Livingstone paused. His unshaven face was grey with fatigue, and when he mentioned the explosion his expression changed to one of helplessness.
“It was the powder-barges higher up the river, sir. I don’t know who set them off. Maybe it was a shot from the shore. Maybe Cap’n Bush, sir—”
“You had not been in touch with Captain Bush since the attack began?”
“No, sir. He was at the other end of the line to me, and the barges were in two groups against the bank. I attacked one, an’ Cap’n Bush attacked the other.”
“I understand. Go on about the explosion.”
“It was a big one, sir. It threw us all down. A big wave came an’ swamped us, filled us to the gunnels, sir. I think we touched the bottom of the river, sir, after that wave went by. A bit of flying wreckage hit Flame’s boat. Gibbons, master’s mate, was killed an’ the boat smashed. We picked up the survivors while we bailed out. Nobody was firing at us from the bank any more, so I waited. It was just the top of the tide, sir. Presently two boats came down to us, Camilla’s second launch and the fishing-boat that the marines manned. We waited, but we could not see anything of Nonsuch’s boats. Mr. Hake of the marines told me that Cap’n Bush an’ the other three boats were all alongside the powder-barges when the explosion happened. Perhaps a shot went into the cargo, sir. Then they began to open fire on us from the bank again, and as senior officer I gave the order to retire.”
“Most likely you did right, Mr. Livingstone. And then?”
“At the next bend they opened fire on us with field-pieces, sir. Their practice was bad in the dark, sir, but they hit and sank our second launch with almost their last shot, and we lost several more men—the current was running fast by then.”
That was clearly the end of Livingstone’s story, but Hornblower could not dismiss him without one more word.
“But Captain Bush, Mr. Livingstone? Can’t you tell me any more about him?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t pick up a single survivor from the Nonsuch’s boats. Not one.”
“Oh, very well then, Mr. Livingstone. You had better go and get some rest. I think you did very well.”
“Let me have your report in writing and list of casualties before the end of the day, Mr. Livingstone,” interposed Dobbs—as Assistant-Adjutant-General he lived in an atmosphere of reports and Lists of casualties.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Livingstone withdrew, and the door had hardly closed upon him before Hornblower regretted having let him go with such chary words of commendation. The operation had been brilliantly successful. Deprived of his siege-train and munitions, Quiot would not be able to besiege Le Havre, and it would probably be a long time before Bonaparte’s War Ministry in Paris could scrape together another train. But the loss of Bush coloured all Hornblower’s thoughts. He found himself wishing that he had never conceived the plan—he would rather have stood a siege here in Le Havre and have Bush alive at his side. It was hard to think of a world without Bush in it, of a future where he would never, never see Bush again. People would think the loss of a captain and a hundred and fifty men a small price to pay for robbing Quiot of all his offensive power, but people did not understand.
Dobbs and Howard were sitting glum and silent when he glanced at them; they respected his sorrow. But the sight of their deferential gloom roused Hornblower’s contrariness. If they expected him to be upset and unable to work, he would show them how mistaken they were.
“I’ll see those court-martial reports now, Captain Howard, if you please.”
The busy day’s work began; it was possible to think clearly, to make decisions, to work as if nothing had happened, despite the feeling of being drained dry by unhappiness. Not merely that; it was even possible to think of new plans.
“Go and find Hau,” he said to Howard. “Tell him I’d like to see the Duke for a moment.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Howard rose to his feet. He allowed himself a grin and a twinkle as he pompously reworded Hornblower’s language.
“Sir Horatio solicits the favour of a short audience with His Royal Highness if His Royal Highness will be so kind as to condescend to receive him.”
“That’s right,” said Hornblower, smiling in spite of himself. It was even possible to smile.
The Duke received him standing, warming the royal back before a cheerful fire.
“I do not know,” began Hornblower, “if Your Royal Highness is acquainted with the circumstances which first brought me to the waters on this part of the coast.”
“Tell me about them,” said the Duke. Maybe it was not etiquette for royalty to admit ignorance on any subject. The Duke’s attitude did not seem to convey a feeling of much interest in any case.
“There was a mutiny in one of His Majesty’s—one of His Britannic Majesty’s—ships of war.”
“Indeed?”
“I was sent to deal with it, and I succeeded in capturing the vessel and most of the mutineers, Your Royal Highness.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
“Some twenty of them were tried, convicted, and have now been sentenced to death.”
“Excellent.”
“I would be glad not to carry those sentences out, Your Royal Highness.”
“Indeed?” His Royal Highness was not apparently greatly interested—a yawn seemed to be hesitating only just inside the royal lips.
“As far as my service is concerned, it is impossible for me to pardon the men without the gravest prejudice to discipline, Your Royal Highness.”
“Quite so. Quite so.”
“But if Your Royal Highness were to intervene on behalf of the men, I might then be able to pardon them without prejudice to discipline, being in a position where I can deny Your Royal Highness nothing.”
“And why should I intervene, Sir ‘Oratio?”
Hornblower sidestepped the question for the moment.
“Your Royal Highness could take the stand that it would be unfitting that the opening days of the return of the Dynasty to France should be marred by the shedding of the blood of Englishmen, however guilty. It would then be possible for me to pardon them, with a great show of reluctance. Men tempted to mutiny in the future would not have their temptation greatly increased by the hope of a similar event saving them from the consequences of their actions—the world will never again be so fortunate as to see a return of Your Royal Highness’s family to its legitimate position.”
This last was a clumsy compliment, clumsily worded and susceptible to misunderstanding, but luckily the Duke took it in the spirit in which it was ostensibly meant. Nevertheless, he hardly seemed enthusiastic; he went back to his original point with Bourbon stubbornness.
“But why should I do this, Sir ‘Oratio?”
“In the name of common humanity, Your Royal Highness. There are twenty lives to be saved, the lives of useful men.”
“Useful men? Mutineers? Presumably Jacobins, revolutionaries, equalitarians—even Socialists!”
“They are men who lie in irons today and expect to be hanged tomorrow, Your Royal Highness.”
“As I have no doubt whatever, they deserve, Sir ‘Oratio. It would be a fine beginning to the Regency with which His Most Christian Majesty has entrusted me if my first public act should be to solicit the lives of a parcel of revolutionaries. His Most Christian Majesty has not spent the past twenty-one years combating the spirit of revolution for that. The eyes of the world are upon me.”