Cecil Forester: Flying Colours

“Yes?” he said. “And then?”

“We went on under sweeps until midnight, my lord, and then we picked up a breeze. We sighted Triumph at dawn.”

There was silence in the cabin, only broken by the noises on deck, until Gambier stirred in his chair.

“I trust, Captain,” he said, “that you have given thanks to the Almighty for these miraculous preservations of yours. In all these adventures I can see the finger of God. I shall direct my chaplain at prayers this evening to make a special mention of your gratitude and thankfulness.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now you will make your report in writing. You can have it ready by dinner time—I trust you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner? I will then be able to enclose it in the packet I am about to despatch to Their Lordships.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gambier was still thinking deeply.

“ Witch of Endor can carry the despatches,” he said. Like every admiral the world over, his most irritating and continuous problem was how to collect and disseminate information without weakening his main body by detachments; it must have been an immense relief to him to have the cutter drop from the clouds as it were, to carry these despatches. He went on thinking.

“I will promote this lieutenant of yours, Bush, into her as Commander,” he announced.

Hornblower gave a little gasp. Promotion to Commander meant almost certain post rank within the year, and it was this power of promotion which constituted the most prized source of patronage an Admiral in command possessed. Bush deserved the step, but it was surprising that Gambier should give it to him—Admirals generally had some favourite lieutenant, or some nephew or some old friend’s son awaiting the first vacancy. Hornblower could imagine Bush’s delight at the news that he was at last on his way to becoming an admiral himself if he lived long enough.

But that was not all, by no means all. Promotion of a captain’s first lieutenant was a high compliment to the captain himself. It set the seal of official approval on the captain’s proceedings. This decision of Gambier’s was a public—not merely a private—announcement that Hornblower had acted correctly.

“Thank you, my lord, thank you,” said Hornblower.

“She is your prise, of course,” went on Gambier. “Government will have to buy her on her arrival.”

Hornblower had not thought of that. It meant at least a thousand pounds in his pocket.

“That coxswain of yours will be in clover,” chuckled Calendar. “He’ll take all the lower deck’s share.”

That was true, too. Brown would have a quarter of the value of the Witch of Endor for himself. He could buy a cottage or land and set up in business on his own account if he wished to.

“ Witch of Endor will wait until your report is ready,” announced Gambier. “I will send my secretary in to you. Captain Calendar will provide you with a cabin and the necessities you lack. I hope you will continue to be my guest until I sail for Portsmouth next week. It would be best, I think.”

The last words were a delicate allusion to that aspect of the matter which had occupied most of Hornblower’s thoughts on his arrival, and which had not as yet been touched upon—the fact that he must undergo court martial for the loss of the Sutherland, and was of necessity under arrest until that time. By old established custom he must be under the supervision of an officer of equal rank while under arrest; there could be no question of sending him home in the Witch of Endor.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hornblower.

Despite all Gambier’s courtesy and indulgence towards him, despite Calendar’s open admiration, he still felt a constriction of the throat and a dryness of the mouth at the thought of that court martial; they were symptoms which persisted even when he tried to settle down and compose his report with the aid of the competent young clergyman who made his appearance in the cabin to which Calendar conducted him.

“Arma virumque cano,” quoted the Admiral’s secretary after the first halting sentences—Hornblower’s report naturally began with the battle of Rosas. “You begin in medias res, sir, as every good epic should.”

“This is an official report,” snapped Hornblower. “It continues the last report I made to Admiral Leighton.”

His tiny cabin only allowed him to walk three paces each way, and crouching nearly double at that—some unfortunate lieutenant had been turned out to make room for him. In a flagship, even in a big three-decker like the Victory, the demand for cabins always greatly exceeded the supply, what with the Admiral, and the Captain of the Fleet, and the flag lieutenant, and the secretary, and the chaplain, and the rest of the staff. He sat down on the breech of the twelve-pounder beside the cot.

“Continue, if you please,” he ordered. “’Having regard to these conditions, I therefore proceeded—’”

It was finished in the end—it was the third time that morning that Hornblower had recounted his adventures, and they had lost all their savour for him now. He was dreadfully tired—his head drooped forward at his breast as he squatted on the gun, and then he woke with a snort. He was actually falling asleep while he sat.

“You are tired, sir,” said the secretary.

“Yes.”

He forced himself to wake up again. The secretary was looking at him with eyes shining with admiration, positive hero-worship. It made him feel uncomfortable.

“If you will just sign this, sir, I will attend to the seal and the superscription.”

The secretary slipped out of the chair and Hornblower took the pen and dashed off his signature to the document on whose evidence he was soon to be tried for his life.

“Thank you, sir,” said the secretary, gathering the papers together.

Hornblower had no more attention to spare for him. He threw himself face downward on to the cot, careless of appearances. He went rushing giddily down a tremendous slope into blackness—he was snoring before the secretary had reached the door, and he never felt the touch of the blanket with which the secretary returned, five minutes later, tiptoeing up to the cot to spread it over him.

Something enormously painful was recalling Hornblower to life. He did not want to return. It was agony to wake up, it was torture to feel unconsciousness slipping away from him. He clung to it, tried to recapture it, unavailingly. Remorselessly it eluded him. Somebody was gently shaking his shoulder, and he came back to complete consciousness with a start, and wriggled over to see the Admiral’s secretary bending over him.

“The Admiral will dine within the hour, sir,” he said. “Captain Calendar thought you might prefer to have a little time in which to prepare.”

“Yes,” grunted Hornblower. He fingered instinctively the long stubble on his unshaven chin. “Yes.”

The secretary was standing very stiff and still, and Hornblower looked up at him curiously. There was an odd, set expression on the secretary’s face, and he held a newspaper imperfectly concealed behind his back.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Hornblower.

“It is bad news for you, sir,” said the secretary.

“What news?”

Hornblower’s spirits fell down into the depths of despair. Perhaps Gambier had changed his mind. Perhaps he was going to be kept under strict arrest, tried, condemned, and shot. Perhaps—

“I remembered having seen this paragraph in the Morning Chronicle of three months ago, sir,” said the secretary. “I showed it to his Lordship, and to Captain Calendar. They decided it ought to be shown to you as early as possible. His Lordship says—”