“Nothing of the sort,” raved Osborn, his portly form almost dancing on the deck. “I have protested, sir, and I shall continue to protest. I shall call the attention of the highest in the land to this outrage. I shall come from the ends of the earth, gladly, sir, to bear witness at your court martial. I shall not rest—I shall leave no stone unturned—I shall exert all my influence to have this crime punished as it deserves. I’ll have you cast in damages, sir, as well as broke.”
“But, Captain Osborn—” began Hornblower, changing his tune just in time to delay the dramatic departure which Osborn was about to make. From the tail of his eye Hornblower had seen the Sutherland’s boats pulling towards two more victims, having presumably stripped the first two of all possible recruits. As Hornblower began to hint at a possible change of mind on his part, Osborn rapidly lost his ill temper.
“If you restore the men, sir, I will gladly retract all I have said,” said Osborn. “Nothing more will be heard of the incident, I assure you.”
“But will you not allow me to ask for volunteers from among your crews, Captain?” pleaded Hornblower. “There may be a few men who would like to join the King’s service.”
“Well—yes, I will even agree to that. As you say, sir, you may find a few restless spirits.”
That was the height of magnanimity on Osborn’s part, although he was safe in assuming that there would be few men in his fleet foolish enough to exchange the comparative comfort of the East India Company’s service for the rigours of life in the Royal Navy.
“Your seamanship in that affair with the privateers, sir, was so admirable that I find it hard to refuse you anything,” said Osborn, pacifically. The Sutherland’s boats were alongside the last of the convoy now.
“That is very good of you, sir,” said Hornblower, bowing. “Allow me, then, to escort you into your gig. I will recall my boats. Since they will have taken volunteers first, we can rely upon it that they will have all the willing ones on board, and I shall return the unwilling ones. Thank you, Captain Osborn. Thank you.”
He saw Captain Osborn over the side and walked back to the quarterdeck. Rayner was eyeing him with amazement on account of his sudden volte-face, which gave him pleasure, for Rayner would be still more amazed soon. The cutter and launch, both of them as full of men as they could be, were running down now to rejoin, passing Osborn’s gig as it was making its slow course to windward. Through his glass Hornblower could see Osborn wave his arm as he sat in his gig; presumably he was shouting something to the boats as they went by. Bush and Gerard very properly paid him no attention. In two minutes they were alongside, and the men came pouring on deck, a hundred and twenty men laden with their small possessions, escorted by thirty of the Sutherland’s hands. They were made welcome by the rest of the crew all with broad grins. It was a peculiarity of the British pressed sailor that he was always glad to see other men pressed—in the same way, thought Hornblower, as the fox who lost his brush wanted all the other foxes to lose theirs.
Bush and Gerard had certainly secured a fine body of men; Hornblower looked them over as they stood in apathy, or bewilderment, or sullen rage, upon the Sutherland’s main deck. At no warning they had been snatched from the comfort of an Indiaman, with regular pay, ample food, and easy discipline, into the hardships of the King’s service, where the pay was problematic, the food bad, and where their backs were liable to be flogged to the bones at a simple order from their new captain. Even a sailor before the mast could look forward with pleasure to his visit to India, with all its possibilities; but these men were destined instead now to two years of monotony only varied by danger, where disease and the cannon balls of the enemy lay in wait for them.
“I’ll have those boats hoisted in, Mr. Rayner,” said Hornblower.
Rayner’s eyelids flickered for a second—he had heard Hornblower’s promise to Captain Osborn, and he knew that more than a hundred of the new arrivals would refuse to volunteer. The boats would only have to be hoisted out again to take them back. But if Hornblower’s wooden expression indicated anything at all, it was that he meant what he said.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Rayner.
Bush was approaching now, paper in hand, having agreed his figures regarding the recruits with Gerard.
“A hundred and twenty, total, sir, as you ordered,” said Bush. “One cooper’s mate—he was a volunteer, one hundred and nine able seamen—two of ‘em volunteered; six quarter gunners; four landsmen, all volunteers.”
“Excellent, Mr. Bush, Read ‘em in. Mr. Rayner, square away as soon as those boats are inboard. Mr. Vincent! Signal to the convoy. ‘All-men-have-volunteered. Thank you. Good-bye.’ You’ll have to spell out ‘volunteered’ but it’s worth it.”
Hornblower’s high spirits had lured him into saying an unecessary sentence. But when he took himself to task for it he could readily excuse himself. He had a hundred and twenty new hands, nearly all of them able seamen—the Sutherland had nearly her full complement now. More than that, he had guarded himself against the wrath to come. When the inevitable chiding letter arrived from the Admiralty he would be able to write back and say that he had taken the men with the East India Company’s Commodore’s permission; with any good fortune he could keep the ball rolling for another six months. That would give him a year altogether in which to convince the new hands that they had volunteered—by that time some of them at least might be sufficiently enamoured of their new life to swear to that; enough of them to befog the issue, and to afford to an Admiralty, prepared of necessity to look with indulgence on breaches of the pressing regulations, a loophole of excuse not to prosecute him too hard.
“Lord Mornington replying, sir,” said Vincent. “’Do not understand the signal. Await boat’!”
“Signal ‘Good-bye’ again,” said Hornblower.
Down on the maindeck Bush had hardly finished reading through the Articles of War to the new hands—the necessary formality to make them servants of the King, submissive to the hangman and the cat.
Chapter IX
The Sutherland had reached her rendezvous off Palamos Point, apparently the first of the squadron, for there was no sign as yet of the flagship or of the Caligula. As she beat slowly up under easy sail against the gentle south-easterly wind Gerard was taking advantage of this period of idleness to exercise the crew at the guns. Bush had too long had his way in drilling the crew aloft; it was time for practice with the big guns, as Hornblower had agreed. Under the scorching sun of a Mediterranean midsummer the men, naked to the waist, had sweated rivers running the guns out and in again, training round with handspikes, each man of the crew learning the knack of the flexible rammer—all the mechanical drill which every man at the guns had to learn until he could be trusted to run up, fire, clean, and reload, and to go on doing so for hour after hour, in thick powder smoke and with death all round him. Drill first, marksmanship a long way second, but all the same it was policy to allow the men to fire off the guns a few times—they found compensation in that for the arduous toil at the guns.
A thousand yards to port the quarter boat was bobbing over the glittering sea. There was a splash, and then they could see the black dot of the cask she had thrown overboard before pulling hastily out of the line of fire.
“No. 1 gun!” bellowed Gerard. “Take your aim! Cock your locks! Fire—stop your vents!”
The foremost eighteen-pounder roared out briefly while a dozen glasses looked for the splash.