This was a serious matter; he was being sent out on an extremely difficult task, and would have to bear all the odium of failure should he be unsuccessful. He had never imagined himself bandying arguments with a First Lord, yet here he was actually doing so, impelled by sheer necessity. He realised in a moment of clairvoyance that he was not arguing on behalf of himself, after all; he was not trying to safeguard his own interests. He was debating purely impersonally; the officer who was to be sent out to recapture Flame and whose future might depend upon the powers given him was not the Hornblower sitting in this carved chair, dressed in crimson and white silk, but some poor devil he was sorry for and whose interests he had at heart because they represented the national interests. Then the two beings merged together again, and it was he, Barbara’s husband, the man who had been at Lord Liverpool’s dinner-party last night and had a slight ache in the centre of his forehead today in consequence, who was to go out on this unpleasant task, where not a ha’porth of glory or distinction was to be won and the gravest risk was to be run of a fiasco which might make him the laughing-stock of the Navy and an object of derision through the country.
He studied St. Vincent’s expression again attentively; St. Vincent was no fool and there was a thinking brain behind that craggy brow — he was fighting against his prejudices, preparing to dispense with them in the course of his duty.
“Very well then, Hornblower,” said the First Lord at length. “I’ll give you full powers. I’ll have your orders drawn up to that effect. You will hold your appointment as Commodore, of course.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Hornblower.
“Here’s a list of the ship’s company,” went on St. Vincent. “We have nothing here against any of them. Nathaniel Sweet, bos’un’s mate — here’s his signature — was first mate of a Newcastle collier brig once — dismissed for drinking. Maybe he’s the ringleader. But it may be any of ’em.”
“Is the news of the mutiny public?”
“No. And please God it won’t be until the courtmartial flag is hoisted. Holden at Bembridge had the sense to keep his mouth shut. He put the master’s mate and the hands under lock and key the moment he heard their news. Dart’s sailing for Calcutta next week — I’ll ship ’em out in her. It’ll be months before the story leaks out.”
Mutiny was an infection, carried by words. The plague spot must be isolated until it could be cauterised.
St. Vincent drew a sheaf of papers to himself and took up his pen — a handsome turkey-feather with one of the newfangled gold nibs.
“What force do you require?”
“Something handy and small,” said Hornblower.
He had not the remotest idea how he was going to deal with this problem of recovering a vessel which had only to drop two miles to leeward to be irrecoverable, but his pride made him assume an appearance of self-confidence. He caught himself wondering if all men were like himself, putting on a brave show of moral courage when actually they felt weak and helpless — he remembered Suetonius’ remark about Nero, who believed all men to be privately as polluted as himself although they did not admit it publicly.
“There’s Porta Coeli,” said St. Vincent, raising his white eyebrows. “Eighteen-gun brig — sister to Flame, in fact. She’s at Spithead, ready to sail. Freeman’s in command — he had the cutter Clam under your command in the Baltic. He brought you home, didn’t he?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Would she serve?”
“I think so, my lord.”
“Pellew’s commanding the mid-Channel squadron. I’ll send him orders to let you have any help you may request.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Here he was, committing himself to a difficult — maybe an impossible — enterprise without any attempt to leave himself an avenue of retreat, neglecting utterly to sow any seed of future excuses which might be reaped to advantage in case of failure. It was utterly reckless of him, but that ridiculous pride of his, he knew, was preventing him. He could not use ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ to men like St. Vincent or to any man at all, for that matter. He wondered if it was because the First Lord’s recent compliments had gone to his head, or maybe it was because of the casual remark that he could ‘request’ help of Pellew, a Commander-in-Chief, who had been his captain twenty years ago when he was a midshipman. He decided it was not either of these reasons. Just his nonsensical pride.