Mr Midshipman Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“The bastard’s having a fit,” growled Jackson.

The kicking and writhing went on. Across the water through the darkness came a sharp scornful whisper.

“Mr Hornblower,” said the voice — it was Eccles putting a world of exasperation into his sotto voce question — “cannot you keep your men quiet?”

Eccles had brought the launch round almost alongside the oily boat to say this to him, and the desperate need for silence was dramatically demonstrated by the absence of any of the usual blasphemy; Hornblower could picture the cutting reprimand that would be administered to him to‑morrow publicly on the quarterdeck. He opened his mouth to make an explanation, but he fortunately realized that raiders in open boats did not make explanations when under the guns of the fortress of Blaye.

“Aye aye, sir,” was all he whispered back, and the launch continued on its mission of shepherding the flotilla in the tracks of the cutter,

“Take his oar, Jackson,” he whispered furiously to the coxswain, and he stooped and with his own hands dragged the writhing figure towards him and out of Jackson’s way.

“You might try pouring water on ‘im, sir,” suggested Jackson hoarsely, as he moved to the afterthwart. “There’s the baler ‘andy.”

Seawater was the seaman’s cure for every ill, his panacea; seeing how often sailors had not merely wet jackets but wet bedding as well they should never have a day’s illness. But Hornblower let the sick man lie. His struggles were coming to an end, and Hornblower wished to make no noise with the baler. The lives of more than a hundred men depended on silence. Now that they were well into the actual estuary they were within easy reach of cannon shot from the shore — and a single cannon shot would rouse the crew of the Papillon, ready to man the bulwarks to beat off the attack, ready to drop cannon balls into the boats alongside, ready to shatter approaching boats with a tempest of grape.

Silently the boats glided up the estuary; Soames in the cutter was setting a slow pace, with only an occasional stroke at the oars to maintain steerage way. Presumably he knew very well what he was doing; the channel he had selected was an obscure one between mudbanks, impracticable for anything except small boats, and he had a twenty‑foot pole with him with which to take the soundings — quicker and much more silent than using the lead. Minutes were passing fast, and yet the night was still utterly dark, with no hint of approaching dawn. Strain his eyes as he would Hornblower could not be sure that he could see the flat shores on either side of him. It would call for sharp eyes on the land to detect the little boats being carried up by the tide.

Hales at his feet stirred and then stirred again. His hand, feeling round in the darkness, found Hornblower’s ankle and apparently examined it with curiosity. He muttered something, the words dragging out into a moan.

“Shut up!” whispered Hornblower, trying, like the saint of old, to make a tongue of his whole body, that he might express the urgency of the occasion without making a sound audible at any distance. Hales set his elbow on Hornblower’s knee and levered himself up into a sitting position, and then levered himself further until he was standing, swaying with bent knees and supporting himself against Hornblower.

“Sit down, damn you!” whispered Hornblower, shaking with fury and anxiety.

“Where’s Mary?” asked Hales in a conversational tone.

“Shut up!”

“Mary!” said Hales, lurching against him. “Mary!”

Each successive word was louder. Hornblower felt instinctively that Hales would soon be speaking in a loud voice, that he might even soon be shouting. Old recollections of conversations with his doctor father stirred at the back of his mind; he remembered that persons emerging from epileptic kits were not responsible for their actions, and might be, and often were, dangerous.

“Mary!” said Hales again.

Victory and the lives of a hundred men depended on silencing Hales, and silencing him instantly. Hornblower thought of the pistol in his belt, and of using the butt, but there was another weapon more conveniently to his hand. He unshipped the tiller, a three‑foot bar of solid oak, and he swung it with all the venom and fury of despair. The tiller crashed down on Hales’ head, and Hales, an unuttered word cut short in his throat, fell silent in the bottom of the boat. There was no sound from the boat’s crew, save for something like a sigh from Jackson, whether approving or disapproving Hornblower neither knew nor cared. He had done his duty, and he was certain of it. He had struck down a helpless idiot; most probably he had killed him, but the surprise upon which the success of the expedition depended had not been imperilled. He reshipped the tiller and resumed the silent task of keeping in the wake of the gigs.

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