Humbly and respectfully yours,
All round the margin of the letter were the signatures, seven of them, and several score of crosses, with a note against each cross — ‘Henry Wilson, his mark’; ‘William Owen, his mark’, and so on; they indicated the usual proportion of literates and illiterates in an average ship’s company. Hornblower looked up at St. Vincent when he finished examining the letter.
“Mutinous dogs,” said St. Vincent.
Maybe they were, thought Hornblower. But they had a right to be, he also thought. He could imagine perfectly well the sort of treatment to which they had been subjected, the unending wanton cruelty added to the normal hardship of life in a ship on blockading service; miseries which only death or mutiny could bring to an end — no other way out at all.
Faced with the certainty of a flogging in the immediate future, they had risen in mutiny, and he could not blame them. He had seen enough backs cut to ribbons; he knew that he himself would do anything, literally anything, to avoid such torture for himself if he were faced with the prospect of it. His flesh crept as he made himself seriously consider how he would feel if he knew he were to be flogged next week. The men had moral right on their side; it was not a matter of justice, but one of expediency, that they should be punished for their justifiable crime. The national existence of the country depended greatly on seizing the mutineers, hanging the ringleaders, flogging the rest; cauterising before the disease could spread farther this new plague spot which had appeared in England’s right arm. They must be hanged, morally innocent or not — it was a part of war, like the killing of Frenchmen who were possibly admirable husbands and fathers. But it would be as well not to let St. Vincent guess at his sentiments — the First Lord obviously hated mutineers just as mutineers, without troubling to think more deeply about their case.
“What orders do you have for me, my lord?” asked Hornblower.
“I’ll give you carte blanche,” replied St. Vincent. “A free hand. Bring Flame back safe and sound, and the mutineers along with her, and you can set about it any way you choose.”
“You will give me full powers — to negotiate, for instance, my lord?”
“I didn’t mean that, damn it,” replied St. Vincent. “I meant you could have any force you asked for. I could spare you three ships of the line, if you want them. A couple of frigates. Bomb-vessels. There’s even a rocket-vessel if you think you could use it — this fellow Congreve wants to see his rockets in action again.”
“It doesn’t appear to be the kind of situation in which great force would be of much use, my lord. Ships of the line would seem to be superfluous.”
“I know that too, damn it.” The struggle in St. Vincent’s mind was evident in his massive face. “Those insolent rascals can slip into the Seine’s mouth in two shakes of a duck’s tail at the first sign of danger to themselves. It’s brains that are needed here, I know. That’s why I sent for you, Hornblower.”
A nice compliment. Hornblower preened himself a little; he was talking here on terms almost of equality to one of the greatest admirals who had ever hoisted his flag, and the sensation was extraordinarily pleasant. And the internal pressure which was mounting inside the First Lord suddenly forced out of him a yet more astonishing statement.
“And the men like you, Hornblower,” exploded St. Vincent. “Damn it, I don’t know a man who doesn’t. They’ll follow you and listen to you. You’re one of the officers the men talk about among themselves. They trust you and expect things of you — so do I, damn it, as you can see.”
“But if I talk to the men it will imply that I am negotiating with them, my lord.”
“No negotiations with mutineers!” blared St. Vincent, striking the desk with a fist like a leg of mutton. “We had enough of that in ’94.”
“Then the carte blanche that you give me is no more than the usual naval officer’s orders, my lord,” said Hornblower.