“I was first of the Amazon,” he volunteered, “when you were in Indefatigable. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He had not risked a snub by saying so first.
“I remember you plainly,” said Calendar. “I remember hearing what Pellew had to say about you.”
Whatever Pellew said about him would be favourable — he had owed his promotion to Pellew’s enthusiastic recommendation — and it was pleasant of Calendar to remind him of it at this crisis of his career.
Lord Gambier’s cabin was not nearly as ornate as Captain Hardy’s had been — the most conspicuous item of furniture therein was the big brass-bound Bible lying on the table. Gambier himself, heavy-jowled, gloomy, was sitting by the stern window dictating to a clerk who withdrew on the arrival of the two captains.
“You can make your report verbally, sir, for the present,” said the Admiral.
Hornblower drew a deep breath and made the plunge. He sketched out the strategic situation at the moment when he took the Sutherland into action against the French squadron off Rosas. Only a sentence or two had to be devoted to the battle itself — these men had fought in battles themselves and could fill in the gaps. He described the whole crippled mass of ships drifting helpless up Rosas Bay to where the guns of the fortress awaited them, and the gunboats creeping out under oars.
“One hundred and seventeen killed,” said Hornblower. “One hundred and forty-five wounded, of whom forty-four died before I was removed from Rosas.”
“My God!” said Calendar. It was not the deaths in hospital which called forth the exclamation — that was a usual proportion — but the total casualty list. Far more than half the crew of the Sutherland had been put out of action before surrendering.
“Thompson in the Leander lost ninety-two out of three hundred, my lord,” he said. Thompson had surrendered the Leander to a French ship of the line off Crete after a defence which had excited the admiration of all England.
“I was aware of it,” answered Gambier. “Please go on, Captain.”
Hornblower told of how he witnessed the destruction of the French squadron, of how Caillard arrived to take him to Paris, of his escape, first from his escort and then from drowning. He made only a slight mention of Count de Graçay and of his voyage down the Loire — that was not an admiral’s business — but he descended to fuller details when he told of his recapture of the Witch of Endor. Details here were of importance, because in the course of the manifold activities of the British Navy it might easily happen that a knowledge of harbour arrangements at Nantes and of the navigational difficulties of the lower Loire might be useful.
“Good God Almighty, man,” said Calendar, “how can you be so cold-blooded about it? Weren’t you —”
“Captain Calendar,” interrupted Gambier, “I have requested you before not to allude to the Deity in that blasphemous fashion. Any repetition will incur my serious displeasure. Kindly continue, Captain Hornblower.”
There was only the brush with the boats from Noirmoutier to be described now. Hornblower continued, formally, but this time Gambier himself interrupted him.
“You say you opened fire with a six-pounder,” he said. “The prisoners were at the sweeps, and the ship had to be steered. Who laid the gun?”
“I did, my lord. The French pilot helped me.”
“M’m. And you frightened ’em off?”
Hornblower confessed that he had succeeded in sinking two out of the three boats sent against him. Calendar whistled his surprise and admiration, but the hard lines in Gambier’s face only set harder still.
“Yes?” he said. “And then?”
“We went on under sweeps until midnight, my lord, and then we picked up a breeze. We sighted Triumph at dawn.”
There was silence in the cabin, only broken by the noises on deck, until Gambier stirred in his chair.
“I trust, Captain,” he said, “that you have given thanks to the Almighty for these miraculous preservations of yours. In all these adventures I can see the finger of God. I shall direct my chaplain at prayers this evening to make a special mention of your gratitude and thankfulness.”