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

“You seem to have made good use of your time in Ferrol, Captain,” said Barrow.

Hornblower would have shrugged his shoulders, but restrained himself in time from indulging in so un‑English a gesture. The memory of that desperately unhappy time came back to him in a flood and he was momentarily lost in retrospective misery. He came back into the present to find Barrow’s eyes still fixed on him with curiosity, and he realized, selfconciously, that for a moment he had allowed Barrow a glimpse into his inner feelings.

“At least I managed to learn to speak a little Spanish,” he said; it was an endeavour to bring a trace of frivolity into the conversation, but Barrow continued to treat the subject seriously.

“Many officers would not have taken the trouble,” he commented.

Hornblower shied away from this personal conversation like a skittish horse.

“There’s another aspect to the question of Ferrol,” he said, hurriedly.

“And what is that?”

“The town and its facilities as a naval base lay at the far end of long and difficult roads over mountain passes, whether by Betanzos or Villalba. To support a fleet there under blockade, to keep it supplied by road with the hundreds of tons of necessary stores, might be more than the Spaniards could manage.”

“You know something of these roads, Captain?”

“I was marched over them when I was a prisoner.”

“Boney’s Emperor now and the Dons are his abject slaves. If anyone could compel them to attend to their business it would be Boney.”

“That’s very likely, sir.” This was more a political question than a naval one, and it would be presumption on his part to make further comment.

“So we’re back,” said Barrow, half to himself, “to where we’ve been ever since ’95, waiting for the enemy to come out and fight, and in your opinion in a worse situation than usual, Captain.”

“That’s only my opinion, sir,” said Hornblower hastily.

These were questions for Admirals, and it was not healthy for junior officers to become involved in them.

“If only Calder had thrashed Villeneuve thoroughly!” went on Barrow. “Half our troubles would be over.”

Hornblower had to make some reply or other, and he had to think fast for non‑commital words that would not imply a criticism of an Admiral by a junior officer.

“Just possibly, sir,” he said.

He knew that as soon as the news of the battle of Cape Finisterre was released the British public would boil with rage. At Camperdown, at the Nile, and at Copenhagen victories of annihilation had been gained. The mob would never be satisfied with this mere skirmish, especially with Bonaparte’s army poised for embarkation on the Channel coast and Britain’s fate dependent on the efficient handling of her fleets. Calder might well experience the fate of Byng; he could be accused, like Byng, of not having done his utmost to destroy the enemy. A political upheaval might easily occur in the near future.

That led to the next thought; a political upheaval would sweep away the Cabinet, including the First Lord, and possibly even the Secretariat — this very man to whom he was talking might be looking for new employment (with a black mark against his name) within a month. It was a tricky situation, and Hornblower suddenly felt overwhelmingly desirous that the interview should be ended. He was horribly hungry and desperately fatigued. When the door opened to admit Dorsey he looked up with relief.

Dorsey halted at sight of Barrow.

“The Secretary is with His Lordship,” explained the latter. “What is it, Mr Dorsey?”

“I’ve opened the dispatch that Captain Hornblower captured, sir. It’s — it’s important, sir.”

Dorsey’s glance wavered over to Hornblower and back again.

“I think Captain Hornblower is entitled to see the results of his efforts,” said Barrow, and Dorsey came forward with relief and laid on the table the objects he was carrying.

First there were half a dozen discs of white wax laid out on a tray.

“I’ve reproduced the seals,” explained Dorsey. “Two copies of each. That seal‑cutter in Cheapside can cut a seal from these so that Boney himself couldn’t tell the difference. And I’ve managed to lift the originals without damaging them too much — the hot knife method, you understand, sir.”

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