“Sir Hornblower,” he announced, having shut the door. The big man in the vaguely naval uniform, with epaulettes and a string of orders across his breast, must be the Minister of Marine; he came forward cordially, speaking fair French and with a courtly apology for not speaking English. But in the far corner of the room was another figure, tall and slender, in a beautiful light-blue uniform. He was strikingly handsome, but as though he came from another world; the ivory pallor of his cheeks, accentuated by his short black side-whiskers, was more unnatural than unhealthy. He made no move as he sat stiffly upright in the dark corner, his finger-tips resting on a low table before him, and neither of the Russian officials gave any overt sign of acknowledging his presence, but Hornblower knew that it was the Tsar; thinking quickly, he realized that if the Tsar’s own officials pretended the Tsar was not there, then he could do no less. He kept his eyes on the Minister of Marine’s.
“I trust,” said the latter, “that I see you in good health?”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. “I am in the best of health.”
“And your squadron?”
“That is in the best of health too, Your Excellency.”
“Does it need anything?”
Hornblower had to think quickly again. On the one hand was the desire to appear utterly independent, but on the other there was the nagging knowledge that water would soon be running short. Every commanding officer, whether of ships or squadron, carried always at the back of his mind the vital, urgent need for renewing his ship’s drinking water. And a Minister of Marine—even a Russian one—must be aware of that.
“Firewood and water, as always,” said Hornblower, “would be of the greatest convenience.”
“I shall inquire if it is convenient to send a water-boat to your squadron to-morrow morning,” said the Minister.
“I thank Your Excellency,” said Hornblower, wondering what he would be asked to do in exchange.
“You have been informed, sir,” said the Minister, changing the subject so obviously that Hornblower could only attribute it to nervousness at having the Tsar listening to the conversation, “of Bonaparte’s occupation of Swedish Pomerania?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“And what is your opinion of that transaction?”
Hornblower delayed his answer while he sorted out his thoughts and worked out the French phrases.
“Typical Bonapartism,” he said. “He tolerates neutrality on the part of weak powers only while he can profit by it. The moment he finds it inconveniences him, he treacherously sends forward his army, and on the heels of the army march all the plagues of Bonapartism, terror and famine and misery. The gaol, the firing party, and the secret police. The bankers and the merchants are stripped of all they possess. The men are thrust into the ranks of his army, and the women—all the world knows what happens to the women.”
“But do you not believe his object was merely plunder?”
“No, Your Excellency—although plunder is always useful to Bonaparte’s top-heavy finances. He overran Pomerania the moment it was apparent that its usefulness as a neutral base for his privateers had ceased with the appearance of my squadron.”
Inspiration came to Hornblower at that moment; his expression must have changed, for as he hesitated the Minister prompted him with obvious interest.
“Monsieur was going to say—?”
“Bonaparte controls the whole Baltic coast now, as far as the frontiers of His Imperial Majesty’s dominions. That would be most convenient to him in one particular event, Your Excellency. In the event of his deciding to launch an attack on Russia.” Hornblower threw into those words all the power of speech that he could muster, and the Minister nodded—Hornblower did not dare, much as he wanted to, to throw a glance at the Tsar to see what effect his words had on him.
“Bonaparte would never feel easy in his mind regarding his communications while Pomerania was Swedish so long as there was a British fleet in the Baltic. It could be too good a base for an attack on his rear, convoyed by my squadron. He has eliminated that danger now—he can march an army against St. Petersburg, should he attack Russia, without fear of its being cut off. It is one more threat to His Imperial Majesty’s dominions.”
“And how serious do you consider his threats to be regarding Russia, sir?”
“Bonaparte’s threats are always serious. You know his methods, Your Excellency. A demand for concessions, and when the concessions are granted then new demands, each one more weakening than the one before, until either the object of his attentions is too weak to oppose him further or is at least so weakened as to make armed resistance fatal. He will not rest until all his demands are granted; and what he demands is nothing short of the dominion of the world, until every nation is in bondage to him.”
“Monsieur is very eloquent.”
“I am eloquent because I speak from the heart, Your Excellency. For nineteen years, since my boyhood, I have served my country against the monstrous power which overshadows Europe.”
“And with what effect has your country fought?”
“My country is still free. In the history of the world that counts for much. And now it counts for more. England is striking back. Portugal, Sicily, are free too, thanks to England. Her armies are marching into Spain even while I am speaking to you here, Your Excellency. Soon Bonaparte will be defending the very frontiers of his boasted Empire against them. We have found the weak spot in the vast structure; we are probing into it, on to the very foundations, and soon the whole elaborate mass will crumble into ruin.”
The little room must be very warm; Hornblower found himself sweating in his heavy uniform.
“And here in the Baltic?”
“Here England has penetrated too. Not one of Bonaparte’s ships will move from to-day without my permission. England is ready with her support. She is ready to pour in money and arms to help any power that will withstand the tyrant. Bonaparte is ringed in from the South and the West and the North. There is only the East left to him. That is where he will strike and that is where he must be opposed.”
It was the handsome, pale young man in the dark corner of the room to whom these remarks were really addressed. The Minister of Marine had a far smaller stake on the board of international politics than did his master. Other kings in war risked a province or two, risked their dignity or their fame, but the Tsar of Russia, the most powerful and autocratic of them all, risked his life, and there was no gainsaying that. A word from the Tsar might send a nobleman to Siberia; another word might set half a million men on the move to war; but if either move were a false one the Tsar would pay for it with his life. A military defeat, a momentary loss of control over his courtiers or his guards, and the Tsar was doomed, first to dethronement and then to inevitable murder. That had been the fate of his father, and of his grandfather. If he fought and was unsuccessful; if he did not fight and lost his prestige there would be a silken scarf round his throat or a dozen swords between his ribs.