“What’s the time now?” asked Hornblower.
“Not long past eight, sir.”
“Very well.” Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. “Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?”
“Only those over a mile, sir.” The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.
He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha’pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.
“That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,” said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.
“We’ll know more about it in a day or two,” replied Hornblower mildly.
“He caught ‘em and let ‘em go. Nelson wouldn’t ‘a done that.”
“There’s no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.”
“Boney on our doorstep, an’ Villain-noove at sea. That Calder! ‘E ought to be ashamed. I’ve ‘eard about Admiral Byng an’ ‘ow they shot ‘im. That’s what they ought to do with Calder.”
That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen’s Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.
“Let me see a newspaper,” said Hornblower.
“Newspaper, sir? Yes, certainly, sir.”
Here was the Gazette Extraordinary, in the place of honour on the front page, but it hardly merited the lofty title, for it consisted of no more than eight lines, and was only a resumé of the first telegraphic dispatch; the full report from Calder, carried up to London by relays of couriers riding ten-mile stages at full speed, would only now be arriving at the Admiralty. It was the editorial comment which was significant, for the Morning Post clearly held the same views as the wherryman and the innkeeper. Calder had been stationed to intercept Villeneuve, and the interception had taken place, thanks to good planning by the Admiralty. But Calder had failed in his particular task, which was to destroy Villeneuve once the Admiralty had brought about the meeting.
Villeneuve had arrived from the West Indies, evading Nelson who had followed him there, and had broken through the barrier England had endeavoured to interpose. Now he had reached Ferrol, where he would be able to land his sick, and renew his fresh water, ready to issue forth again to threaten the Channel. Viewed in this light it could be reckoned as a decided French success; Hornblower had no doubt that Bonaparte would represent it as a resounding victory.
“Yes, sir. What do you think, sir?” asked the innkeeper.
“Look out of your door and tell me if Boney’s marching down the street,” said Hornblower.
It was indicative of the innkeeper’s state of mind that he actually made a move towards the door before realization came to him.
“You are pleased to jest, sir.”
There was really nothing to do except to jest. These discussions of naval strategy and tactics by ignorant civilians reminded Hornblower a little of the arguments of the citizens of Gibbon’s declining Rome regarding the nature of the Trinity. Yet it was popular clamour that had compelled the death sentence on Byng to be carried out. Calder might be in serious danger of his life.
“The worst thing Boney’s done today is to keep me from my breakfast,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. This minute, sir.”
It was as the innkeeper bustled away that Hornblower caught sight of another name on the front page of the Morning Post. It was a paragraph about Doctor Claudius, and as Hornblower read he remembered why the name had been vaguely familiar to him when Marsden mentioned it. There had been references to him in earlier newspapers, old copies which he had seen even during the blockade of Brest. Claudius was a clergyman, a genuine Doctor of Divinity, and the centre of the most resounding scandal, both social and financial, in English history. He had entered into London society to gain a bishopric for himself, but, while achieving considerable popularity or notoriety, he had failed in his object. Despairing of preferment he had plunged into crime. He had built up an extensive organization specializing in the forging of bills of exchange. So perfect were his forgeries, and so cunning was his marketing of them, that he had long gone undetected.
The world wide commerce of England was conducted largely by bills of exchange. Claudius had taken advantage of the long intervals necessary between drawing and presentation to insert his forgeries into the stream, and only an error by a confederate had exposed him. Bills drawn in Beyrout and in Madras, so perfect that the very victims found it hard to dishonour them, were still coming in, and the financial world was shaken to its foundations, and, judging by this paragraph, the world of high society which had accepted him was similarly rent. Now Claudius was lodged in Newgate Gaol and his trial was imminent. Was it significant that Marsden had expressed interest in this fellow? Hornblower found it hard to believe it.
At that moment his attention was caught by the sight of his own name in another paragraph. It was headed ‘Plymouth’ and after mentions of the comings and goings of ships came ‘Captain Horatio Hornblower, late of HM Sloop Hotspur, landed this morning from the waterhoy Princess and immediately took post to London’.
It was quite ridiculous that such a triviality should improve the flavour of the gammon and spinach and fried eggs that the innkeeper set before him, but it was indeed the case. It put him in a good humour as he walked towards Whitehall. Marsden must be ready to discuss with him his promotion to Captain and to find a ship for him — the sooner this vital business was settled the better. He had no friends in high places now that Cornwallis had hauled down his flag, and Cornwallis’ recommendation could easily be shelved or even forgotten in order to make room for a favourite.
It was inconceivable in the clear light of day, after a good night’s rest and with a full stomach, that Marsden could have in mind to take any further action on the wild plan to send false orders to Villeneuve. And yet — It was not so inconceivable; nor was it such a wild plan. The forgery would have to be very good, the substitution undetected. As Ferrol was at least ten days by courier from Paris there would be no chance of Villeneuve referring back for confirmation. And because it was inconceivable that the British government should do such a thing its success would be all the more likely if it were attempted.
Here was the Admiralty. This morning he could say with assurance to the doorkeeper “I have an appointment with Mr Marsden” to the vast envy of a couple of suppliants who were seeking admission, and he could write ‘by appointment’ on the form on which he stated his business, and he was not left more than ten minutes in the waiting room, not more than three minutes after the clock had chimed eleven, before he was summoned into Marsden’s presence. Barrow was there as well and Dorsey too, and the sight of them warned Hornblower that the agenda of the meeting might include the inconceivable.
But it was interesting to find that the First Secretary was human enough to spend a little time on preliminaries before plunging into business.