“Yes, sir,” said the midshipman, a little abashed.
“That is Lieutenant Bush at the tiller. You will remain here with these men under his orders, while I go to interview your captain.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the midshipman, stiffening to attention.
The boat bore Hornblower to the Triumph’s side; the coxswain made the four-finger gesture which indicated the arrival of a captain, but marines and side-boys were not in attendance as Hornblower went up the side — the Navy could not risk wasting her cherished compliments on possible impostors. But Hardy was there on deck, his huge bulk towering over everyone round him; Hornblower saw the expression of his beefy face alter as he saw him.
“Good God, it’s Hornblower all right,” said Hardy, striding forward, with his hand outstretched. “Welcome back, sir. How do you come here, sir? How did you retake the Witch? How —”
What Hardy wanted to say was “How have you risen from the grave?” but such a question seemed to savour of impoliteness. Hornblower shook hands, and trod gratefully the quarterdeck of a ship of the line once more. His heart was too full for speech, or his brain was too numb with fatigue, and he could make no reply to Hardy’s questioning.
“Come below to my cabin,” said Hardy, kindly — phlegmatic though he was, he still could just appreciate the other’s difficulty.
There was more ease in the cabin, sitting on the cushioned locker under the portrait of Nelson that hung on the bulkhead, and with the timbers groaning faintly all round, and the blue sea visible through the great stern window. Hornblower told a little of what happened to him — not much, and not in detail; only half a dozen brief sentences, for Hardy was not a man with much use for words. He listened with attention, pulling at his whiskers, and nodding at each point.
“There was a whole Gazette,” he remarked, “about the attack in Rosas Bay. They brought Leighton’s body back for burial in St Paul’s.”
The cabin swam round Hornblower; Hardy’s homely face and magnificent whiskers vanished in a mist.
“He was killed, then?” Hornblower asked.
“He died of his wounds at Gibraltar.”
So Barbara was a widow — had been one for six months now.
“Have you heard anything of my wife?” asked Hornblower. The question was a natural one to Hardy, little use though he himself had for women; and he could see no connexion between it and the preceding conversation.
“I remember reading that she was awarded a Civil List pension by the government when the news of — of your death arrived.”
“No other news? There was a child coming.”
“None that I know of. I have been four months in this ship.”
Hornblower’s head sunk on his breast. The news of Leighton’s death added to the confusion of his mind. He did not know whether to be pleased or sorry about it. Barbara would be as unattainable to him as ever, and perhaps there would be all the jealous misery to endure of her re-marriage.
“Now,” said Hardy. “Breakfast?”
“There’s Bush and my coxswain in the cutter,” said Hornblower. “I must see that all is well with them first.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A midshipman came into the cabin as they ate breakfast.
“The fleet’s in sight from the masthead, sir,” he reported to Hardy.
“Very good.” As the midshipman went out again Hardy turned back to Hornblower. “I must report your arrival to His Lordship.”
“Is he still in command?” asked Hornblower, startled. It was a surprise to him that the government had left Admiral Lord Gambier in command of the Channel Fleet for three years, despite the disastrous waste of opportunity at the Basque Roads.
“He hauls down his flag next month,” said Hardy, gloomily. Most officers turned gloomy when discussing ‘Dismal Jimmy’. “They whitewashed him at the court martial, and had to leave him his full three years.”
A shade of embarrassment appeared in Hardy’s expression; he had let slip the mention of a court martial to a man who soon would endure the same ordeal.
“I suppose they had to,” said Hornblower, his train of thought following that of his fellow captain as he wondered if there would be any whitewash employed at his trial.
Hardy broke the embarrassed silence which followed.
“Would you care to come on deck with me?” he asked.
Over the horizon to leeward was appearing a long line of ships, closehauled. They were in rigid, regular line, and as Hornblower watched they went about in succession in perfect order, as if they were chained together. The Channel Fleet was at drill — eighteen years of drill at sea had given them their unquestioned superiority over any other fleet in the world.
“Victory’s in the van,” said Hardy, handing his glass to Hornblower. “Signal midshipman! I ‘Triumph to flag. Have on board —’.”
Hornblower looked through the glass while Hardy dictated his message. The three-decker with her admiral’s flag at the main was leading the long line of ships, the broad stripes on her side glistening in the sunlight. She had been Jervis’s flagship at St Vincent, Hood’s in the Mediterranean, Nelson’s at Trafalgar. Now she was Dismal Jimmy’s — a tragedy if ever there was one. Signal-hoists were soaring up to her yard-arms; Hardy was busy dictating replies.
“The Admiral is signalling for you to go on board, sir,” he said at last, turning back to Hornblower. “I trust you will do me the honour of making use of my barge?”
The Triumph’s barge was painted primrose yellow picked out with black, and so were the oarblades; her crew wore primrose-coloured jumpers with black neckcloths. As Hornblower took his seat, his hand still tingling with Hardy’s handclasp, he reminded himself gloomily that he had never been able to afford to dress his barge’s crew in a fancy rig-out; he always felt sore on the point. Hardy must be a wealthy man with his Trafalgar prize money and his pension as Colonel of Marines. He contrasted their situations — Hardy, a baronet, moneyed, famous, and he himself poor, undistinguished, and awaiting trial.
They piped the side for him in the Victory, as Admiralty regulations laid down — the marine guard at the present, the side-boys in white gloves to hand him up, the pipes of the boatswain’s mates all a-twittering; and there was a captain on the quarterdeck ready to shake hands with him — odd, that was to Hornblower, seeing that soon he would be on trial for his life.
“I’m Calendar, Captain of the Fleet,” he said. “His Lordship is below, waiting for you.”
He led the way below, extraordinarily affable.
“I was first of the Amazon,” he volunteered, “when you were in Indefatigable. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He had not risked a snub by saying so first.
“I remember you plainly,” said Calendar. “I remember hearing what Pellew had to say about you.”
Whatever Pellew said about him would be favourable — he had owed his promotion to Pellew’s enthusiastic recommendation — and it was pleasant of Calendar to remind him of it at this crisis of his career.
Lord Gambier’s cabin was not nearly as ornate as Captain Hardy’s had been — the most conspicuous item of furniture therein was the big brass-bound Bible lying on the table. Gambier himself, heavy-jowled, gloomy, was sitting by the stern window dictating to a clerk who withdrew on the arrival of the two captains.
“You can make your report verbally, sir, for the present,” said the Admiral.
Hornblower drew a deep breath and made the plunge. He sketched out the strategic situation at the moment when he took the Sutherland into action against the French squadron off Rosas. Only a sentence or two had to be devoted to the battle itself — these men had fought in battles themselves and could fill in the gaps. He described the whole crippled mass of ships drifting helpless up Rosas Bay to where the guns of the fortress awaited them, and the gunboats creeping out under oars.