recognising the new arrival as the first move on the part of their Lordships of the Admiralty in reply to their suicidal ultimatum. Those men had ropes round their necks.

“She’s waiting for us to come down to her,” said Freeman.

“I wonder for how long,” answered Hornblower.

“What are you men standing chattering there for?” suddenly blared out Freeman, addressing a group of excited seamen lining the bulwark forward. “Master-at-arms! Master-at-arms! Take those men’s names and bring them to me at the end of the watch! You bos’un’s mate, there! Collier! Keep those men of yours at work! This is a King’s ship, not a blasted school for young ladies!”

A thin beam of watery sunshine broke through the greyness and lit up the Flame as she lay in the circle of Hornblower’s glass. He suddenly saw her yards swing round; she put herself before the wind and began to move in the direction of Honfleur. Her foretopsail was conspicuously patched—a light cross against the darker material, as if she were some Crusading ship.

“They won’t stand and wait for us,” said Freeman.

“Sail ho!” yelled the lookout again. “Sail on the lee quarter!”

Telescopes swung round as if all were actuated by a single machine. A big ship with all plain sail set to the royals had appeared out of the mist beyond the middle ground, on a course rapidly diverging from that of the Porta Coeli. Hornblower recognised her instantly for what she was, and did not need Freeman’s identification.

“French West Indiaman,” said Freeman. “With a clear run to Harbour-Grace.”

One of the rare ships to run the continental blockade, bearing an invaluable cargo of grain and sugar to ease Bonaparte’s distress; she had taken advantage of the recent gale, which had blown the blockading squadrons from their stations, to dash up the Channel. A cargo delivered into the Seine, where centred the Imperial power, and whence diverged the whole road and canal systems, was worth two brought into some isolated inlet on the Biscay coast. The small British vessels of war, like the Porta Coeli and the Flame, had been constructed and stationed to prevent this very thing.

“There’ll be no catching her before she reaches Harbour-Grace,” muttered Freeman.

“Let her go, Mr. Freeman,” said Hornblower, loudly. “Our duty’s with Flame at present. There goes ten pounds a man prize-money.”

There were enough hands within earshot to hear that speech; they would repeat it to the rest of the crew. No one who thought of the lost prize-money would feel any better disposed towards the mutineers.

Hornblower turned his attention back to the Flame; she was standing steadily and without hesitation on a course which would take her into Honfleur. It would not be long before she was in French power, and it would be foolish to press matters to such an extreme, even though it was a bitter pill to swallow, to admit a check.

“Oh, heave-to, Mr. Freeman, please. Let’s see what she does then.”

The Porta Coeli came up into the wind in response to sail and helm, Hornblower training round his glass to keep Flame under observation. The moment the Porta Coeli ’s manoeuvre became apparent, the Flame imitated it, coming up into the wind and lying motionless, the white cross conspicuous on her foretopsail.

“Try bearing down on them again, Mr. Freeman.”

Flame turned away instantly towards France.

“A wink’s as good as a nod, Mr. Freeman. Heave-to again.”

Clearly the mutineers had no intention of allowing the Porta Coeli to come any nearer than she was at present, well beyond cannonshot. She would hand herself over to the French sooner than permit any closer approach.

“Mr. Freeman, will you be so good as to have a boat hoisted out for me? I’ll go and parley with the villains.”

That would be a sign of weakness, but the mutineers could be in no doubt about the weakness of his position and the corresponding strength of their own. It would be telling them nothing they did not know already, that they held Hornblower and the Lords of the Admiralty and the British Empire itself in a cleft stick. Freeman showed no signs of his doubts regarding the advisability of a valuable captain putting himself in the power of mutineers. Hornblower went below to pocket his orders; it might even be necessary to show the mutineers the full powers with which he had been entrusted—but it would be only in the last resort that he would do so; that would be letting the mutineers too much into their Lordships’ confidence. The boat was overside with Brown at the tiller when Hornblower came on deck again; Hornblower went down the side and settled himself into the sternsheets.