The Young Hornblower Omnibus Read online

  C. S. FORESTER

  The Young Hornblower

  Comprising

  MR. MIDSHIPMAN HORNBLOWER

  LIEUTENANT HORNBLOWER

  HORNBLOWER AND THE HOTSPUR

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  MR. MIDSHIPMAN HORNBLOWER

  LIEUTENANT HORNBLOWER

  HORNBLOWER AND THE HOTSPUR

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE YOUNG HORNBLOWER

  C. S. Forester was born in Cairo in 1899, where his father was stationed as a government official. He studied medicine at Guy’s Hospital and, leaving Guy’s without a degree, he turned to writing as a career. His first success was Payment Deferred, a novel written at the age of twenty-four and later dramatized and filmed with Charles Laughton in the leading role. In 1932 Forester was offered a Hollywood contract, and from then until 1939 he spent thirteen weeks of every year in America. On the outbreak of war he entered the Ministry of Information and later he sailed with the Royal Navy to collect the material for The Ship. He made a voyage to the Bering Sea to gather material for a similar book on the United States Navy, and during this trip, he was stricken with arteriosclerosis, a disease which left him crippled. However, he continued to write and in Captain Hornblower created the most renowned sailor in contemporary fiction. C. S. Forester died in 1966.

  Mr. Midshipman Hornblower

  THE EVEN CHANCE

  A January gale was roaring up the Channel, blustering loudly, and bearing in its bosom rain squalls whose big drops rattled loudly on the tarpaulin clothing of those among the officers and men whose duties kept them on deck. So hard and so long had the gale blown that even in the sheltered waters of Spithead the battleship moved uneasily at her anchors, pitching a little in the choppy seas, and snubbing herself against the tautened cables with unexpected jerks. A shore boat was on its way out to her, propelled by oars in the hands of two sturdy women; it danced madly on the steep little waves, now and then putting its nose into one and sending a sheet of spray flying aft. The oarswoman in the bow knew her business, and with rapid glances over her shoulder not only kept the boat on its course but turned the bows into the worst of the waves to keep from capsizing. It slowly drew up along the starboard side of the Justinian, and as it approached the mainchains the midshipman of the watch hailed it.

  “Aye aye,” came back the answering hail from the lusty lungs of the woman at the stroke oar; by the curious and ages-old convention of the Navy the reply meant that the boat had an officer on board—presumably the huddled figure in the sternsheets looking more like a heap of trash with a boat-cloak thrown over it.

  That was as much as Mr. Masters, the lieutenant of the watch, could see; he was sheltering as best he could in the lee of the mizzen-mast bitts, and in obedience to the order of the midshipman of the watch the boat drew up towards the mainchains and passed out of his sight. There was a long delay; apparently the officer had some difficulty in getting up the ship’s side. At last the boat reappeared in Masters’ field of vision; the women had shoved off and were setting a scrap of lugsail, under which the boat, now without its passenger, went swooping back towards Portsmouth, leaping on the waves like a steeplechaser. As it departed Mr. Masters became aware of the near approach of someone along the quarterdeck; it was the new arrival under the escort of the midshipman of the watch, who, after pointing Masters out, retired to the mainchains again. Mr. Masters had served in the Navy until his hair was white; he was lucky to have received his commission as lieutenant, and he had long known that he would never receive one as captain, but the knowledge had not greatly embittered him, and he diverted his mind by the study of his fellow men.

  So he looked with attention at the approaching figure. It was that of a skinny young man only just leaving boyhood behind, something above middle height, with feet whose adolescent proportions to his size were accentuated by the thinness of his legs and his big half-boots. His gawkiness called attention to his hands and elbows. The newcomer was dressed in a badly fitting uniform which was soaked right through by the spray; a skinny neck stuck out of the high stock, and above the neck was a white bony face. A white face was a rarity on the deck of a ship of war, whose crew soon tanned to a deep mahogany, but this face was not merely white; in the hollow cheeks there was a faint shade of green—clearly the newcomer had experienced seasickness in his passage out in the shore boat. Set in the white face were a pair of dark eyes which by contrast looked like holes cut in a sheet of paper; Masters noted with a slight stirring of interest that the eyes, despite their owner’s seasickness, were looking about keenly, taking in what were obviously new sights; there was a curiosity and interest there which could not be repressed and which continued to function notwithstanding either seasickness or shyness, and Mr. Masters surmised in his farfetched fashion that this boy had a vein of caution or foresight in his temperament and was already studying his new surroundings with a view to being prepared for his next experiences. So might Daniel have looked about him at the lions when he first entered their den.

  The dark eyes met Masters’, and the gawky figure came to a halt, raising a hand selfconsciously to the brim of his dripping hat. His mouth opened and tried to say something, but closed again without achieving its object as shyness overcame him, but then the newcomer nerved himself afresh and forced himself to say the form of words he had been coached to utter.

  “Come aboard, sir.”

  “Your name?” asked Masters, after waiting for it for a moment.

  “H-Horatio Hornblower, sir. Midshipman,” stuttered the boy.

  “Very good, Mr. Hornblower,” said Masters, with the equally formal response. “Did you bring your dunnage aboard with you?”

  Hornblower had never heard that word before, but he still had enough of his wits about him to deduce what it meant.

  “My sea chest, sir. It’s—it’s forrard, at the entry port.”

  Hornblower said these things with the barest hesitation; he knew that at sea they said them, that they pronounced the word “forward” like that, and that he had come on board through the “entry port”, but it called for a slight effort to utter them himself.

  “I’ll see that it’s sent below,” said Masters. “And that’s where you’d better go, too. The captain’s ashore, and the first lieutenant’s orders were that he’s not to be called on any account before eight bells, so I advise you, Mr. Hornblower, to get out of those wet clothes while you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hornblower; his senses told him, the moment he said it, that he had used an improper expression—the look on Masters’ face told him, and he corrected himself (hardly believing that men really said these things off the boards of the stage) before Masters had time to correct him.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower, and as a second afterthought he put his hand to the brim of his hat again.

  Masters returned the compliment and turned to one of the shivering messengers cowering in the inadequate shelter of the bulwark. “Boy! Take Mr. Hornblower down to the midshipmen’s berth.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower accompanied the boy forward to the main hatchway. Seasickness alone would have made him unsteady on his feet, but twice on the short journey he stumbled like a man tripping over a rope as a sharp gust brought the Justinian up against her cables with a jerk. At the hatchway the boy slid down the ladder like an eel over a rock; Hornblower had to brace himself and descend far more gingerly and uncertainly into the dim light of the lower gundeck and then into the twilight of the ’tweendecks. The smells that entered his nostrils were as strange and as assorted as the noises that assailed his ear. At the foot of each ladder the boy waited for him with a patience whose tolerance was just obvious. After the
last descent, a few steps—Hornblower had already lost his sense of direction and did not know whether it was aft or forward—took them to a gloomy recess whose shadows were accentuated rather than lightened by a tallow dip spiked onto a bit of copper plate on a table round which were seated half a dozen shirt-sleeved men. The boy vanished and left Hornblower standing there, and it was a second or two before the whiskered man at the head of the table looked up at him.

  “Speak, thou apparition,” said he.

  Hornblower felt a wave of nausea overcoming him—the after effects of his trip in the shore boat were being accentuated by the incredible stuffiness and smelliness of the ’tweendecks. It was very hard to speak, and the fact that he did not know how to phrase what he wanted to say made it harder still.

  “My name is Hornblower,” he quavered at length.

  “What an infernal piece of bad luck for you,” said a second man at the table, with a complete absence of sympathy.

  At that moment in the roaring world outside the ship the wind veered sharply, heeling the Justinian a trifle and swinging her round to snub at her cables again. To Hornblower it seemed more as if the world had come loose from its fastenings. He reeled where he stood, and although he was shuddering with cold he felt sweat on his face.

  “I suppose you have come,” said the whiskered man at the head of the table “to thrust yourself among your betters. Another soft-headed ignoramus come to be a nuisance to those who have to try to teach you your duties. Look at him,” the speaker with a gesture demanded the attention of everyone at the table—“look at him, I say! The King’s latest bad bargain. How old are you?”

  “S-seventeen, sir,” stuttered Hornblower.

  “Seventeen!” the disgust in the speaker’s voice was only too evident. “You must start at twelve if you ever wish to be a seaman. Seventeen! Do you know the difference between a head and a halliard?”

  That drew a laugh from the group, and the quality of the laugh was just noticeable to Hornblower’s whirling brain, so that he guessed that whether he said “yes” or “no” he would be equally exposed to ridicule. He groped for a neutral reply.

  “That’s the first thing I’ll look up in Norie’s Seamanship,” he said.

  The ship lurched again at that moment, and he clung on to the table.

  “Gentlemen,” he began pathetically, wondering how to say what he had in mind.

  “My God!” exclaimed somebody at the table. “He’s seasick!”

  “Seasick in Spithead!” said somebody else, in a tone in which amazement had as much place as disgust.

  But Hornblower ceased to care; he was not really conscious of what was going on round him for some time after that. The nervous excitement of the last few days was as much to blame, perhaps, as the journey in the shore boat and the erratic behaviour of the Justinian at her anchors, but it meant for him that he was labelled at once as the midshipman who was seasick in Spithead, and it was only natural that the label added to the natural misery of the loneliness and homesickness which oppressed him during those days when that part of the Channel Fleet which had not succeeded in completing its crews lay at anchor in the lee of the Isle of Wight. An hour in the hammock into which the messman hoisted him enabled him to recover sufficiently to be able to report himself to the first lieutenant; after a few days on board he was able to find his way round the ship without (as happened at first) losing his sense of direction below decks, so that he did not know whether he was facing forward or aft. During that period his brother officers ceased to have faces which were mere blurs and came to take on personalities; he came painfully to learn the stations allotted him when the ship was at quarters, when he was on watch, and when hands were summoned for setting or taking in sail. He even came to have an acute enough understanding of his new life to realize that it could have been worse—that destiny might have put him on board a ship ordered immediately to sea instead of one lying at anchor. But it was a poor enough compensation; he was a lonely and unhappy boy. Shyness alone would long have delayed his making friends, but as it happened the midshipmen’s berth in the Justinian was occupied by men all a good deal older than he; elderly master’s mates recruited from the merchant service, and midshipmen in their twenties who through lack of patronage or inability to pass the necessary examination had never succeeded in gaining for themselves commissions as lieutenants. They were inclined, after the first moments of amused interest, to ignore him, and he was glad of it, delighted to shrink into his shell and attract no notice to himself.

  For the Justinian was not a happy ship during those gloomy January days. Captain Keene—it was when he came aboard that Hornblower first saw the pomp and ceremony that surrounds the captain of a ship of the line—was a sick man, of a melancholy disposition. He had not the fame which enabled some captains to fill their ships with enthusiastic volunteers, and he was devoid of the personality which might have made enthusiasts out of the sullen pressed men whom the press gangs were bringing in from day to day to complete the ship’s complement. His officers saw little of him, and did not love what they saw. Hornblower, summoned to his cabin for his first interview, was not impressed—a middle-aged man at a table covered with papers, with the hollow and yellow cheeks of prolonged illness.

  “Mr. Hornblower,” he said formally “I am glad to have this opportunity of welcoming you on board my ship.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hornblower—that seemed more appropriate to the occasion than “Aye aye, sir,” and a junior midshipman seemed to be expected to say one or the other on all occasions.

  “You are—let me see—seventeen?” Captain Keene picked up the paper which apparently covered Hornblower’s brief official career.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “July 4th, 1776,” mused Keene, reading Hornblower’s date of birth to himself. “Five years to the day before I was posted as captain. I had been six years as lieutenant before you were born.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Hornblower—it did not seem the occasion for any further comment.

  “A doctor’s son—you should have chosen a lord for your father if you wanted to make a career for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How far did your education go?”

  “I was a Grecian at school, sir.”

  “So you can construe Xenophon as well as Cicero?”

  “Yes, sir. But not very well, sir.”

  “Better if you knew something about sines and cosines. Better if you could foresee a squall in time to get t’gallants in. We have no use for ablative absolutes in the Navy.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hornblower.

  He had only just learned what a topgallant was, but he could have told his captain that his mathematical studies were far advanced. He refrained nevertheless; his instincts combined with his recent experiences urged him not to volunteer unsolicited information.

  “Well, obey orders, learn your duties, and no harm can come to you. That will do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, retiring.

  But the captain’s last words to him seemed to be contradicted immediately. Harm began to come to Hornblower from that day forth, despite his obedience to orders and diligent study of his duties, and it stemmed from the arrival in the midshipmen’s berth of John Simpson as senior warrant officer. Hornblower was sitting at mess with his colleagues when he first saw him—a brawny good-looking man in his thirties, who came in and stood looking at them just as Hornblower had stood a few days before.

  “Hullo!” said somebody, not very cordially.

  “Cleveland, my bold friend,” said the newcomer, “come out from that seat. I am going to resume my place at the head of the table.”

  “But—”

  “Come out, I said,” snapped Simpson.

  Cleveland moved along with some show of reluctance, and Simpson took his place, and glowered round the table in reply to the curious glances with which everyone regarded him.

  “Yes, my sweet brother officers,” he said. “I am back in
the bosom of the family. And I am not surprised that nobody is pleased. You will all be less pleased by the time I am done with you, I may add.”

  “But your commission—?” asked somebody, greatly daring.

  “My commission?” Simpson leaned forward and tapped the table, staring down the inquisitive people on either side of it. “I’ll answer that question this once, and the man who asks it again will wish he had never been born. A board of turnip-headed captains has refused me my commission. It decided that my mathematical knowledge was insufficient to make me a reliable navigator. And so Acting-Lieutenant Simpson is once again Mr. Midshipman Simpson, at your service. At your service. And may the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

  It did not seem, as the days went by, that the Lord had any mercy at all, for with Simpson’s return life in the midshipmen’s berth ceased to be one of passive unhappiness and became one of active misery. Simpson had apparently always been an ingenious tyrant, but now, embittered and humiliated by his failure to pass his examination for his commission, he was a worse tyrant, and his ingenuity had multiplied itself. He may have been weak in mathematics, but he was diabolically clever at making other people’s lives a burden to them. As senior officer in the mess he had wide official powers; as a man with a blistering tongue and a morbid sense of mischief he would have been powerful anyway, even if the Justinian had possessed an alert and masterful first lieutenant to keep him in check, while Mr. Clay was neither. Twice midshipmen rebelled against Simpson’s arbitrary authority, and each time Simpson thrashed the rebel, pounding him into insensibility with his huge fists, for Simpson would have made a successful prize-fighter. Each time Simpson was left unmarked; each time his opponent’s blackened eyes and swollen lips called down the penalty of mast heading and extra duty from the indignant first lieutenant. The mess seethed with impotent rage. Even the toadies and lickspittles among the midshipmen—and naturally there were several—hated the tyrant.