Cecil Forester: Flying Colours

And it was worse when all the evidence had been given, and he was waiting with Calendar while the Court considered its decision. Hornblower knew real fear, then. It was hard to sit apparently unmoved, while the minutes dragged by, waiting for the summons to the great cabin, to hear what his fate would be. His heart was beating hard as he went in, and he knew himself to be pale. He jerked his head erect to meet his judges’ eyes, but the judges in their panoply of blue and gold were veiled in a mist which obscured the whole cabin, so that nothing was visible to Hornblower’s eyes save for one little space in the centre—the cleared area in the middle of the table before the President’s seat, where lay his sword, the hundred-guinea sword presented by the Patriotic Fund. That was all Hornblower could see—the sword seemed to hang there in space, unsupported. And the hilt was towards him; he was not guilty.

“Captain Hornblower,” said the President of the Court—that nasal tenor of his had a pleasant tone—“This Court is of the unanimous opinion that your gallant and unprecedented defence of His Majesty’s ship Sutherland, against a force so superior, is deserving of every praise the country and this Court can give. Your conduct, together with that of the officers and men under your command, reflects not only the highest honour on you, but on the country at large. You are therefore most honourably acquitted.”

There was a little confirmatory buzz from the other members of the Court, and a general bustle in the cabin. Somebody was buckling the hundred-guinea sword to his waist; someone else was patting his shoulder. Hookham Frere was there, too, speaking insistently.

“Congratulations, sir. And now, are you ready to accompany me to London? I have had a post chaise horsed and waiting this last six hours.”

The mists were only clearing slowly; everything was still vague about him as he allowed himself to be led away, to be escorted on deck, to be handed down into the barge alongside. Somebody was cheering. Hundreds of voices were cheering. The Victory’s crew had manned the yards and were yelling themselves hoarse. All the other ships at anchor there were cheering him. This was fame. This was success. Precious few other captains had ever been cheered by all the ships in a fleet like this.

“I would suggest that you take off your hat, sir,” said Frere’s voice in his ear, “and show how much you appreciate the compliment.”

He took off his hat and sat there in the afternoon sun, awkwardly in the sternsheets of the barge. He tried to smile, but he knew his smile to be wooden—he was nearer tears than smiles. The mists were closing round him again, and the deep-chested bellowing was like the shrill piping of children in his ears.

The boat rasped against the wall. There was more cheering here, as they handed him up. People were thumping him on the shoulder, wringing his hand, while a blaspheming party of marines forced a passage for him to the post chaise with its horses restless amid the din. Then a clatter of hoofs and a grinding of wheels, and they were flying out of the yard, the postillion cracking his whip.

“A highly satisfactory demonstration of sentiment, on the part of the public and of the armed forces of the Crown,” said Frere, mopping his face.

Hornblower suddenly remembered something, which made him sit up, tense.

“Stop at the church!” he yelled to the postillion.

“Indeed, sir, and might I ask why you gave that order? I have the express commands of His Royal Highness to escort you to London without losing a moment.”

“My wife is buried there,” snapped Hornblower.

But the visit to the grave was unsatisfactory—was bound to be with Frere fidgeting and fuming at his elbow, and looking at his watch. Hornblower pulled off his hat and bowed his head by the grave with its carved headstone, but he was too much in a whirl to think clearly. He tried to murmur a prayer—Maria would have liked that, for she was always pained by his free thinking. Frere clucked with impatience.

“Come along then,” said Hornblower, turning on his heel and leading the way back to the post chaise.

The sun shone gloriously over the countryside as they left the town behind them, lighting up the lovely green of the trees and the majestic rolling Downs. Hornblower found himself swallowing hard. This was the England for which he had fought for eighteen long years, and as he breathed its air and gazed round him he felt that England was worth it.

“Damned lucky for the Ministry,” said Frere, “this escape of yours. Something like that was needed. Even though Wellington’s just captured Almeida the mob was growing restive. We had a ministry of all the talents once—now it’s a ministry of no talent. I can’t imagine why Castlereagh and Canning fought that duel. It nearly wrecked us. So did Gambier’s affair at the Basque Roads. Cochrane’s been making a thorough nuisance of himself in the House ever since. Has it ever occurred to you that you might enter parliament? Well, it will be time enough to discuss that when you’ve been to Downing Street. It’s sufficient at present that you’ve given the mob something to cheer about.”

Mr. Frere seemed to take much for granted—for instance, that Hornblower was wholeheartedly on the government side, and that Hornblower had fought at Rosas Bay and had escaped from France solely to maintain a dozen politicians in office. It rather damped Hornblower’s spirits. He sat silent, listening to the rattle of the wheels.

“H.R.H. is none too helpful,” said Frere. “He didn’t turn us out when he assumed the Regency, but he bears us no love—the Regency Bill didn’t please him. Remember that, when you see him to-morrow. He likes a bit of flattery, too. If you can make him believe that you owe your success to the inspiring examples both of H.R.H. and of Mr. Spencer Perceval you will be taking the right line. What’s this? Horndean?”

The postillion drew the horses to a halt outside the inn, and ostlers came running with a fresh pair.

“Sixty miles from London,” commented Mr. Frere. “We’ve just time.”

The inn servants had been eagerly questioning the postillion, and a knot of loungers—smocked agricultural workers and a travelling tinker—joined them, looking eagerly at Hornblower in his blue and gold. Someone else came hastening out of the inn; his red face and silk cravat and leather leggings seemed to indicate him as the local squire.

“Acquitted, sir?” he asked.

“Naturally, sir,” replied Frere at once. “Most honourably acquitted.”

“Hooray for Hornblower!” yelled the tinker, throwing his hat into the air. The squire waved his arms and stamped with joy, and the farm hands echoed the cheer.

“Down with Boney!” said Frere. “Drive on.”

“It is surprising how much interest has been aroused in your case,” said Frere a minute later. “Although naturally one would expect it to be greatest along the Portsmouth Road.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“I can remember,” said Frere, “when the mob were howling for Wellington to be hanged, drawn, and quartered—that was after the news of Cintra. I thought we were gone then. It was his court of inquiry which saved us as it happened, just as yours is going to do now. Do you remember Cintra?”

“I was commanding a frigate in the Pacific at the time,” said Hornblower, curtly.

He was vaguely irritated—and he was surprised at himself at finding that he neither liked being cheered by tinkers nor flattered by politicians.

“All the same,” said Frere, “it’s just as well that Leighton was hit at Rosas. Not that I wished him harm, but it drew the teeth of that gang. It would have been them or us otherwise, I fancy. His friends counted twenty votes on a division. You know his widow, I’ve heard?”