There were light airs from the northwestward today, and it was the easiest matter in the world to stand down towards Brest; Hotspur was hardly rolling at all and was pitching only moderately. Hornblower was fast recovering his sea-legs and could trust himself to walk the deck, and could almost trust his stomach to retain its contents. There was a certain feeling of well-being that came with a remission from sea-sickness. The April air was keen and fresh, but not paralysingly cold; Hornblower’s gloves and heavy coat were barely necessary. In fact Hornblower found it hard to concentrate on his problems; he was willing to postpone their consideration, and he halted his step and looked across at Bush with a smile that brought the latter over with hurried steps.
“I suppose you have plans for exercising the crew, Mr Bush?”
“Yes, sir.” Bush did not say, “Of course, sir,” for he was too good a subordinate. But his eyes lit up, for there was nothing Bush enjoyed more than reefing topsails and unreeling them, sending down topgallant yards and sending them up again, rousting out cables and carrying them to a stern port in readiness to be used as a spring, and in fact rehearsing all the dozens — hundreds — of manoeuvres that weather or war might make necessary.
“Two hours of that will do for today, Mr Bush. I can only remember one short exercise at the guns?”
Tortured by sea-sickness while running down the Channel he could not be sure.
“Only one, sir.”
“Then after dinner we’ll have an hour at the guns. One of these days we might use them.”
“We might, sir,” said Bush.
Bush could face with equanimity the prospects of a war that would engulf the whole world.
The pipes of the bos’n’s mates called all hands, and very soon the exercises were well under way, the sweating sailors racing up and down the rigging tailing on to ropes under the urgings of the petty officers and amid a perfect cloud of profanity from Mr Wise. It was as well to drill the men, simply to keep them exercised, but there were no serious deficiencies to make up. Hotspur had benefited by being the very first ship to be manned after the press had been put into force. Of her hundred and fifty hands no fewer than a hundred were prime seamen, rated A.B. She had twenty ordinary seamen and only ten landsmen all told, and no more than twenty boys. It was an extraordinary proportion, one that would never be seen again as the manning of the fleet continued. Not only than but more than half the men had seen service in men o’ war before the Peace of Amiens. They were not only seamen, but Royal Navy seamen, who had hardly had time to make more than a single voyage in the merchant navy during the peace before being pressed again. Consequently most of them had had experience with ship’s guns; twenty or thirty of them had actually seen action. The result was that when the gun exercise was ordered they went to their stations in business-like fashion. Bush turned to Hornblower and touched his hat awaiting the next order.
“Thank you, Mr Bush. Order ‘silence’, if you please.”
The whistles pealed round the deck, and the ship fell deathly still.
“I shall now inspect, if you will be so kind as to accompany me, Mr Bush.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower began by glowering down at the starboard-side quarter-deck carronade. Everything was in order there, and he walked down into the waist to inspect the starboard-side nine-pounders. At each he stopped to look over the equipment. Cartridge, crowbar, hand-spike. Sponge, quoin. He passed on from gun to gun.
“What’s your station if the larboard guns are being worked?”
He had picked for questioning the youngest seaman visible, who moved uneasily from one foot to another finding himself addressed by the captain.
“Stand to attention, there!” bellowed Bush.
“What’s your station?” repeated Hornblower, quietly.
“O — over there, sir. I handle the rammer, sir.”
“I’m glad you know. If you can remember your station when the captain and the first lieutenant are speaking to you I can trust you to remember it when round-shot are coming in through the side.”
Hornblower passed on; a captain could always be sure of raising a laugh if he made a joke. Then he halted again.
“What’s this? Mr Cheeseman!”
“Sir.”
“You have an extra powder-horn here. There should be only one for every two guns.”
“Er — yessir. It’s because —”
“I know the reason. A reason’s no excuse, though, Mr Cheeseman. Mr Orrock! What powder-horns have you in your section? Yes, I see.”
Shifting No. 3 gun aft had deprived Orrock’s section of a powder-horn and given an additional one to Cheeseman’s.
“It’s the business of you young gentlemen to see that the guns in your section are properly equipped. You don’t have to wait for orders.”
Cheeseman and Orrock were two of the four ‘young gentlemen’ sent on board from the Naval College to be trained as midshipmen. Hornblower liked nothing he had seen as yet of any of them. But they were what he had to use as petty officers, and for his own sake he must train them into becoming useful lieutenants — his needs corresponded with his duty. He must make them and not break them.
“I’m sure I won’t have to speak to you young gentlemen again,” he said. He was sure he would, but a promise was better than a threat. He walked on, completing the inspection of the guns on the starboard-side. He went up to the forecastle to look at the two carronades there, and then back down the main-deck guns of the port side. He stopped at the marine stationed at the fore-hatchway.
“What are your orders?”
The marine stood stiffly at attention, feet at an angle of forty-five degrees, musket close in at his side, forefinger of the left hand along the seam of his trousers, neck rigid in its stock, so that, as Hornblower was not directly in front of him, he stared over Hornblower’s shoulder.
“To guard my post —” he began, and continued in a monotonous sing-song, repeating by rote the sentry’s formula which he had probably uttered a thousand times before. The change in his tone was marked when he reached the final sentence added for this particular station — “To allow no one to go below unless he is carrying an empty cartridge bucket.”
That was so that cowards could not take refuge below the water-line.
“What about men carrying wounded?”
The astonished marine found it hard to answer; he found it hard to think after years of drill.
“I have no orders about them, sir,” he said at last, actually allowing his eyes, though not his neck, to move.
Hornblower glanced at Bush.
“I’ll speak to the sergeant of marines, sir,” said Bush.
“Who’s on the quarter-bill to attend to the wounded?”
“Cooper and his mate, sir. Sailmaker and his mate. Four altogether, sir.”
Trust Bush to have all those details at his fingers’ ends, even though Hornblower had found two small points to find fault with, for which Bush was ultimately responsible. No need to stress chose matters with Bush — he was burning with silent shame.
Down the hatchway to the magazine. A candle glimmered faintly through the glass window of the light-room, throwing just enough light for powder boys to see what they were doing as they received loaded cartridges through the double serge curtains opening into the magazine; inside the magazine the gunner and his mate, wearing list slippers, were ready to pass out, and, if necessary, fill cartridges. Down the after hatchway to where the surgeon and his lob-lolly boy were ready to deal with the wounded. Hornblower knew that he himself might at some time be dragged in here with blood streaming from some shattered limb — it was a relief to ascend to the main-deck again.
“Mr Foreman,” — Foreman was another of the ‘young gentlemen’ — “what are your orders regarding lanterns during a night action?”