“What’s the matter with you?” he blazed out, and with the last word understanding came to him.
That extinguishing of the fuse appeared to them in monstrous disproportion, as something heroic, even perhaps as something magnificent. They did not see it in its true light as the obvious thing to do, indeed the only thing to do; nor did they know of the instinctive flash of action that had followed his observation of that remaining one-eighth of an inch of fuse. All there was to his credit was that he had seen and acted quicker than they. He had not been brave, and most certainly not heroic.
He returned the glance of his subordinates, and with all his senses still keyed up to the highest pitch he realized that this was the moment of the conception of a legend, that the wildest tales would be told later about this incident, and he was suddenly hideously embarrassed. He laughed, and before the laugh was finished he knew it was a self-conscious laugh, the motiveless laugh of an idiot, and he was angrier than ever with himself and with Chambers of the Naiad and with the whole world. He wanted to be away from all this, back in the approaches to Brest doing his proper work and not engaged in these hare-brained actions that did not forward the defeat of Bonaparte an iota.
Then another thought struck him, occasioned by the discovery that the fuse had burned a hole in his right hand glove. Those were the gloves Maria had given him on that dark morning when he had walked with her from the George to take Hotspur to sea.
Chapter 19
In the Iroise, comfortably sheltered with the wind to the east of south, Hotspur was completing her stores again. This was the second time since her refitting in Plymouth that she had gone through this laborious process, refilling her casks from the water-hoys, replacing the empty beef and pork barrels from the victuallers, and coaxing all the small stores she could from the itinerant slop-ship that Cornwallis had put into commission. She had been six months continuously at sea, and was now ready for three more.
Hornblower watched with something of relief the slop-ship bearing away; that six months at sea had barely been sufficient to get his ship clear of all the plagues that had come on board at Plymouth; disease, bed bugs, fleas and lice. The bed bugs had been the worst; they had been hunted from one hiding place in the woodwork to another, scorched with smouldering oakum, walled in with the paint, time after time, and each time that he had thought he had extirpated the pests some unfortunate seaman would approach his division officer and with a knuckling of his forehead would report, “Please, sir, I think I’ve got ‘em this time.”
He had seven letters from Maria to read — he had opened the last one already to make sure that she and little Horatio were well — and he had already completed this task when Bush came knocking at his door. Sitting at the chart-table Hornblower listened to what Bush had to report; trifles, only, and Hornblower wondered at Bush disturbing his captain about them. Then Bush produced something from his side pocket, and Hornblower, with a sigh, knew what had been the real object of this visit. It was the latest number of the Naval Chronicle, come on board with the mail; the wardroom mess subscribed to it jointly. Bush thumbed through the pages, and then laid the open magazine before him, a gnarled finger indicating the passage he had found. It only took Hornblower a couple of minutes to read it; Chambers’ report to Cornwallis on the affray off Aber Wrack, which apparently had been published in the Gazette to inform the public regarding the circumstances in which Grasshopper had been lost. Bush’s finger pointed again to the last four lines. ‘Captain Hornblower informs me that Hotspur suffered no casualties although she was struck by a five-inch shell which did considerable damage aloft but which fortunately failed to explode.’
“Well, Mr Bush?” Hornblower put a stern lack of sympathy in his voice to warn Bush as much as he could.
“It isn’t right, sir.”
This routine of serving so close to home had serious disadvantages. It meant that in only two or three months the fleet would be reading what had appeared in the Gazette and the newspapers, and it was extraordinary how touchy men were about what was written about them. It could well be subversive of discipline, and Hornblower meant to deal with that possibility from the start.
“Would you kindly explain, Mr Bush?”
Bush was not to be deterred. He blunderingly repeated himself. “It isn’t right, sir.”
“Not right? Do you mean that it wasn’t a five-inch shell?”
“No, sir. It …”
“Do you imply that it didn’t do considerable damage aloft?”
“Of course it did, sir, but …”
“Perhaps you’re implying that the shell really did explode?”
“Oh no, sir. I …”
“Then I fail to see what you are taking exception to, Mr Bush.”
It was highly unpleasant to be cutting and sarcastic with Mr Bush, but it had to be done. Yet Bush was being unusually obstinate.
“‘T’isn’t right, sir. ‘T’isn’t fair. ‘T’isn’t fair to you, sir, or the ship.”
And there was Bush looking at him with bewildered eyes and still stubborn.
“‘T’isn’t fair, sir,” he repeated.
“Didn’t you hear my order, Mr Bush? I want to hear no more about this. Please leave this cabin at once.”
It was horrible to see Bush shamble out of the cabin, hurt and depressed. The trouble with Bush was that he had no imagination; he could not envisage the other side. Hornblower could — he could see before his eyes at that moment the words he would have written if Bush had had his way. ‘The shell fell on the deck and with my own hands I extinguished the fuse when it was about to explode.’ He could never have written such a sentence. He could never have sought for public esteem by writing it. Moreover, and more important, he would scorn the esteem of a public who could tolerate a man who would write such words. If by some chance his deeds did not speak for themselves he would never speak for them. The very possibility revolted him, and he told himself that this was not a matter of personal taste, but a well-weighed decision based on the good of the service; and in that respect he was displaying no more imagination than Bush.
Then he caught himself up short. This was all lies, all self-deception, refusal to face the truth. He had just flattered himself that he had more imagination than Bush; more imagination, perhaps, but far less courage. Bush knew nothing of the sick horror, the terrible moment of fear which Hornblower had experienced when that shell dropped. Bush did not know how his admired captain had had a moment’s vivid mental picture of being blown into bloody rags by the explosion, how his heart had almost ceased to beat — the heart of a coward. Bush did not know the meaning of fear, and he could not credit his captain with that knowledge either. And so Bush would never know why Hornblower had made so light of the incident of the shell, and why he had been so irascible when it was discussed. But Hornblower knew, and would know, whenever he could bring himself to face facts.
There were orders being bellowed on the quarter-deck, a rush of bare feet over the planking, a clatter of ropes against woodwork, and Hotspur was beginning to lean over on a new course. Hornblower was at the cabin door bent on finding out what was the meaning of this activity which he had not ordered, when he found himself face to face with Young.
“Signal from the Flag, sir. ‘Hotspur report to Commander-in-chief’.”
“Thank you.”
On the quarter-deck Bush touched his hat.
“I put the ship about as soon as we read the signal, sir,” he explained.
“Very good, Mr Bush.”
When a commander-in-chief demanded the presence of a ship no time was to be wasted even to inform the captain.