The Commodore. C. S. Forester

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hornblower was dining by himself. He had Gibbon securely wedged against the cheese-crock on the table before him, and his legs stretched out at ease under it. To-day he was indulging himself extraordinarily with a half-bottle of wine, and the sea pie from which he was about to help himself smelt most appetizing. It was one of those days when there was nothing wrong with the world at all, when he could allow himself to sway with the rhythm of the ship without any further thought, when food tasted good and wine delicious. He dug a spoon into the sea pie just at the moment when there was a knock on the door and a midshipman entered.

“Clam in sight to wind’ard, sir,” he said.

“Very good.”

Hornblower proceeded to transfer the sea pie from the dish to his plate, and as he spread out his helping to allow it to cool his mind began to rouse itself. Clam would be bringing news; she had been left at St Petersburg for the very purpose of waiting for news. Maybe Russia was at war with Bonaparte now. Or maybe Alexander had made the abject surrender which would be the only thing that could save him from war. Or maybe Alexander was dead, murdered by his officers as his father had been. It would be by no means the first time that a change in Russian policy had been ushered in by a palace revolution. Maybe — maybe anything, but the sea pie was growing cold. He applied himself to it, just as the midshipman knocked at the door again.

“Clam signals ‘Have despatches for Commodore’, sir.”

“How far off is she?”

“Hull-up to wind’ard, sir. We’re running down to her.”

“Make ‘Commodore to Clam. Send despatches on board as soon as practicable’.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was nothing surprising about Clam’s message; the surprise would have been if she carried no despatches. Hornblower found himself shovelling sea pie into his mouth as if the faster he ate it the faster the despatches would come. He checked himself and took sips of his wine, but neither wine nor food had any attraction for him. Brown came in and served him with cheese, and he munched and told himself he had dined well. Cocking his ear to the noises on the deck overhead he could guess there was a boat coming alongside, and directly afterwards one more knock on the door heralded the arrival of Lord Wychwood. Hornblower rose for him, offered him a chair, offered him dinner, took over the bulky canvas-wrapped despatch which Wychwood handed him, and signed a receipt for it. He sat with it on his knee for a moment.

“Well,” said Wychwood, “it’s war.”

Hornblower could not allow himself to ask, “War with whom?” He made himself wait.

“Alexander’s done it, or rather Boney has. Boney crossed the Niemen with fifteen army corps ten days back. No declaration of war, of course. That’s not the sort of courtesy one would expect of two potentates who have been blackguarding each other in every sheet in every language in Europe. War was inevitable the moment Alexander sent back his answer a month ago — the day before you left us. Now we’ll see.”

“Who’s going to win?”

Wychwood shrugged.

“I can’t imagine Boney being beaten. And from what I’ve heard the Russian Army did not show to advantage last year in Finland despite their reorganization. And Boney has half a million men marching on Moscow.”

Half a million men; the largest army the world had seen since Xerxes crossed the Hellespont.

“At least,” went on Wychwood, “it will keep Boney busy all this summer. Next year we’ll see — maybe he’ll lose so many men his people will bear it no longer.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Hornblower.

He took out his penknife and ripped open his despatch.

British Embassy,

St Petersburg

June 24th, 1812.

SIR,

The bearer of this despatch, Colonel Lord Wychwood, will inform you of affairs in this country and of the state of war which now exists between His Imperial Majesty the Tsar and Bonaparte, You will, of course, take all necessary steps to render all the assistance in your power to our new ally. I am informed, and have reason to believe, that while the main body of Bonaparte’s army is marching on Moscow, a very considerable detachment, believed to consist of the Prussian army corps and a French corps d’armée, the whole under the orders of Marshal Macdonald, Duke of Tarentum, altogether some 60,000 men, has been directed on the northern route towards St Petersburg. It is highly desirable that this army should be prevented from reaching its goal, and at the request of the Russian Imperial Staff I must call your attention to the possibility that your squadron may be able to give assistance at Riga, which the French must capture before continuing their march on St Petersburg. I wish to add my own advice to that of the Russian staff, and to press upon you as urgently as possible that you should give assistance at Riga for as long as may be compatible with your original orders.

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