“Who is it?”
“Admiralty messenger.”
Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.
“Captain Hornblower?”
“Yes.”
The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.
The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o’clock AM today, Tuesday.
“What’s the time now?” asked Hornblower.
“Not long past eight, sir.”
“Very well.” Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. “Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?”
“Only those over a mile, sir.” The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.
He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha’pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.
“That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,” said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.
“We’ll know more about it in a day or two,” replied Hornblower mildly.
“He caught ’em and let ’em go. Nelson wouldn’t ‘a done that.”
“There’s no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.”
“Boney on our doorstep, an’ Villain‑noove at sea. That Calder! ‘E ought to be ashamed. I’ve ‘eard about Admiral Byng an’ ‘ow they shot ‘im. That’s what they ought to do with Calder.”
That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen’s Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.
“Let me see a newspaper,” said Hornblower.
“Newspaper, sir? Yes, certainly, sir.”
Here was the Gazette Extraordinary, in the place of honour on the front page, but it hardly merited the lofty title, for it consisted of no more than eight lines, and was only a resumé of the first telegraphic dispatch; the full report from Calder, carried up to London by relays of couriers riding ten‑mile stages at full speed, would only now be arriving at the Admiralty. It was the editorial comment which was significant, for the Morning Post clearly held the same views as the wherryman and the innkeeper. Calder had been stationed to intercept Villeneuve, and the interception had taken place, thanks to good planning by the Admiralty. But Calder had failed in his particular task, which was to destroy Villeneuve once the Admiralty had brought about the meeting.
Villeneuve had arrived from the West Indies, evading Nelson who had followed him there, and had broken through the barrier England had endeavoured to interpose. Now he had reached Ferrol, where he would be able to land his sick, and renew his fresh water, ready to issue forth again to threaten the Channel. Viewed in this light it could be reckoned as a decided French success; Hornblower had no doubt that Bonaparte would represent it as a resounding victory.
“Yes, sir. What do you think, sir?” asked the innkeeper.
“Look out of your door and tell me if Boney’s marching down the street,” said Hornblower.
It was indicative of the innkeeper’s state of mind that he actually made a move towards the door before realization came to him.
“You are pleased to jest, sir.”
There was really nothing to do except to jest. These discussions of naval strategy and tactics by ignorant civilians reminded Hornblower a little of the arguments of the citizens of Gibbon’s declining Rome regarding the nature of the Trinity. Yet it was popular clamour that had compelled the death sentence on Byng to be carried out. Calder might be in serious danger of his life.