Hornblower and the Crisis. An Unfinished Novel by C. S. Forester

“The French captain was killed?” asked Marsden.

“Yes.”

There was no need to tell about what Meadows’ cutlass had done to the French captain’s head.

“That indicates that this may be genuine,” decided Marsden, and Hornblower was puzzled momentarily until he realized that Marsden meant that there had been no ruse‑de‑guerre and that the papers had not been deliberately ‘planted’ on him.

“Quite genuine, I think, sir. You see —” he said, and went on to point out that the French brig could not have expected for one moment that the Princess would launch a counter‑attack on her.

“Yes,” agreed Marsden; he was a man of icy‑cold manner, speaking in a tone unchangingly formal. “You must understand that Bonaparte would sacrifice any man’s life if he could mislead us in exchange. But, as you say, Captain, these circumstances were completely unpredictable. What have you found, Dorsey?”

“Nothing of great importance except this, sir.”

‘This’ was of course the leaden covered dispatch. Dorsey was looking keenly at the twine which bound up the sandwich.

“That’s not the work of Paris,” he said. “That was tied in the ship. This label was probably written by the captain, too. Pardon me, sir.”

Dorsey reached down and took a penknife from the tray in front of Marsden, and cut the twine, and the sandwich fell apart.

“Ah!” said Dorsey.

It was a large linen envelope, heavily sealed in three places, and Dorsey studied the seals closely before looking over at Hornblower.

“Sir,” said Dorsey. “You have brought us something valuable. Very valuable, I should say, sir. This is the first of its kind to come into our possession.”

He handed it to Marsden, and tapped the seals with his finger.

“Those are the seals of this newfangled Empire of Bonaparte’s, sir,” he said. “Three good specimens.”

It was only a few months before, as Hornblower realized, that Bonaparte had proclaimed himself Emperor and the Republican Consulate had given place to the Empire. When Marsden permitted him to look closely, he could see the imperial eagle with its thunderbolt, but to his mind not quite as dignified a bird as it might be, for the feathers that sheathed its legs offered a grotesque impression of trousers.

“I would like to open this carefully, sir,” said Dorsey.

“Very well. You may go and attend to it.”

Fate hung in the balance for Hornblower at that moment; somehow Hornblower was aware of it, with uneasy premonition, while Marsden kept his cold eyes fixed on his face, apparently as a preliminary to dismissing him.

Later in his life — even within a month or two — Hornblower could look back in perspective at this moment as one in which his destiny was diverted in one direction instead of in another, dependent on a single minute’s difference in timing. He was reminded, when he looked back, of the occasions when musket balls had missed him by no more than a foot or so; the smallest, microscopic correction of aim on the part of the marksman would have laid Hornblower lifeless, his career at an end. Similarly at this moment a few seconds’ delay along the telegraph route, a minute’s dilatoriness on the part of a messenger, and Hornblower’s life would have followed a different path.

For the door at the end of the room opened abruptly and another elegant gentleman came striding in. He was some years younger than Marsden, and dressed soberly but in the very height of fashion, his lightly starched collar reaching to his ears, and a white waistcoat picked out with black calling unobtrusive attention to the slenderness of his waist. Marsden looked round with some annoyance at this intrusion, but restrained himself when he saw who the intruder was, especially when he saw a sheet of paper fluttering in his hand.

“Villeneuve’s in Ferrol,” said the newcomer. “This has just come by telegraph. Calder fought him off Finisterre and was given the slip.”

Marsden took the dispatch and read it with care.

“This will be for His Lordship,” he said, calmly, rising with deliberation from his chair. Even then he did not noticeably hurry. “Mr Barrow, this is Captain Hornblower. You had better hear about his recent acquisition.”

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