Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Ah — ah — ah!” gasped Côtard, with the jarring of his shattered arm. He stared at Hornblower with bewildered eyes.

“Sorry you’ve been hit,” said Hornblower, and to the axeman, “Get him down to the boat.”

Côtard was gesticulating towards the ground with his right hand, and Hornblower spoke to the other axeman.

“Pick those papers up and go down to the boat too.”

But Côtard was not satisfied.

“My sword! My sword!”

“I’ll look after your sword,” said Hornblower. These absurd notions of honour were so deeply ingrained that even in these conditions Côtard could not bear the thought of leaving his sword on the field of battle. Hornblower realized he had no cutlass as he picked up Côtard’s sword. The axeman had gathered up the books and papers.

“Help Mr Côtard down,” said Hornblower, and added, as another thought struck him. “Put a scarf round his arm above the wound and strain it tight. Understand?”

Côtard, supported by the other axeman was already tottering down the path. Movement meant agony. That heartrending “ah — ah — ah!” came back to Hornblower’s ears at every step Côtard took.

“Here they come!” said the marine lieutenant.

The skirmishing Frenchmen, emboldened by the near approach of their main body, were charging forward. A hurried glance told Hornblower that the others were all down on the jetty; the lobster‑boat was actually pushing off, full of men.

“Tell your men to run for it,” he said, and the moment after they started he followed them.

It was a wild dash, slipping and sliding, down the path to the jetty, with the French yelling in pursuit. But here was the covering party, as Hornblower had ordered so carefully the day before; Hotspur’s own thirteen marines, under their own sergeant. They had built a breastwork across the jetty, again as Hornblower had ordered when he had visualized this hurried retreat. It was lower than waist‑high, hurriedly put together with rocks and fish‑barrels full of stones. The hurrying mob poured over it. Hornblower, last of all, gathered himself together and leaping over it, arms and legs flying, to stumble on the far side and regain his footing by a miracle.

“Hotspur’s marines! Line the barricade. Get into the boats, you others!”

Twelve marines knelt at the barricade; twelve muskets levelled themselves over it. At the sight of them the pursuing French hesitated, tried to halt.

“Aim low!” shouted the marine lieutenant hoarsely.

“Go back and get the men into the boats, Mr What’s‑your-name,” snapped Hornblower. “Have the launch ready to cast off, while you shove off in the yawl and get away.”

The French were coming forward again; Hornblower looked back and saw the lieutenant drop off the jetty on the heels of the last marine.

“Now sergeant. Let ’em have it.”

“Fire!” said the sergeant.

That was a good volley, but there was not a moment to admire it.

“Come on!” yelled Hornblower. “Over to the launch!”

With the weight of Hotspur’s marines leaping into it the launch was drifting away by the time he was at the edge; there was a yard of black water for Hornblower to leap over, but his feet reached the gunnel and he pitched forward among the men clustered there; he luckily remembered to drop Côtard’s sword so that he fell harmlessly into the bottom of the boat without wounding anyone. Oars and boat‑books thrust against the jetty and the launch surged away while Hornblower scrambled into the stern sheets. He almost stepped on Côtard’s face; Côtard was lying apparently unconscious on the bottom boards.

Now the oars were grinding in the rowlocks. They were twenty yards away, thirty yards away, before the first Frenchmen came yelling along the jetty, to stand dancing with rage and excitement on the very edge of the masonry. For an invaluable second or two they even forgot the muskets in their hands. In the launch the huddled men raised their voices in a yell of derision that excited Hornblower’s cold rage.

“Silence! Silence, all of you!”

The stillness that fell on the launch was more unpleasant than the noise. One or two muskets banged off on the jetty, and Hornblower, looking over his shoulder, saw a French soldier drop on one knee and take deliberate aim, saw him choose a target, saw the musket barrel fore‑shorten until the muzzle was pointed directly at him. He was wildly contemplating throwing himself down into the bottom of the boat when the musket went off. He felt a violent jar through his body, and realized with relief that the bullet had burried itself in the solid oak transom of the launch against which he was sitting. He recovered his wits; looking forward he saw Hewitt trying to force his way aft to his side and he spoke to him as calmly as his excitement permitted.

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