Hornblower and the Crisis Read online

  There was the longboat approaching the brig’s side, clearly visible in the light of the lanterns.

  ‘Give way, port side!’ The boat swung round as the oars bit. ‘Give way, starboard side!’

  The boat began to move through the water, and the tiller under Hornblower’s hand came to life. He set his course; there was no need to call upon the oarsmen to pull with all their strength, as they were well aware of the details of the situation. Hornblower had read somewhere a fragment of English history, about a Saxon over-king who, in token of his pre-eminence, had been rowed on the river Dee by eight under-kings. Most of the oars in this boat were being pulled by officers – Bush was pulling bow oar starboard side, seconding the efforts of Wise the boatswain and Wallis the surgeon and two or three master’s mates, and the master and purser and gunner were packed in here and there with a seaman or two. The boat was crammed with men and low in the water, but every fighting man was needed.

  She lurched and rolled over the dark water, the brig’s lanterns growing steadily nearer. There was still no sound of trouble from the brig – she was expecting the return of her boat and until it was actually alongside she would suspect nothing. It was too much to expect that Meadows would be granted the opportunity to get comfortably alongside to launch a simultaneous rush, so that the French crew would be confronted in a second by twenty furious enemies where they had looked for half a dozen friends, but it was possible.

  There it was. A pistol shot, the sound coming up wind. Further shots. It had been settled that Meadows’ party should use their pistols as soon as they reached the deck. It would be necessary to shock and bewilder the surprised Frenchmen and get them into a panic; the arrival on deck of twenty men firing pistols right and left would be likely a means to bring this about.

  ‘Easy all! Bowman!’

  The boat surged alongside the brig, under her forechains, diametrically opposite to where an outburst of yelling and screaming indicated where Meadows was fighting. A dozen hands were reaching for the shrouds, Hornblower’s among them. It was a miracle the boat did not capsize – warrant officers could be as harebrained and as excitable as young seamen if the occasion were desperate enough.

  ‘Go on!’ yelled Hornblower.

  To the devil with formality; these were not men who needed leading. The boat lightened as the blackfaced mob sprang up into the chains; Hornblower was not the first, but the fifth or sixth to reach the deck. There was no opposition, even though there were a good many figures hurrying about the dimly lighted deck.

  Here they were beside the hatchway and a white-faced figure was just emerging, waist level with the deck. A black-faced figure swung an axe and the Frenchman went tumbling down again.

  Now a hurrying figure cannoned into him and flung him aside, nearly knocking him off his feet. But there was no immediate danger to him; the hurrying Frenchman was intent only on descending, flinging himself bodily down the hatchway followed by a dozen other panic-stricken figures, a terrified herd pursued by two cutlass-swinging men with black faces. When the rush ended Hornblower leaned over the hatchway and fired his pistol down into the mass below; that was probably the most effective use for the single round which was all he had, for it would scare away from the hatchway those other Frenchmen who were trying to ascend.

  ‘Get the hatch cover on!’ said Hornblower. ‘Wise, get it battened down! Master’s mates, stay with Wise. Others follow me!’

  He hurried aft, his brass-hilted Langer in his hand. Two or three distracted figures came rushing towards them. They had white faces, and they were struck down; it was no time for sentiment. Hornblower suddenly remembered to yell; if there were any real opposition aft it would be likely to dissolve at the sound of a hostile battle cry in the rear. What he saw was a sudden rectangle of light and a white figure, white shirt, white breeches, and white face coming through it; presumably the French captain emerging from his cabin, to be met by a huge figure rushing at him cutlass in air. Hornblower saw the French captain extend arm and knee in the classic lunge; he saw the cutlass come whirling down and then both figures tumbled out of sight.

  The battle, if such it could be called, was almost over. The Frenchmen, unarmed, taken utterly by surprise, could do nothing except to try to save their lives. But every figure with a white face was hunted round the deck to be slaughtered pitilessly by men mad with excitement, except for one group that flung themselves grovelling on the deck screaming for mercy – the killing of one or two of them sated the bloodlust and the survivors were justled into a corner by the taffrail. Hornblower had a feeling that a few men had dashed up the rigging and were sheltering there; they could be dealt with later.

  He looked round the deck; to the eerie illumination afforded by the lanterns swinging in the shrouds was added, periodically, the light from the cabin door, coming and going as the door swayed open and shut with the rolling of the ship. It was grotesque as well as horrible, the deck littered with corpses. Was that a dead man coming to life? Someone recovering consciousness? Certainly it was a body heaving upward but in a way no living man would get to his feet. Anything was possible in these hideous surroundings. No! That man was dead and being shoved up from below. He must have fallen across the after scuttle and the crew below the deck was getting him out of the way. As Hornblower looked the dead body rolled and fell with a thump on to the deck and there was the scuttle with two hands uplifted through it. Hornblower leaped, slashing with his sword, and the hands disappeared to the accompaniment of a yell from below. Hornblower drew the sliding cover across and found the bolt and shot it. That would make things momentarily secure.

  Hornblower straightened himself up to find himself face to face with another figure that had come forward to take the same precaution, and idiotically he tightened his grip on his sword hilt – he was not ready for a black face so close to his.

  ‘We’ve settled it,’ said Baddlestone’s voice – Hornblower recognized the silhouette at once, now.

  ‘Where’s Meadows?’ croaked Hornblower, his throat still dry with tension.

  ‘He’s a goner,’ answered Baddlestone, with a wave of his arm.

  The cabin door swung open again as if in response, throwing an arc of light over the deck, and Hornblower remembered. On the far side of the scuttle lay two corpses. That one must be Meadows, lying half on his side, arms and legs asprawl. Standing out from his chest was the handle of a rapier, and it became apparent that two feet of the blade stuck out through his back so as to maintain him in that position. In the black face the teeth shone whitely, as Meadows had bared them in the ferocity of his attack; the swaying lights made his mouth look as if his lips were still going through contortions of rage. Beyond him lay the French captain in white shirt and breeches – only partly white now – but where face and head should be there was only something horrible. On the deck lay the cutlass which had dealt the shattering blow, wielded in one final explosion of Meadows’ vast strength as the rapier went through his heart. Years ago the émigré French nobleman who had given Hornblower fencing lessons had spoken of the ‘coup des deux veuves’, the reckless attack that made two widows – here was an example of it.

  ‘Any orders, sir?’ Here was Bush recalling him to reality.

  ‘Ask Captain Baddlestone,’ replied Hornblower.

  A touch of formality would clear the nightmares from his mind, but at the same instant something else occurred to remind him that action was still instantly demanded. There was a crashing sound beside him and a jarring shock felt in the soles of his feet told him that the Frenchmen below were battering at the scuttle. From forward there came similar noises and a voice hailed.

  ‘Cap’n, sir! They’re trying to bash up the hatch cover!’

  ‘There was a whole watch below when we boarded,’ said Baddlestone.

  Of course, that would help to account for the comparative ease of the victory – thirty armed men attacking fifty men surprised and unarmed. But it meant that fifty enemies – more, including idlers – were
below and refusing to be subdued.

  ‘Get for’rard and deal with it, Bush,’ said Hornblower – it was only when Bush had departed that Hornblower realized that he had omitted the vital ‘Mr’. He must be quite unstrung.

  ‘We can keep ’em down all right,’ said Baddlestone.

  It would hardly be possible for the men below to force their way to the deck through a hatchway or scuttle efficiently guarded, even if the covers were to be pounded to fragments as was clearly happening at the moment. But to maintain guards every moment, over the scuttle and the hatchway and the prisoners aft by the taffrail, and at the same time to provide crews to handle the brig and the Princess meant a good deal of strain.

  The light was playing strange tricks; the unmanned wheel seemed to be turning of its own volition. Hornblower stepped across to it. There was not the easy feel to it which might be expected of it with the ship hove-to, and then it suddenly spun free.

  ‘They’ve cut the tiller ropes down below,’ he reported to Baddlestone.

  At that moment there was a sledgehammer blow on the deck under their feet, which made them leap in surprise. Hornblower felt his feet tingling as though from a violent impact.

  ‘What the devil –?’ he asked.

  Before he could answer there was another enormous blow against the Underside of the deck, and, staring downwards, he could see a tiny glimmer of light some inches from his right foot; there was a small jagged hole there.

  ‘Come away!’ he said to Baddlestone and retreated to the scuppers. ‘They’re firing muskets down there!’

  A one ounce musket ball fired at a range of no more than an inch or two would strike the deck with the force of twenty sledgehammers, and it would pierce the one inch plank with residual velocity sufficient, doubtless, to shatter a leg or two or take a life.

  ‘They guessed there’d be someone standing near the wheel,’ said Baddlestone.

  Splintering crashes forward told how the Frenchmen were destroying the hatchcover there, and now there began a similar noise from the scuttle aft; it sounded as if they had found an axe down below and were using it.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy to sail her home,’ said Baddlestone; the whites of his eyes indicated that he was turning an inquiring gaze on Hornblower.

  ‘If they won’t surrender it’s going to be damned difficult,’ said Hornblower.

  Often when the deck of a ship was carried by a rush the survivors below were demoralized sufficiently to yield, but should they determine on resistance the situation became complicated, especially when, as in the present case, the numbers below were far greater than the numbers above and were apparently being led by someone of energy and courage. Hornblower had once or twice envisaged such a situation, but even his imagination had not gone as far as picturing musket balls being fired up through the deck.

  ‘If we get the brig underway,’ he said, ‘there’s the relieving tackles –’

  ‘And Hell to pay,’ said Baddlestone.

  It was possible to steer a ship after a fashion by adroit handling of the sails if the rudder were useless, but down below there were the relieving tackles, and half a dozen sturdy men heaving on them could drag the rudder round, not merely nullifying the efforts of the men on deck but actually imperilling the ship by laying her unexpectedly aback.

  ‘We’ll have to bolt for it,’ said Hornblower; it was an irritating, an infuriating suggestion to have to make, and Baddlestone reacted with a string of oaths worthy of the dead Meadows.

  ‘No doubt you’re right,’ he said at the end of it. ‘Ten thousand pounds apiece! We’ll burn her – set her on fire before we go.’

  ‘We can’t do that!’ Hornblower’s reply was jerked from him even before he had time to think.

  Fire in a wooden ship was the deadliest of enemies; if they left the brig well alight on their departure no efforts on the part of the Frenchmen left behind would extinguish the flames. Fifty – sixty – seventy Frenchmen would burn to death if they did not leap overboard to drown. He could not do it – at least he would not do it in cold blood: the alternative was already forming in his mind.

  ‘We can leave her a wreck,’ he said. ‘Cut the jeers, cut the halliards – cut the forestay, for that matter. Five minutes’ work and it’ll take ’em the best part of a day before they can get sail on her again.’

  Perhaps it was the appeal to the demon of destruction that made up Baddlestone’s mind for him.

  ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Let’s get ’em to work.’

  It called for only the smallest amount of organization; the men they commanded were many of them trained officers who could grasp the situation with the briefest explanation. There were plenty of men to mount guard at the scuttle and at the hatch (whose cover was rapidly disintegrating under the force of axe-blows from beneath) while the party to wreak destruction was told off and sent on its mission. It was as the turmoil began that Hornblower remembered one of the important duties of a King’s officer in a captured ship; his mind seemed to be working jerkily, with flashes of clarity like lightning through the sombre cloud that oppressed it.

  He dashed into the captain’s cabin; as he expected, there stood the captain’s desk, and as he should have expected, it was locked. He fetched a handspike from the nearest gun, and it was only a minute’s work with the aid of its powerful leverage to wrench the desk open. There were the ship’s papers, letter book and fair log and all. Here was something unusual, too, which he found when he began to gather them up. Something flat, rectangular, and heavy – a sheet of lead bound with tarred twine, at first sight. A further glance showed that it was actually a sandwich of lead, with papers enclosed. Undoubtedly those papers were unusually important; dispatches, probably, or, if not, they would be additions and changes in the signal book. The leaden casing told its own story – it was to be thrown overboard if the ship were to be in danger of capture; a blow from Meadows’ cutlass had put an end to that scheme.

  A tremendous crash outside on the deck told him that the work of dismantling the brig was proceeding already. He looked round him and dragged a blanket from the cot, dumped all the ship’s papers into it, and twisted it into a bag which he slung over his shoulder as he hurried out. The crash had been caused by the fall of the mainyard, as a result of the cutting of the jeers. It lay across the deck in a tangle of rigging which did not obscure the fact that the fall had sprung it – half broken it – in the centre. Five minutes’ work by a gang of men who knew exactly what to do had left the brig a wreck.

  Forward Baddlestone and others were on guard over the hatchway, whose cover was distintegrating into its constituent planks as the frantic Frenchmen below battered at it with axes and levers. There was already a jagged hole visible.

  ‘We’ve fired every shot we have down at ’em,’ said Baddlestone. ‘When we go we’ll have to run for it.’

  His words were underlined by a bang and a flash from down below, and a musket bullet sang through the air between them.

  ‘Wish we had –’ began Baddlestone, and checked himself; the same idea had occurred to Hornblower in the same second.

  Just at darkness, the brig, closing up on the Princess, had fired a shot across her bows, and in response the Princess hove-to in apparent surrender. The gun that fired that shot would almost certainly be ready for action still. Baddlestone rushed over to one battery, Hornblower to the other.

  ‘There’s a charge here!’ yelled Baddlestone. ‘Here, Jenkins, Sansome! Bear a hand!’

  Hornblower searched along the shot garlands and found eventually what he sought.

  ‘It’s canister that’ll do the trick,’ he said, bringing it over to the labouring group.

  Baddlestone and the others were working like madmen with handspikes to swing the gun round to point at the hatchway. It called for vast effort; the trucks of the carriage groaned and shrieked as they scraped sideways on the deck. Baddlestone took the powder charge in its serge bag from out of the carrying bucket which had stood by the gun ready f
or use. They rammed it home, and then against the charge they rammed in the canister – a cylindrical box of thin metal containing a hundred and fifty bullets. Gurney the gunner pierced the serge through the touch-hole with the pricker, and primed with the fine powder from the horn. Then he began to force in the quoin; the breech of the gun rose and the muzzle began to point with infinite menace down the hatchway. Baddlestone glowered round, turning his black face this way and that.

  ‘Get down in the boats, all of you,’ he said.

  ‘I’d better stay with you,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Get down into your boat with your party,’ countered Baddlestone.

  It was the sensible thing to do; this was a rearguard action, and the covering force should be reduced to the absolute minimum. Hornblower herded his party down into the Princess’ boat, and most of Baddlestone’s went down into the brig’s. Hornblower stood for a moment on tiptoe, with the sea surging round, holding on to the forechains with one hand while the other still retained its grip on the blanket-bundle of books. He could just see from here; there was the swaying deck, with the dead men tumbled over it and the incredible confusion of the dismantling. Yet two lanterns still burned in the shrounds, and the light from the cabin still waxed and waned with the swinging of the door. Gurney had apparently forced a second quoin under the breech of the gun, so that it pointed down at a steep angle into the hatchway. He and Baddlestone stood clear, and then he jerked at the lanyard. A bellowing roar, a blinding flash, a billow of smoke; yells and screams from down below, distinctly heard where Hornblower was standing. Then the Englishmen came running across the deck, Baddlestone and Gurney, the guards at the scuttle and the hatchway, the guards over the prisoners. Hornblower watched them scrambling down into the boat, Baddlestone last, turning to yell defiance before he disappeared down into his boat. Hornblower released his hold on the chains and sat down in the sternsheets.