Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“What are your orders?”

The marine stood stiffly at attention, feet at an angle of forty‑five degrees, musket close in at his side, forefinger of the left hand along the seam of his trousers, neck rigid in its stock, so that, as Hornblower was not directly in front of him, he stared over Hornblower’s shoulder.

“To guard my post —” he began, and continued in a monotonous sing‑song, repeating by rote the sentry’s formula which he had probably uttered a thousand times before. The change in his tone was marked when he reached the final sentence added for this particular station — “To allow no one to go below unless he is carrying an empty cartridge bucket.”

That was so that cowards could not take refuge below the water‑line.

“What about men carrying wounded?”

The astonished marine found it hard to answer; he found it hard to think after years of drill.

“I have no orders about them, sir,” he said at last, actually allowing his eyes, though not his neck, to move.

Hornblower glanced at Bush.

“I’ll speak to the sergeant of marines, sir,” said Bush.

“Who’s on the quarter‑bill to attend to the wounded?”

“Cooper and his mate, sir. Sailmaker and his mate. Four altogether, sir.”

Trust Bush to have all those details at his fingers’ ends, even though Hornblower had found two small points to find fault with, for which Bush was ultimately responsible. No need to stress chose matters with Bush — he was burning with silent shame.

Down the hatchway to the magazine. A candle glimmered faintly through the glass window of the light‑room, throwing just enough light for powder boys to see what they were doing as they received loaded cartridges through the double serge curtains opening into the magazine; inside the magazine the gunner and his mate, wearing list slippers, were ready to pass out, and, if necessary, fill cartridges. Down the after hatchway to where the surgeon and his lob‑lolly boy were ready to deal with the wounded. Hornblower knew that he himself might at some time be dragged in here with blood streaming from some shattered limb — it was a relief to ascend to the main‑deck again.

“Mr Foreman,” — Foreman was another of the ‘young gentlemen’ — “what are your orders regarding lanterns during a night action?”

“I am to wait until Mr Bush expressly orders them, sir.”

“And who do you send if you receive those orders?”

“Firth, sir.”

Foreman indicated a likely‑looking young seaman at his elbow. But was there perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation about that reply? Hornblower turned on Firth.

“Where do you go?”

Firth’s eyes flickered towards Foreman for a moment. That might be with embarrassment; but Foreman swayed a little on his feet, as if he were pointing with his shoulder, and one hand made a small sweeping gesture in front of his middle, as if he might be indicating Mr Wise’s abdominal rotundity.

“For’ard, sir,” said Firth. “The bos’n issues them. At the break of the fo’c’sle.”

“Very well,” said Hornblower.

He had no doubt that Foreman had quite forgotten to pass on Bush’s orders regarding battle lanterns. But Foreman had been quick‑witted enough to remedy the situation, and Firth had not merely been quick‑witted but also loyal enough to back up his petty officer. It would he well to keep an eye on both those two, for various reasons. The break of the forecastle had been an inspired guess, as being adjacent to the bos’n’s locker.

Hornblower walked up on to the quarterdeck again, Bush following him, and he cast a considering eye about him, taking in the last uninspected gun — the port‑side quarter‑deck carronade. He selected a position where the largest possible number of ears could catch his words.

“Mr Bush,” he said, “we have a fine ship. If we work hard we’ll have a fine crew too. If Boney needs a lesson we’ll give it to him. You may continue with the exercises.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The six marines on the quarter‑deck, the helmsman, the carronades’ crews, Mr Prowse and the rest of the afterguard had all heard him. He had felt it was not the time for a formal speech, but he could be sure his words would be relayed round the ship during the next dog watch. And he had chosen them carefully. That ‘we’ was meant as a rallying call. Meanwhile Bush was continuing with the exercise. “Cast loose your guns. Level your guns. Take out your tompions,” and all the rest of it.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *