Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“What’s the matter?” demanded Hornblower curtly.

“Don’t make me come with you, sir!” spluttered Grimes. “You don’t want me with you, sir, do you, sir?”

It was an astonishing moment. In all his years of service Hornblower had never met with any experience in the least similar, and he was taken aback. This was cowardice; it might even be construed as mutiny. Grimes had in the last five seconds made himself liable not merely to the cat but to the noose. Hornblower could only stand and stare, wordless.

“I’ll be no use, sir,” said Grimes. “I – I might scream!”

Now that was a very definite point. Hornblower, giving his orders for the raid, had nominated Grimes as his messenger and aide-de-camp. He had given no thought to the selection; he had been a very casual Chooser of the Slain. Now he was learning a lesson. A frightened man at his elbow, a man made clumsy by fear, could imperil the whole expedition. Yet the first words he could say echoed his earlier thoughts.

“I could hang you, by God!” he exclaimed.

“No, sir! No, sir! Please, sir -” Grimes was on the point of collapse; in another moment he would be down on his knees.

“Oh, for God’s sake -” said Hornblower. He was conscious of contempt, not for the coward, but for the man who allowed his cowardice to show. And then he asked himself by what right he felt this contempt. And then he thought about the good of the Service, and then -. He had no time to waste in these trivial analyses.

“Very well,” he snapped. “You can stay on board. Shut your mouth, you fool!”

Grimes was about to show gratitude, but Hornblower’s words cut it off short.

“I’ll take Hewitt out of the second boat. He can come with me. Pass the word for him.”

The minutes were fleeting by, as they always did with the final touches to put on to a planned scheme. Hornblower passed his belt through the loop on a cutlass sheath, and buckled it round him. A sword hanging on slings could be a hindrance, would strike against obstructions, and the cutlass was a handier weapon for what he contemplated. He gave a final thought to taking a pistol, and again rejected the idea. A pistol might be useful in certain circumstances, but it was a bulky encumbrance. Here was something more silent – a long sausage of stout canvas filled with sand, with a loop for the wrist. Hornblower settled it conveniently in his right hand pocket.

Hewitt reported, and had to be briefly told what was expected of him. The sidelong glance he gave to Grimes revealed much of what Hewitt thought, but there was no time for discussion; that matter would have to be sorted out later. Hewitt was shown the contents of the bundle originally allotted to Grimes – the flint and steel for use if the dark lantern were extinguished, the oily rags, the slow match, the quick match, the blue lights for instant intense combustion. Hewitt took solemn note of each item and weighed his sandbag in his hand.

“Very well. Come along,” said Hornblower.

“Sir!” said Grimes at that moment in a pleading tone, but Hornblower would not – indeed could not – spare time to hear any more.

On deck it was pitch dark, and Hornblower’s eyes took long to adjust themselves.

Officer after officer reported all ready.

“You’re sure of what you have to say, Mr Côtard?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was no hint of the excitable Frenchman about Côtard. He was as phlegmatic as any commanding officer could desire.

“Fifty-one rank and file present, sir,” reported the captain of marines.

Those marines, brought on board the night before, had lain huddled below decks all day, concealed from the telescopes on Petit Minou.

“Thank you, Captain Jones. You’ve made sure no musket is loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

Until the alarm was given not a shot was to be fired. The work was to be done with the bayonet and the butt, and the sandbag – but the only way to be certain of that was to keep the muskets unloaded.

“First landing party all down in the fishing boat, sir,” reported Bush.

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