“Aye aye, sir.”
There was nothing surprising about Clam’s message; the surprise would have been if she carried no despatches. Hornblower found himself shovelling sea pie into his mouth as if the faster he ate it the faster the despatches would come. He checked himself and took sips of his wine, but neither wine nor food had any attraction for him. Brown came in and served him with cheese, and he munched and told himself he had dined well. Cocking his ear to the noises on the deck overhead he could guess there was a boat coming alongside, and directly afterwards one more knock on the door heralded the arrival of Lord Wychwood. Hornblower rose for him, offered him a chair, offered him dinner, took over the bulky canvas-wrapped despatch which Wychwood handed him, and signed a receipt for it. He sat with it on his knee for a moment.
“Well,” said Wychwood, “it’s war.”
Hornblower could not allow himself to ask, “War with whom?” He made himself wait.
“Alexander’s done it, or rather Boney has. Boney crossed the Niemen with fifteen army corps ten days back. No declaration of war, of course. That’s not the sort of courtesy one would expect of two potentates who have been blackguarding each other in every sheet in every language in Europe. War was inevitable the moment Alexander sent back his answer a month ago—the day before you left us. Now we’ll see.”
“Who’s going to win?”
Wychwood shrugged.
“I can’t imagine Boney being beaten. And from what I’ve heard the Russian Army did not show to advantage last year in Finland despite their reorganization. And Boney has half a million men marching on Moscow.”
Half a million men; the largest army the world had seen since Xerxes crossed the Hellespont.
“At least,” went on Wychwood, “it will keep Boney busy all this summer. Next year we’ll see—maybe he’ll lose so many men his people will bear it no longer.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Hornblower.
He took out his penknife and ripped open his despatch.
British Embassy,
St. Petersburg
June 24th, 1812.
SIR,
The bearer of this despatch, Colonel Lord Wychwood, will inform you of affairs in this country and of the state of war which now exists between His Imperial Majesty the Tsar and Bonaparte, You will, of course, take all necessary steps to render all the assistance in your power to our new ally. I am informed, and have reason to believe, that while the main body of Bonaparte’s army is marching on Moscow, a very considerable detachment, believed to consist of the Prussian army corps and a French corps d’armée, the whole under the orders of Marshal Macdonald, Duke of Tarentum, altogether some 60,000 men, has been directed on the northern route towards St. Petersburg. It is highly desirable that this army should be prevented from reaching its goal, and at the request of the Russian Imperial Staff I must call your attention to the possibility that your squadron may be able to give assistance at Riga, which the French must capture before continuing their march on St. Petersburg. I wish to add my own advice to that of the Russian staff, and to press upon you as urgently as possible that you should give assistance at Riga for as long as may be compatible with your original orders.
In virtue of the powers granted me under the terms of my instructions, I must inform you that I consider it important to the national safety that the cutter Clam, at present under your command, shall be despatched to England in order to carry with the utmost rapidity the news of the outbreak of war. I trust and hope that you will raise no objection.
I have the honour to be, sir,
Etc., etc.,
cathcart, His Britannic Majesty’s Minister-Plenipotentiary
and Ambassador Extraordinary to H. I. M
“Cathcart’s a good man,” commented Wychwood, observing that Hornblower had completed his reading. “Both as a soldier and as a diplomat he’s worth two of Merry at Stockholm. I’m glad Wellesley sent him out.”
Certainly this despatch was better worded than the last Hornblower had received, nor did Cathcart presume to give order to the Commodore.
“You will be going on in Clam to England,” said Hornblower. “I must ask you to wait while I complete my own despatches for the Admiralty.”
“Naturally,” said Wychwood.
“It will only be a matter of minutes,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps Captain Bush will entertain you while you are waiting. Doubtless there are many letters awaiting carriage to England. Meanwhile, I am sending my secretary back to England in Clam too. I shall put in your charge the papers relative to his case.”
Alone in his cabin, Hornblower opened his desk and found himself pen and ink. There was little enough to add to his official despatch. He read the last words—‘I wish most strongly to call Their Lordships’ attention to the conduct and professional ability of Commander William Vickery and Lieutenant Percival Mound.’ Then he began a new paragraph. ‘I am taking the opportunity of the departure of Clam to England to forward this letter to you. In accordance with the recommendation of His Excellency Lord Cathcart, I shall proceed at once with the rest of my squadron to render all the assistance in my power to the Russian forces at Riga.’ He thought for a moment of adding some conventional expression like ‘I trust this course of action will meet with Their Lordships’ approval’, and then put the notion aside. It meant nothing, was merely waste verbiage. He dipped his pen again and merely wrote, ‘I have the honour to be, Your obed’t servant, Horatio Hornblower, Captain and Commodore’.
He closed the letter, shouting for Brown as he did so. While he wrote the address—Edward Nepean, Esq., Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty—Brown brought him a candle and sealing wax, and he sealed the letter and laid it on one side. Then he took another sheet and began to write again.
H.M.S. Nonsuch, IN THE BALTIC
MY DEAR WIFE,
The cutter waits for me to complete my correspondence for England, and I have only time to write these few lines to add to the other letters which have been awaiting an opportunity to make the voyage. I am in the best of health, and the progress of the campaign remains satisfactory. The great news of the outbreak of war between Bonaparte and Russia has just reached me. I hope that the event will prove this to be Bonaparte’s worst mistake, but I can only anticipate long and costly fighting, with small possibility of my returning to your dear presence, at least until the freezing of the harbours makes further operations in these waters impracticable.
I trust most sincerely that you are well and happy, and that the rigours of the London season have not proved too trying for you. I like to think of the good air of Smallbridge restoring the roses to your cheeks, so that the vagaries of costumiers and milliners will not exact too excessive a toll of your health and peace of mind.
Also I trust that Richard is comporting himself towards you with the duty and obedience you expect, and that his teeth have continued to make their appearance with as little disturbance as possible. It would be a great delight to me if he were old enough to write to me himself, especially if that would give me further news of you; only a letter from you yourself could give me greater pleasure. It is my hope that soon letters will reach me from England, and that it will be my happiness to hear that all is well with you.
When next you see your brother, Lord Wellesley, I trust you will give him my duty and respects. For you I reserve my whole love.
Your affectionate husband
HORATIO
Wychwood took the letters Hornblower gave him, and wrote out a receipt on Bush’s desk with Bush’s pen. Then he held out his hand.