Hornblower and the Atropos. C. S. Forester

“Morning,” said Hornblower in response to the touched hats of his subordinates.

In the waist he could hear orders being quietly given — just like manning the boats for a cutting‑out expedition.

“Longboat’s crew starboard side,” said Smiley’s voice.

“Launch’s crew port side.” That was the Prince’s voice. He was acquiring a better accent than Eisenbeiss’s.

“There’s some surface mist, sir,” reported Jones. “But it’s very patchy.”

“So I see,” replied Hornblower.

“Last night we were lying two cables’ lengths from the wreck as near as makes no matter, sir,” said Turner. “We’ve swung during the night, with the wind dropping, but little enough.”

“Tell me when it’s light enough for you to get your bearings.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

In that short time the eastern sky had changed. One might almost have said it had darkened, but perhaps that was because with the tiny increase in the general illumination the contrast was not so marked.

“You took a third bearing at the time when Speedwell went down, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes, sir. It was —”

“No matter.”

Turner could be relied upon to manage a simple piece of business of that sort.

“I don’t expect the wreck has moved an inch, sir,” said Turner. “There’s no tide here. No scour. The two rivers that run into the Bay don’t set up any current you can measure.”

“And the bottom’s firm sand?”

“Firm sand, sir.”

That was something to be thankful for. In mud the wreck might have sunk beyond discovery.

“How the devil did Speedwell come to capsize?” asked Hornblower.

“Sheer bad luck, sir. She was an old ship and she’d been at sea a long time. The weeds and the barnacles were thick along her waterline — she wasn’t coppered high enough, sir. So they were heeling her, cleaning her port side, with the guns run out to starboard and all the weights they could shift over to starboard too. It was a still day, baking hot. Then, before you could say Jack Robinson, there came a gust out of the mountains. It caught her square on the port beam and laid her over before she could pay off. The gun ports were open and the water came up over the sills. That laid her over still more — at least, that’s what the court of inquiry found, sir — and with her hatchways open the water rose over the coamings and down she went.”

“Did she right herself as she sank?”

“No, sir. I looked over at her when I heard the shout, and I saw her keel. Bottom upwards she went. Her top‑masts were snapped clean off. They came up soon enough, main and fore top‑masts still anchored to the wreck by a shroud or two. That was a help when it came to taking the bearings.”

“I see,” said Hornblower.

Dawn was coming up fast. It actually seemed — an optical illusion, of course — as if great arms of colour were climbing up the sky from the eastern horizon at a pace perceptible to the eye.

“It’s light enough now, sir,” said Turner.

“Thank you. Mr. Jones! You can carry on.”

Hornblower watched them go, Turner leading the way in the gig with his instruments and compass, Still following behind in the launch with Smiley in the longboat attached to the launch by the sweep. Hornblower became acutely aware that despite the cup of coffee he had drunk he wanted his breakfast. It seemed almost against his will that he lingered. This dead still calm at dawn was the ideal time for an operation of this sort; it enabled the gig to take up and maintain a position with the least possible effort. The ripples caused by the boat’s passage, slow though it was, spread far over the glassy surface of the Bay before dying out at last. He saw the gig stop, and clearly over the water came the sound of Turner’s voice as he spoke through his speaking trumpet to the other boats. They jockeyed round into position awkwardly, like two beetles tied together with a thread, and then they paid out the sweep between them, manoeuvred awkwardly again for a moment as they laid themselves exactly upon the correct bearing, and then the oars began to swing rhythmically, slowly, like the pendulum of Fate, as the boats began to sweep the area ahead of them. Hornblower’s heart beat faster despite himself, and he swallowed with excitement. Around him the ship was beginning her normal life. Amid the peculiar patter of bare feet on wooden planking — a sound unlike any other on earth — the watch below were bringing their hammocks to stow in the nettings. Swabs and holystones, buckets and pump; the hands not at work in the boats began the eternal daily routine of washing down the decks. Not for the first time on the voyage Hornblower found himself experiencing a momentary envy of the seamen at their work. Their problems were of the simplest, their doubts were minute. To holystone a portion of planking to the whiteness demanded by a petty officer, to swab it off, to swab it dry, working in amicable companionship with friends of long standing, dabbling their naked feet in the gush of clear water — that was all they had to do, as they had done for an infinity of mornings in the past and would do for an infinity of mornings in the future. He would be glad to exchange with them his loneliness, his responsibility, the complexity of his problems; so he felt for a moment before he laughed at himself, knowing perfectly well he would be horrified if some freak of Fate forced such an exchange on him. He turned away, changing the subject of his thoughts; a generous slice of fat pork, fried to a pale brown — there had been a leg in soak for him for the past two days, and the outside cut would be not too salty now. It would smell delicious — he could almost smell it at this very moment. Holy Jerusalem, unless it was still spluttering on his plate when it was put before him despite the journey from galley to cabin he’d make someone wish he had never been born. And he would have biscuit crumbs fried with it, and he would top it off with black treacle smeared on a biscuit, thick. That was a breakfast worth thinking about.

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