He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty — he had completely forgotten until now — the French captain’s blanket in which he had bundled the ship’s papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about — nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain’s head shattered like a cracked walnut.
He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semiconsciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no further than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.
“Who is it?”
“Admiralty messenger.”
Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.
“Captain Hornblower?”
“Yes.”
The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.
The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o’clock AM today, Tuesday.
“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’ Villainnoove 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 tenmile 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.