Copy of a letter from Vice Admiral Sir William Cornwallis to Sir Evan Nepean, Bart., dated on board of HMS Hibernia, the 2nd instant.
Next came Cornwallis’s letter.
Sir,
I herewith transmit for their Lordships’ information, copies of letters I have received from Captains Chambers of HMS Naiad and Hornblower of HM Sloop Hotspur, acquainting me of the capture of the French national frigate Clorinde and of the defeat of an attempt by the French to escape from Brest with a large body of Troops. The conduct of both these officers appears to me to be highly commendable. I enclose also a copy of a letter I have received from Captain Smith of HMS Doris.
I have the honour to be, with deepest respect,
Your ob’d’t serv’t,
Wm. Cornwallis.
Chambers’ report came next. Naiad had caught Clorinde near Molene and had fought her to a standstill, capturing her in forty minutes. Apparently the other French frigate which had come out with the transports had escaped by the Raz du Sein and had still not been caught.
Then at last came his own report. Hornblower felt the flush of excitement he had known before on reading his own words in print. He studied them afresh at this interval, and was grudgingly satisfied. They told, without elaboration, the bare facts of how three transports had been run ashore in the Goulet, and of how Hotspur while attacking a fourth had been in action with a French frigate and had lost her foremast. Not a word about saving Ireland from invasion; the merest half-sentence about the darkness and the snow and the navigational perils, but men who could understand would understand.
Smith’s letter from the Doris was brief, too. After meeting Hotspur he had pushed in towards Brest and had found a French frigate, armed en flute, aground on the Trepieds with shore boats taking off her troops. Under the fire of the French coastal batteries Doris had sent in her boats and had burned her.
“There’s something more in the Chronicle that might interest you, dear,” said Hornblower. He proffered the magazine with his finger indicating his letter.
“Another letter from you, dear!” said Maria. “How pleased you must be!”
She read the letter quickly.
“I haven’t had time to read this before,” she said, looking up. “Little Horatio was so fractious. And — and — I never understand all these letters, dear. I hope you are proud of what you did. I’m sure you are, of course.”
Luckily little Horatio set up a wail at that moment to save Hornblower from a specific answer to that speech. Maria pacified the baby and went on.
“The shopkeepers will know about this tomorrow and they’ll all speak to me about it.”
The door opened to admit Mrs Mason, her pattens clattering on her feet, raindrops sparkling on her shawl. She and Hornblower exchanged ‘good evenings’ while she took off her outer clothing.
“Let me take that child,” said Mrs Mason to her daughter.
“Horry has another letter in the Chronicle,” countered Maria.
“Indeed?”
Mrs Mason sat down across the fire from Hornblower and studied the page with more care than Maria had done, but perhaps with no more understanding.
“The Admiral says your conduct was ‘very Commendable’,” she said, looking up.
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t he make you a real captain, ‘post’, as you call it?”
“The decision doesn’t lie with him,” said Hornblower. “And I doubt if he would in any case.”
“Can’t admirals make captains?”
“Not in home waters.”
The god-like power of promotion freely exercised on distant stations was denied to commanders-in-chief where speedy reference to the Admiralty was possible.
“And what about prize money?”
“There’s none for the Hotspur.”
“But this — this Clorinde was captured?”
“Yes, but we weren’t in sight.”
“But you were fighting, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs Mason. But only ships in sight share in prize money. Except for the flag officers.”
“And aren’t you a flag officer?”
“No. Flag officer means ‘Admiral’, Mrs Mason.”
Mrs Mason sniffed.
“It all seems very strange. So you do not profit at all by this letter?”
“No, Mrs Mason.” At least not in the way Mrs Mason meant. “It’s about time you made some prize money. I hear all the time about the ships that have made thousands. Eight pounds a month for Maria, and her with a child.” Mrs Mason looked round at her daughter. “Threepence a pound for neck of mutton! The cost of things is more than I can understand.”
“Yes, mother. Horry gives me all he can, I’m sure.”
As captain of a ship below the sixth rate Hornblower’s pay was twelve pounds a month, and he still needed those new uniforms. Prices were rising with war-time demand, and the admiralty, despite many promises, had not yet succeeded in obtaining an increase in pay for naval officers.
“Some captains make plenty,” said Mrs Mason.
It was prize money, and the possibility of gaining it, that kept the Navy quiet under the otherwise intolerable conditions. The great mutinies at Spithead and the Nore were less than ten years old. But Hornblower felt he would be drawn into a defence of the prize money system shortly if Mrs Mason persisted in talking as she did. Luckily the entrance of the landlady to lay the table for supper changed the subject of conversation. With another person in the room neither Mrs Mason nor Maria would discuss such a low subject as money, and they talked about indifferent matters instead. They sat down to dinner when the landlady brought in a steaming tureen.
“The pearl barley’s at the bottom, Horatio,” said Mrs Mason, supervising him as he served the food.
“Yes, Mrs Mason.”
“And you’d better give Maria that other chop — that one’s meant for you.”
“Yes, Mrs Mason.”
Hornblower had learned to keep a still tongue in his head under the goadings of tyranny when he was a lieutenant in the old Renown under Captain Sawyer’s command, but he had well-nigh forgotten those lessons by now, and was having painfully to relearn them. He had married of his own free will — he could have said ‘no’ at the altar, he remembered — and now he had to make the best of a bad business. Quarrelling with his mother-in-law would not help. It was a pity that Hotspur had come in for docking at the moment when Mrs Mason had arrived to see her daughter through her confinement, but he need hardly fear a repetition of the coincidence during the days — the endless days — to come.
Stewed mutton and pearl barley and potatoes and cabbage. It might have been a very pleasant dinner, except that the atmosphere was unfavourable; in two senses. The room, with its sea-coal fire, was unbearably hot. Thanks to the rain no washing could be hung out of doors, and Hornblower doubted if in the vicinity of Driver’s Alley washing could be hung out of doors unwatched in any case. So that on a clothes-horse on the other side of the room hung little Horatio’s clothing, and somehow nature arranged it that every stitch little Horatio wore had to be washed, as often as several times a day. Hanging on the horse were the long embroidered gowns, and the long flannel gowns with their scalloped borders, and the flannel shirts, and the binders, as well as the innumerable napkins that might have been expected to sacrifice themselves, like a rearguard, in the defence of the main body. Hornblower’s wet oilskins and Mrs Mason’s wet shawl added variant notes to the smells in the room, and Hornblower suspected that little Horatio, now in the cradle beside Maria’s chair, added yet another.