Mr Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester

“Mr Mallory, get that forestay spliced!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

It was light enough to look round the deck now; he could see Eccles at the break of the poop, directing the handling of the corvette, and Soames beside the wheel conning her down the channel. Two groups of red-coated marines, with bayonets taxed, stood guard over the hatchways. There were four or five men lying on the deck in curiously abandoned attitudes. Dead men; Hornblower could look at them with the callousness of youth. But there was a wounded man, too, crouched groaning over his shattered thigh — Hornblower could not look at him as disinterestedly, and he was glad, maybe only for his own sake, when at that moment a seaman asked for and received permission from Mallory to leave his duties and attend to him.

“Stand by to go about!” shouted Eccles from the poop; the corvette had reached the tip of the middle ground shoal and was about to make the turn that would carry her into the open sea.

The men came running to the braces, and Hornblower tailed on along with them. But the first contact with the harsh rope gave him such pain that he almost cried out. His hands were like raw meat, and fresh-killed at that, for blood as running from them. Now that his attention was called to them they smarted unbearably.

The headsail sheets came over, and the corvette went handily about.

“There’s the old Indy!” shouted somebody,

The Indefatigable was plainly visible now, lying-to just out of shot from the shore batteries, ready to rendezvous with her prize. Somebody cheered, and the cheering was taken up by everyone, even while the last shots from St Dye, fired at extreme range, pitched sullenly into the water alongside. Hornblower had gingerly extracted his handkerchief from his pocket and was trying to wrap it round his hand.

“Can I help you with that, sir?” asked Jackson.

Jackson shook his head as he looked at the raw surface.

“You was careless, sir. You ought to ‘a gone down ‘and over ‘and,” he said, when Hornblower explained to him how the injury had been caused. “Very careless, you was, beggin’ your pardon for saying so, sir. But you young gennelmen often is. You don’t ‘ave no thought for your necks, nor your ‘ides, sir.”

Hornblower looked up at the maintopsail yard high above his head, and remembered how he had walked along that slender stick of timber out to the yardarm in the dark. At the recollection of it, even here with the solid deck under his feet, he shuddered a little.

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to ‘urt you,” said Jackson, tying the knot. “There, that’s done, as good as I can do it, sir.”

“Thank you, Jackson,” said Hornblower.

“We got to report the jolly boat as lost, sir,” went on Jackson.

“Lost?”

“She ain’t towing alongside, sir. You see, we didn’t leave no boatkeeper in ‘er. Wells, ‘e was to be boatkeeper, you remember, sir. But I sent ‘im up the rigging a’head o’ me, seeing that ‘Ales couldn’t go. We wasn’t too many for the job. So the jolly boat must ‘a come adrift, sir, when the ship went about.”

“What about Hales, then?” asked Hornblower.

“‘E was still in the boat, sir.”

Hornblower looked back up the estuary of the Gironde. Somewhere up there the jolly boat was drifting about, and lying in it was Hales, probably dead, possibly alive. In either case the French would find him, surely enough, but a cold wave of regret extinguished the warm feeling of triumph in Hornblower’s bosom when he thought about Hales back there. If it had not been for Hales he would never have nerved himself (so at least he thought) to run out to the maintopsail yardarm; he would at this moment be ruined and branded as a coward instead of basking in the satisfaction of having capably done his duty.

Jackson saw the bleak look in his face.

“Don’t you take on so, sir,” he said. “They won’t ‘old the loss of the jolly boat agin you, not the captain and Mr Eccles, they won’t.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the jolly boat,” said Hornblower. “I was thinking about Hales.”

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