Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Begging your pardon, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Well?”

“The Admiral’s compliments, sir, and he would be glad to see you when you find it convenient.”

Hornblower stood sword in hand, staring at him in momentary uncomprehension.

“The Admiral, sir. ‘E’s in the first floor front, what we always calls the Admiral’s Room.”

“You mean Sir William, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. My respects to the Admiral and – No, I’ll go up at once. Thank you.”

“Thank’ee, sir. Begging your pardon again.”

Hornblower shot his sword back into its sheath and looked round at the company. They were watching the maid bustling round handing slices of wedding cake and had no eyes for him at present. He settled his sword at his side, twitched at his neckcloth, and unobtrusively left the room, picking up his hat as he did so.

When he knocked at the door of the first floor front a deep voice that he well remembered said, “Come in.” It was so large a room that the four-poster bed at the far end was inconspicuous; so was the secretary seated at the desk by the window. Cornwallis was standing in the middle, apparently engaged in dictation until this interruption.

“Ah, it’s Hornblower. Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“The last time we met was over that unfortunate business with the Irish rebel. We had to hang him, I remember.”

Cornwallis, ‘Billy Blue’, had not changed perceptibly during those four years. He was still the bulky man with the composed manner, obviously ready to deal with any emergency.

“Please sit down. A glass of wine?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“I expected that, seeing the ceremony you’ve just come from. My apologies for interrupting your wedding, but you must blame Boney, not me.”

“Of course, sir.” Hornblower felt that a more eloquent speech would have been in place here, but he could not think of one.

“I’ll detain you for as short a time as possible. You know I’ve been appointed to the command of the Channel fleet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know that Hotspur is under my command?”

“I expected that, but I didn’t know, sir.”

“The Admiralty letter to that effect came down in my coach. You’ll find it awaiting you on board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Hotspur ready to sail?”

“No, Sir.” The truth and no excuses. Nothing else would do.

“How long?”

“Two days, sir. More if there’s delay with the ordnance stores.”

Cornwallis was looking at him very sharply indeed, but Hornblower returned glance for glance. He had nothing with which to reproach himself; nine days ago Hotspur was still laid up in ordinary.

“She’s been docked and breamed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’d manned?”

“Yes, sir. A good crew – the cream of the press.”

“Rigging set up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yards crossed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officers appointed?”

“Yes, sir. A lieutenant and four master’s mates.”

“You’ll need three months’ provisions and water.”

“I can stow a hundred and eleven days at full rations, sir. The cooperage is delivering the water-butts at noon. I’ll have it all stowed by nightfall, sir.”

“Have you warped her out?”

“Yes, sir. She’s at anchor now in Spithead.”

“You’ve done well,” said Cornwallis.

Hornblower tried not to betray his relief at that speech; from Cornwallis that was more than approval – it was hearty praise.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So what do you need now?”

“Bos’n’s stores, sir. Cordage, canvas, spare spars.”

“Not easy to get the dockyard to part with those at this moment. I’ll have a word with them. And then the ordnance stores, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Ordnance are waiting for a shipment of nine-pounder shot. None to be had here at the moment.”

Ten minutes ago Hornblower had been thinking of words to please Maria. Now he was selecting words for an honest report to Cornwallis.

“I’ll deal with that, too,” said Cornwallis. “You can be certain of sailing the day after tomorrow if the wind serves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now for your orders. You’ll get them in writing in the course of the day, but I’d better tell you now, while you can ask questions. War’s coming. It hasn’t been declared yet, but Boney may anticipate us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to blockade Brest as soon as I can get the fleet to sea, and you’re to go ahead of us.”

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