“Hotspur‘s marines! Line the barricade. Get into the boats, you others!”
Twelve marines knelt at the barricade; twelve muskets levelled themselves over it. At the sight of them the pursuing French hesitated, tried to halt.
“Aim low!” shouted the marine lieutenant hoarsely.
“Go back and get the men into the boats, Mr What’s-your-name,” snapped Hornblower. “Have the launch ready to cast off, while you shove off in the yawl and get away.”
The French were coming forward again; Hornblower looked back and saw the lieutenant drop off the jetty on the heels of the last marine.
“Now sergeant. Let ‘em have it.”
“Fire!” said the sergeant.
That was a good volley, but there was not a moment to admire it.
“Come on!” yelled Hornblower. “Over to the launch!”
With the weight of Hotspur‘s marines leaping into it the launch was drifting away by the time he was at the edge; there was a yard of black water for Hornblower to leap over, but his feet reached the gunnel and he pitched forward among the men clustered there; he luckily remembered to drop Côtard’s sword so that he fell harmlessly into the bottom of the boat without wounding anyone. Oars and boat-books thrust against the jetty and the launch surged away while Hornblower scrambled into the stern sheets. He almost stepped on Côtard’s face; Côtard was lying apparently unconscious on the bottom boards.
Now the oars were grinding in the rowlocks. They were twenty yards away, thirty yards away, before the first Frenchmen came yelling along the jetty, to stand dancing with rage and excitement on the very edge of the masonry. For an invaluable second or two they even forgot the muskets in their hands. In the launch the huddled men raised their voices in a yell of derision that excited Hornblower’s cold rage.
“Silence! Silence, all of you!”
The stillness that fell on the launch was more unpleasant than the noise. One or two muskets banged off on the jetty, and Hornblower, looking over his shoulder, saw a French soldier drop on one knee and take deliberate aim, saw him choose a target, saw the musket barrel fore-shorten until the muzzle was pointed directly at him. He was wildly contemplating throwing himself down into the bottom of the boat when the musket went off. He felt a violent jar through his body, and realized with relief that the bullet had burried itself in the solid oak transom of the launch against which he was sitting. He recovered his wits; looking forward he saw Hewitt trying to force his way aft to his side and he spoke to him as calmly as his excitement permitted.
“Hewitt! Get for’ard to the gun. It’s loaded with grape. Fire when it bears.” Then he spoke to the oarsmen and to Cargill at the tiller. “Hard-a-port. Starboard-side oars, back water.”
“Port side, back water.”
The launch ceased to turn; she was pointed straight at the jetty, and Hewitt, having shoved the other men aside, was cold-bloodedly looking along the sights of the four-pounder carronade mounted in the bows, fiddling with the elevating coign. Then he leaned over to one side and pulled the lanyard. The whole boat jerked sternwards abruptly with the recoil, as though when underway she had struck a rock, and the smoke came back round them in a sullen pall.
“Give way, starboard side! Pull! Hard-a-starboard!” The boat turned ponderously. “Give way, port side!”
Nine quarter pound grapeshot-balls had swept through the group on the jetty; there were struggling figures, quiescent figures, lying there. Bonaparte had a quarter of a million soldiers under arms, but he had now lost some of them. It could not be called a drop out of the bucketful, but perhaps a molecule. Now they were out of musket shot, and Hornblower turned to Cargill in the stern sheets beside him.
“You managed your part of the business well enough, Mr Cargill.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cargill had been appointed by Hornblower to land with the marines and to take charge of the boats and prepare them for the evacuation.
“But it might have been better if you’d sent the launch away first and kept the yawl back until the last. Then the launch could have lain off and covered the others with her gun.”
“I thought of that, sir. But I couldn’t be sure until the last moment how many men would be coming down in the last group. I had to keep the launch for that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Hornblower, grudgingly, and then, his sense of justice prevailing, “In fact I’m sure you’re right.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cargill again, and, after a pause, “I wish you had let me come with you, sir.”
Some people had queer tastes, thought Hornblower bitterly to himself, having regard to Côtard lying unconscious with a shattered arm at their feet, but he had to smooth down ruffled feelings in these touchy young men thirsting for honour and for the promotion that honour might bring.
“Use your wits, man,” he said, bracing himself once more to think logically. “Someone had to be in charge on the jetty, and you were the best man for the job.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cargill all over again, but still wistfully, and therefore still idiotically.
A sudden thought struck Hornblower, and he turned and stared back over his shoulder. He actually had to look twice, although he knew what he was looking for. The silhouette of the hills had changed. Then he saw a wisp of black smoke still rising from the summit. The semaphore was gone. The towering thing that had spied on their movements and had reported every disposition of the Inshore Squadron was no more. Trained British seamen and riggers and carpenters could not replace it — if they had such a job to do — in less than a week’s work. Probably the French would take two weeks at least; his own estimate would be three.
And there was Hotspur waiting for them, main-topsail aback, as he had seen her half an hour ago; half an hour that seemed like a week. The lobster-boat and the yawl were already going round to her port side, and Cargill steered for her starboard side; in these calm waters and with such a gentle wind there was no need for the boats to be offered a lee.
“Oars!” said Cargill, and the launch ran alongside, and there was Bush looking down on them from close overhead. Hornblower seized the entering-ropes and swung himself up. It was his right as captain to go first, and it was also his duty. He cut Bush’s congratulations short.
“Get the wounded out as quick as you can, Mr Bush. Send a stretcher down for Mr Côtard.”
“Is he wounded, sir?”
“Yes.” Hornblower had no desire to enter into unnecessary explanations. “You’ll have to lash him to it and then sway the stretcher up with a whip from the yardarm. His arm’s in splinters.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Bush by now had realized that Hornblower was in no conversational mood.
“The surgeon’s ready?”
“He’s started work, sir.”
A wave of Bush’s hand indicated a couple of wounded men who had come on board from the yawl and were being supported below.
“Very well.”
Hornblower headed for his cabin; no need to explain that he had his report to write; no need to make excuses. But as always after action he yearned for the solitude of his cabin even more than he yearned to sink down and forget his weariness. But at the second step he pulled up short. This was not a neat clean end to the venture. No peace for him at the moment, and he swore to himself under this final strain, using filthy black blasphemies such as he rarely employed.
He would have to deal with Grimes, and instantly. He must make up his mind about what he should do. Punish him? Punish a man for being a coward? That would be like punishing a man for having red hair. Hornblower stood first on one foot and then on the other, unable to pace, yet striving to goad his weary mind to further action. Punish Grimes for showing cowardice? That was more to the point. Not that it would do Grimes any good, but it would deter other men from showing cowardice. There were officers who would punish, not in the interests of discipline, but because they thought punishment should be inflicted in payment for crime, as sinners had to go to Hell. Hornblower would not credit himself with the divine authority some officers thought natural.