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.
“I’m sure you’ll be flattered to hear, Captain, that His Lordship holds practically identical opinions regarding Ferrol as you do.”
“I’m very flattered, sir.” Lord Barham was not only First Lord, but he had been Comptroller of the Navy for many years and an Admiral commanding a fleet before that. He must have been responsible for the orders that had placed Calder across Villeneuve’s path.
“His Lordship was both surprised and gratified at Mr. Barrow’s familiarity with local conditions there,” went on Marsden. “Naturally Mr. Barrow did not see fit to tell him he had just finished discussing them with you.”
“Naturally not, sir,” agreed Hornblower. Then he braced himself; to speak called for resolution. “But perhaps in that case His Lordship would give favourable consideration to Admiral Cornwallis’ recommendation of me to post rank?”
Now it was said. But not a flicker of expression was observable on the faces of the two Secretaries.
“There is more urgent business at present,” said Marsden. “We are keeping someone waiting. Dorsey, kindly bring in the parson.”
Dorsey walked across and opened the door, and after a moment a short square figure came waddling in; Hornblower had a glimpse of a uniformed marine outside before the door closed. The newcomer wore a black clerical gown and a clerical wig; but his clerical clothing was at variance with his bristling unshaven cheeks which bore half an inch of black stubble. It called for a second glance to see that his wrists wore handcuffs, and that a chain ran from the handcuffs to his waist.
“This is the Reverend Doctor Claudius,” said Marsden. “Newly arrived from Newgate. His services have been lent to us by the courtesy of the Secretary of State for Home Affairs. Temporarily, at least.”
Claudius looked round at them all with a varying expression which would offer an interesting study in psychology. He had bold black eyes, yet they were cunning and sly. There was fear in his pudgy face, yet there was defiance as well, and, besides, most interesting of all, there was curiosity, irrepressible even in the shadow of death. But Marsden wasted no time.
“Claudius, you’ve been brought here to execute a forgery, if you can.”
The pudgy face showed a sudden flash of understanding, and then instantly settled into an immobility which called forth Hornblower’s admiration.
“Both politeness and convention,” said Claudius, “suggest that you address me as ‘Doctor’. I have not yet been unfrocked, and I am still a Doctor of Divinity.”
“Rubbish, Claudius,” said Marsden.
“I shouldn’t have expected politeness from underlings.”
Claudius’ voice was an unpleasant one, harsh and grating, which might explain the ill success of his quest for a bishopric. But on the other hand Claudius had taken the offensive in this very first exchange — that letter from Bonaparte which Dorsey held recommended an unexpected counterattack vigorously carried out even with an inferior force. But here in the Admiralty the enemy was commanded by a master of tactics.
“Very well, Doctor,” said Marsden. “The dignity of a Doctor of Divinity demands all the respect we can accord it. Mr. Dorsey, hand that document to the Doctor with the compliments of Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and ask the Doctor if as a result of his vast experience he thinks himself capable of making anything similar.”
Claudius took the thing in his manacled hands, and his black eyebrows came together as he studied it.
“Of French origin. That is plain. Apart from the language it is in the standard handwriting in use by French clerks. I had plenty of examples pass through my hands during the late peace.”
“And the signature?”
“An interesting piece of work. Written with a turkey quill, I should say. It would call for at least an hour’s practice before I could reproduce it. Now these seals—”
“I made moulds,” said Dorsey.
“I could see that. But they have been lifted from the paper with reasonable care. I must congratulate you on your acquirement of a difficult art. Now—”
Claudius looked up from the paper and swept his audience with a searching glance.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have much more to say on this subject. But before I do so I need some assurance that my services will not go without recompense.”
“You are having that already,” said Marsden. “Your trial has been postponed for a week.”
“A week? I used to preach sermons on how speedily time passes from Sunday to Sunday. No, gentlemen. I need my life. I have a mortal objection to hanging, and that is not spoken in jest.”
The situation was tense with drama. Hornblower looked round at the four faces — Marsden displaying the faintest possible hint of cynical amusement, Barrow a little taken aback, Dorsey displaying the proper indifference of a subordinate, and Claudius looking warily from one to another, like a condemned criminal in the Roman arena watching the lions close in on him. Barrow spoke first, addressing Marsden.
“I’ll call in the guard, sir, shall I? We don’t need him.”
There was yet no slackening in the tension.
“Call in the guard!” said Claudius; there was a clank of iron as he waved his manacled hands. “Take me away, and hang me tomorrow! Tomorrow? A week hence? If it is coming, the sooner the better. You gentlemen may never know the truth of that statement. I still have charity enough to hope that you never will. But true it is. Hang me tomorrow.”