Hornblower had suspected it, as he said. He did not know if he was happy with his knowledge, although he said he was. It would only be a day or two before he took Hotspur to sea again, back to the blockade of Brest, back to the monotonous perils of the Goulet.
Chapter 25
Hotspur lay in the Iroise, and the victualler was heaving-to close alongside, to begin again the toilsome labour of transferring stores. After sixty days of blockade duty there would be much to do, even though the pleasant sunshine of early summer would ease matters a little. The fend-offs were over the side and the first boat was on its way from the victualler bringing the officer charged with initiating the arrangements.
“Here’s the post, sir,” said the officer, handing Hornblower the small package of letters destined for the ship’s company. “But here’s a letter from the Commander-in-Chief, sir. They sent it across to me from the Hibernia as I passed through the Outer Squadron.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower.
He passed the packet to Bush to sort out. There would be letters from Maria in it, but a letter from the Commander-in-Chief took precedence. There was the formal address:
Horatio Hornblower, Esq.
Master and Commander
HM Sloop Hotspur
The letter was sealed with an informal wafer, instantly broken.
My dear Captain Hornblower,
I hope you can find it convenient to visit me in Hibernia, as I have news for you that would best be communicated personally. To save withdrawing Hotspur from her station, and to save you a long journey by boat, you might find it convenient to come in the victualler that brings this letter. You are therefore authorized to leave your First lieutenant in command, and I will find means for returning you to your ship when our business is completed. I look forward with pleasure to seeing you.
Your ob’d’t servant,
Wm. Cornwallis
Two seconds of bewilderment, and then a moment of horrid doubt which made Hornblower snatch the other letters back from Bush and hurriedly search through them for those from Maria.
‘Best communicated personally’ — Hornblower had a sudden secret fear that something might have happened to Maria and that Cornwallis had assumed the responsibility for breaking the news to him. But here was a letter from Maria only eight days old, and all was well with her and with little Horatio and the child to be. Cornwallis could hardly have later news than that.
Hornblower was reduced to re-reading letter and weighing every word like a lover receiving his first love letter. The whole letter appeared cordial in tone, until Hornblower forced himself to admit that if it was summons to a reprimand it might be worded in exactly the same way. Except for the opening word ‘My’; that was a departure from official practice — yet it might be a mere slip. And the letter concerned itself with ‘news’ too. Hornblower took a turn up the deck and forced himself to laugh at himself. He really was behaving like a love-lorn youth. If after all these years of service he had not learned to wait patiently through a dull hour for an inevitable crisis the Navy had not taught him even his first lesson.
The stores came slowly on board; there were the receipts to sign, and of course there were the final hurried questions hurled at him by people afraid of accepting responsibility.
“Make up your own mind about that,” snapped Hornblower, and, “Mr Bush’ll tell you what to do, and I hope he’ll put a flea in your ear.”
Then at last he was on a strange deck, watching with vast curiosity the handling of a different ship as the victualler filled away and headed out of the Iroise. The victualler’s captain offered him the comfort of his cabin and suggested sampling the new consignment of rum, but Hornblower could not make himself accept either offer. He could only just manage to make himself stand still, aft by the taffrail, as they gradually left the coast behind, and picked their way through the Inshore Squadron and set a course for the distant topsails of the main body of the Channel Fleet.
The huge bulk of the Hibernia loomed up before them, and Hornblower found himself going up the side and saluting the guard. Newton, the captain of the ship, and Collins, the Captain of the Fleet, both happened to be on deck and received him cordially enough; Hornblower hoped they did not notice his gulp of excitement as he returned their ‘Good afternoons’. Collins prepared to show him to the Admiral’s quarters.
“Please don’t trouble, sir. I can find my own way,” protested Hornblower.
“I’d better see you past all the Cerberuses that guard these nether regions,” said Collins.
Cornwallis was seated at one desk, and his flag-lieutenant at another, but they both rose at his entrance, and the flag-lieutenant slipped unobtrusively through a curtained door in the bulkhead while Cornwallis shook Hornblower’s hand — it could hardly be a reprimand that was coming, yet Hornblower found it difficult to sit on more than the edge of the chair that Cornwallis offered him. Cornwallis sat with more ease, yet bolt upright with his back quite flat as was his habit.
“Well?” said Cornwallis.
Hornblower realized that Cornwallis was trying to conceal his mood, yet there was — or was there not? — a twinkle in the china blue eyes; all these years as Commander-in-Chief still had not forged the Admiral into the complete diplomat. Or perhaps they had. Hornblower could only wait; he could think of nothing to say in reply to that monosyllable.
“I’ve had a communication about you from the Navy Board,” said Cornwallis at length, severely.
“Yes, sir?” Hornblower could find a reply to this speech; the Navy Board dealt with victualling and supplies and such like matters. It could be nothing vital.
“They’ve called my attention to the consumption of stores by the Hotspur. You appear to have been expensive, Hornblower. Gunpowder, shot, sails, cordage — you’ve been using up these things as if Hotspur were a ship of the line. Have you anything to say?”
“No, sir.” He need not offer the obvious defence, not to Cornwallis.
“Neither have I.” Cornwallis smiled suddenly, as he said that, his whole expression changing. “And that is what I shall tell the Navy Board. It’s a naval officer’s duty to shoot and be shot at.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve done all I need to do in transmitting this information.”
The smile died away from Cornwallis’s face, and was replaced by something bleak, something a little sad. He looked suddenly much older. Hornblower was making ready to rise from his chair; he could see that Cornwallis had sent for him so that this censure from the Navy Board should be deprived of all its sting. In the Service anticipated crises sometimes resolved themselves into anti-climaxes. But Cornwallis went on speaking; the sadness of his expression was echoed in the sadness of the tone of his voice.
“Now we can leave official business,” he said, “and proceed to more personal matters. I’m hauling down my flag, Hornblower.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” Those might be trite, mechanical words, but they were not. Hornblower was genuinely, sincerely sorry, and Cornwallis could hardly think otherwise.
“It comes to us all in time,” he went on. “Fifty-one years in the Navy.”
“Hard years, too, sir.”
“Yes. For two years and three months I haven’t set foot on shore.”
“But no one else could have done what you have done, sir.”
No one else could have maintained the Channel Fleet as a fighting body during those first years of hostilities, thwarting every attempt by Bonaparte to evade its crushing power.
“You flatter me,” replied Cornwallis. “Very kind of you, Hornblower. Gardner’s taking my place, and he’ll do just as well as me.”
Even in the sadness of the moment Hornblower’s ever observant mind took notice of the use of that name without the formal ‘Lord’ or ‘Admiral’; he was being admitted into unofficial intimacy with a Commander-in-Chief, albeit one on the point of retirement.