Hornblower and the Crisis
An Unfinished Novel
(Published in the US as: “Hornblower during the Crisis”)
C. S. Forester
(1967)
v1.0
CHAPTER ONE
Hornblower was expecting the knock on the door, because he had seen through his cabin window enough to guess what was happening outside.
“Waterhoy coming alongside, sir,” reported Bush, hat in hand.
“Very well, Mr Bush.” Hornblower was disturbed in spirit and, irritated, had no intention of smoothing Bush’s path for him.
“The new captain’s on board, sir.” Bush was perfectly well aware of Hornblower’s mood yet was not ingenious enough to cope with it.
“Very well, Mr Bush.”
But that was simple cruelty, the deliberate teasing of a nearly dumb animal; Hornblower realized that such behaviour really gave him no pleasure and only occasioned embarrassment to Bush. He relented to the extent of introducing a lighter touch into the conversation.
“So now you have a few minutes to spare for me, Mr Bush?” he said. “It’s a change after your preoccupation of the last two days.”
That was neither fair nor kind, and Bush showed his feelings in his face.
“I’ve had my duties to do, sir,” he mumbled.
“Getting Hotspur into apple pie order ready for her new captain.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Doesn’t matter about me, of course. I’m only a back number now.”
“Sir —”
Even though he was not in a smiling mood Hornblower could not help smiling at the misery of Bush’s expression.
“I’m glad to see you’re only human, Mr Bush, after all. Sometimes I’ve doubted it. There couldn’t be a more perfect First Lieutenant.”
Bush needed two or three seconds in which to digest this unexpected compliment.
“That’s very good of you, sir. Very kind indeed. But it’s been all your doing.”
In a moment they would slide down the slippery slopes of sentiment, which would be unbearable.
“Time for me to appear on deck,” said Hornblower. “We’d better say goodbye, Mr Bush. The best of luck under your new captain.”
He went so far towards yielding to the mood of the moment as to hold out his hand, which Bush took. Luckily Bush’s emotions prevented him from saying more than just “Goodbye, sir,” and Hornblower hurried out through the cabin door with Bush at his heels.
There was instantly plenty of distraction as the waterhoy was laid alongside the Hotspur; the side of the hoy was covered from end to end with old sails in rolls and with substantial fendoffs of sandbags, yet it was a ticklish business, even in the sheltered waters of this little bay, to pass lines between the two ships and draw them together. A gangplank came clattering out from the hoy to bridge the gap between the two decks, and a burly man in full unicorn made the precarious crossing. He was very tall — two or three inches over six feet and heavily built; a man of middle age or more, to judge by the shock of grey hair revealed when he raised his hat. The boatswain’s mates pealed loudly on their calls; the two ship’s drummers beat a ragged ruffle.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” said Hornblower.
The new captain pulled a paper from his breast pocket, opened it, and began to read. A shout from Bush bared every head so that the function would take place with due solemnity.
“Orders given by us, William Cornwallis, Vice-Admiral of the Red, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Commanding His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels of the Channel Fleet, to James Percival Meadows, Esquire —”
“D’ye think we have all day?” This was a new stentorian voice from the deck of the hoy. “Stand by to take the hoses, there! Mr Lieutenant, let’s have some hands for the pumps.”
The voice came, appropriately enough, from the barrel-shaped captain of the hoy. Bush signalled frantically for him to stay quiet until this vital ceremonial was completed.
“Time enough for that tomfoolery when the water’s all aboard. The wind’ll shift within the hour,” roared the barrel-shaped captain quite unabashed. Captain Meadows scowled and hesitated, but for all his vast stature he could do nothing to silence the captain of the hoy. He roared through the rest of his orders at a pace nearer a gallop than a canter, and folded them up with evident relief now that he was legally captain of HMS Hotspur.
“On hats,” bellowed Bush.
“Sir, I relieve you,” said Meadows to Hornblower.
“I much regret the bad manners displayed in the hoy, sir,” said Hornblower to Meadows.
“Now let’s have some sturdy hands,” said the barrel-shaped captain to no one in particular, and Meadows shrugged his vast shoulders with resignation.
“Mr Bush, my first lieutenant — I mean your first lieutenant, sir,” said Hornblower, hastily effecting the introduction.
“Carry on, Mr. Bush,” said Meadows, and Bush plunged instantly into the business of transferring the fresh water from the hoy.
“Who’s that fellow, sir?” asked Hornblower with a jerk of his thumb at the captain of the hoy.
“He’s been my cross for the last two days,” answered Meadows. Dirty words unnecessary to reproduce interlarded every sentence he uttered. “He’s not only captain but he’s thirty-seven sixty-fourths owner. Under Navy Office contract — can’t press him, can’t press his men, as they all have protections. Says what he likes, does what he likes, and I’d give my prize money for the next five years to have him at the gratings for ten minutes.”
“M’m,” said Hornblower. “I’m taking passage with him.”
“Hope you fare better than I did.”
“By your leave, sirs.” A hand from the hoy came pushing along the gangplank dragging a canvas hose. At his heels came someone carrying papers; there was bustle everywhere.
“I’ll hand over the ship’s papers, sir,” said Hornblower. “Will you come with me? I mean — they are ready in your cabin when you have time to attend to them, sir.”
His sea chest and ditty bag lay forlorn on the bare cabin deck, pathetic indications of his immediate departure. It was the work only of a few moments to complete the transfer of command.
“May I request of Mr Bush the loan of a hand to transfer my dunnage, sir?” asked Hornblower.
Now he was nobody. He was not even a passenger; he had no standing at all, and this became more evident still when he returned to the deck to look round for his officers to bid them farewell. They were all engrossed in the business of the moment, with hardly a second to spare for him. Handshakes were hasty and perfunctory; it was with a queer relief that he turned away to the gangplank.
It was a relief that was short lived for, even at anchor, Hotspur was rolling perceptibly in the swell that curved in round the point, and the two ships, Hotspur and the waterhoy, were rolling in opposite phases, their upper works inclining first together and then away from each other, so that the gangplank which joined them was possessed of several distinct motions — it swung in a vertical plane like a seesaw and in a horizontal plane like a compass needle; it rose and fell bodily, too, but the most frightening motion, instantly obvious as soon as he addressed himself to the crossing, was a stabbing back and forth motion as the ships surged together and apart, the gap bridged by the plank being now six feet and then sixteen. To a barefooted seaman the passage would be nothing; to Hornblower it was a rather frightening matter — an eighteen-inch plank with no handrail. He was conscious, too, of the barrel-shaped captain watching him, but at least that made him determined to show no hesitation once he decided on the passage — until that moment he studied the motions of the plank out of the tail of his eye while apparently his attention was fully taken up by the various activities in the two ships.