Hornblower 05 - Hornblower and the Atropos (37 page)

Hornblower made his bow again, his feverish mind telling him that at least this could not be anything to do with the action with the Castilla — that would not be the Minister's business; on the other hand, in fact, Collingwood would keep strangers out of any scandal in the service.

“How d'ye do, sir?” asked Lord William.

“Very well, thank you, my Lord.”

The two Lords went on looking at Hornblower, and Hornblower looked back at them, trying to appear calm during those endless seconds.

“There's bad news for you, Hornblower, I fear,” said Collingwood at last, sadly.

Hornblower restrained himself from asking “What is it?” He pulled himself up stiffer than ever, and tried to meet Collingwood's eyes without wavering.

“His Sicilian Majesty,” went on Collingwood, “needs a ship.”

“Yes, my lord?”

Hornblower was none the wiser.

“When Bonaparte conquered the mainland he laid hands on the Sicilian Navy. Negligence — desertion — you can understand. There is no ship now at the disposal of His Majesty.”

“No, my Lord.” Hornblower could guess now what was coming.

“While coming out to visit Ocean this morning His Majesty happened to notice Atropos, with her paint all fresh. You made an excellent business of your refitting, Captain, as I noticed.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“His Majesty does not think it right that, as an island King, he should be without a ship.”

“I see, my Lord.”

Here Bentinck broke in, speaking harshly.

“The fact of the matter, Hornblower, is that the King has asked for your ship to be transferred to his flag.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Nothing mattered now. Nothing was of any value.

“And I have advised His Lordship,” went on Bentinck, indicating Collingwood, “that for the highest reasons of state it would be advisable to agree to the transfer.”

The imbecile monarch coveting the newly-painted toy. Hornblower could not keep back his protest.

“I find it hard to believe it necessary, my Lord,” he said.

For a moment His Excellency looked down in astonishment at the abysmal junior captain who questioned his judgment, but His Excellency kept his temper admirably all the same, and condescended to explain.

“I have six thousand British troops in the island,” he said in his harsh voice. “At least, they call them British, but half of 'em are Corsican Rangers and Chasseurs Brittaniques — French deserters in British uniforms. I can hold the Straits against Bonaparte with them, all the same, as long as I have the goodwill of the King. Without it — if the Sicilian army turns against us — we're lost.”

“You must have heard about the King, Captain,” interposed Collingwood, gently.

“A little, my Lord.”

“He'd ruin everything for a whim,” said Bentinck. “Now Bonaparte finds he can't cross the Straits he'd be willing to reach an agreement with Ferdinand. He'd promise him his throne here in exchange for an alliance. Ferdinand is capable of agreeing, too. He'd as lief have French troops in occupation as British, and be a satellite — or so he thinks at present — if it would mean paying off a score against us.”

“I see, my Lord,” said Hornblower.

“When I have more troops I'll talk to him in a different fashion,” said Bentinck. “But at present —”

“Atropos is the smallest ship I have in the Mediterranean,” said Collingwood.

“And I am the most junior captain,” said Hornblower. He could not restrain himself from the bitter comment. He even forgot to say “my Lord”.

“That is true as well,” said Collingwood.

In a disciplined service an officer was only a fool if he complained about treatment received on account of being junior. And it was clear that Collingwood disliked the present situation intensely.

“I understand, my Lord,” said Hornblower.

“Lord William has some suggestions to make which may soften the blow,” said Collingwood, and Hornblower shifted his glance.

“You can be retained in command of Atropos,” said Bentinck — what a moment of joy, just one fleeting moment! — “if you transfer to the Sicilian service. His Majesty will appoint you Commodore, and you can hoist a broad pendant. I am sure he will also confer upon you an order of high distinction as well.”

“No,” said Hornblower. That was the only thing he could possibly say.

“I thought that would be your answer,” said Collingwood. “And if a letter from me to the Admiralty carries any weight you can hope, on your return to England, to be appointed to the frigate to which your present seniority entitles you.”

“Thank you, my Lord. So I am to return to England?”

He would have a glimpse of Maria and the children then.

“I see no alternative, Captain, I am afraid, as of course you understand. But if Their Lordships see fit to send you back here with your new command, no one would be more delighted than I.”

“What sort of a man is your first lieutenant?” demanded Bentinck.

“Well, my Lord — ” Hornblower looked from Bentinck to Collingwood. It was hard to make a public condemnation even of the abject Jones. “He is a worthy enough man. The fact that he is John Jones the Ninth in the lieutenants' list may have held him back from promotion.”

A wintry twinkle appeared in Bentinck's eye.

“I fancy he would be John Jones the First in the Sicilian Navy List.”

“I expect so indeed, my Lord.”

“Do you think he would take service as captain under the King of the Two Sicilies?”

“I should be surprised if he did not.”

That would be Jones's only chance of ever becoming a captain, and most likely Jones was aware of it, however he might excuse himself for it in his own thoughts.

Collingwood entered the conversation again at this point.

“Joseph Bonaparte over in Naples has just proclaimed himself King of the Two Sicilies as well,” he remarked. “That makes four Sicilies.”

Now they were all smiling together, and it was a moment before Hornblower's unhappiness returned to him, when he remembered that he had to give up the ship he had brought to perfection and the crew he had trained so carefully, and his Mediterranean station of honour. He turned to Collingwood.

“What are your orders, my Lord?”

“You will receive them in writing, of course. But verbally you are under orders not to move until you are officially informed of the transfer of your ship to the Sicilian flag. I'll distribute your ship's company through the Fleet — I can use them.”

No doubt about that; probably every ship under Collingwood's command was undermanned and would welcome a contingent of prime seamen.

“Aye aye, my Lord.”

“I'll take the Prince into my flagship here — there's a vacancy.”

The Prince had had seven months in a sloop of war; probably he had learned as much in that time as he would learn in seven years in an Admiral's flagship.

“Aye aye, my Lord.” Hornblower waited for a moment; it was hard to go on. “And your orders for me personally?”

“The Aquila — she's an empty troop transport — sails for Portsmouth immediately without convoy, because she's a fast ship. The monthly convoy is assembling, but it's far from complete as yet. As you know, I am only responsible for their escort as far as Gibraltar, so that if you choose to go in a King's ship you will have to transfer there. Penelope will be the escorting vessel, as far as I can tell at present. And when I can spare her — God knows when that will be — I shall send the old Temeraire to England direct.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I would be glad if you would choose for yourself, Captain. I'll frame my orders in accordance with your wishes. You can sail in Aquila, or Penelope, or wait for Temeraire, whichever you prefer.”

Aquila was sailing for Portsmouth immediately, and she was a fast ship, sailing alone. In a month, even in less with fair winds, he could be setting foot on shore half an hour's walk from where Maria was living with the children. In a month he might be making his request to the Admiralty for further employment. He might be posted to that frigate that Collingwood had mentioned — he did not want to miss any opportunity. The sooner the better, as always. And he would see Maria and the children.

“I would like orders for Aquila, if you would be so kind, my Lord.”

“I expected you would say that.”

So that was the news that Hornblower brought back to his ship. The dreary little cabin which he had never had time to fit out properly seemed sadly homelike when he sat in it again; the sailcloth pillow supported once more a sleepless head, as so often before, when at last he could force himself to go to bed. It was strangely painful to say goodbye to the officers and crew, good characters and bad, even though he felt a little spurt of amusement at sight of Jones, gorgeous in the uniform of a captain in the Sicilian Navy, and another at the sight of the twenty volunteers from the ship's company whom Jones had been permitted to recruit into the Sicilian service. They were the bad characters, of course, laughed at by the others for exchanging the grog and hardtack of old England for the pasta and the daily quart of wine of Sicily. But even to the bad characters it was hard to say good-bye — a sentimental fool, Hornblower called himself.

It was a dreary two days that Hornblower waited for Aquila to make ready to sail. Bentinck had advised him to see the Palace chapel, to take a carriage out to Monreale and see the mosaics there, but like a sulky child he would not. The dreamlike city of Palermo turns its back upon the sea, and Hornblower turned his back upon Palermo, until Aquila was working her way out round Monte Pellegrino, and then he stood aft, by the taffrail, looking back at Atropos lying there, and Nightingale at the careenage, and the palaces of Palermo beyond. He was forlorn and lonely, a negligible passenger amid all the bustle of getting under way.

“By your leave, sir,” said a seaman, hastening to the peak halliards — a little more, and he would have been elbowed out of the way.

“Good morning, sir,” said the captain of the ship, and instantly turned to shout orders to the men at the main topsail halliards; the captain of a hired transport did not want to offer any encouragement to a King's captain to comment on the handling of the ship. King's officers would only grudgingly admit that even admirals came between them and God.

Aquila dipped her colours to the flagship, and Ocean returned the compliment, the White Ensign slowly descending and rising again. That was the last memory Hornblower was to have of Palermo and of his voyage in the Atropos. Aquila braced round her sails and caught the first of the land breeze, heading boldly northward out to sea, and Sicily began to fade into the distance, while Hornblower tried to displace his unaccountable sadness by telling himself that he was on his way to Maria and the children. He tried to stimulate himself into excitement over the thought that a new command awaited him, and new adventures. Collingwood's flag lieutenant had passed on to him the gossip that the Admiralty was still commissioning ships as fast as they could be made ready for sea; there was a frigate, the Lydia, making ready, which would be an appropriate commend for a captain of his seniority. But it was only slowly that he was able to overcome his sense of loss and frustration, as slowly as the captain of the Aquila made him welcome when he was taking his noon sights, as slowly as the days passed while Aquila beat her way to the Straits and out into the Atlantic.

Autumn was waiting for them beyond the straits, with the roaring westerly gales of the equinox, gale after gale, when fortunately they had made westing enough to keep them safe from the coast of Portugal while they lay hove to for long hours in the latitude of Lisbon, in the latitude of Oporto, and then in the Bay of Biscay. It was on the tail of the last of the gales that they drove wildly up the Channel, storm-battered and leaky, with pumps going and topsails treble reefed. And there was England, dimly seen, but well remembered, the vague outline to be gazed at with a catch in the breath. The Start, and at last St. Catharine's, and the hour of uncertainty as to whether they could get into the lee of the Wight or would have to submit to being blown all the way up-channel. A fortunate slant of wind gave them their opportunity, and they attained the more sheltered waters of Spithead, with the unbelievable green of the Isle of Wight on their left hand, and so they attained to Portsmouth, to drop anchor where the quiet and calm made it seem as if all the turmoil outside had been merely imagined.

A shore boat took Hornblower to the Sally Port, and he see foot on English soil again, with a surge of genuine emotion, mounting the steps and looking round him at the familiar buildings of Portsmouth. A shore loafer — an old, bent man — hurried away on twisted legs to fetch his barrow while Hornblower looked round him; when he returned Harnblower had to help him lift his chests on to the barrow.

“Thank'ee, cap'n, thank'ee,” said the old man. He used the title automatically, without knowing Hornblower's rank.

No one in England knew as yet — Maria did not know — that Hornblower was in England. For that matter no one in England knew as yet about the last exploit of the Atropos and the capture of Castilla. Copies of Ford's and Hornblower's reports to Collingwood were on board Aquila, in the sealed mailbag in the captain's charge, to be sent on to the Secretary of the Admiralty “for the information of Their Lordships”. In a day or two they might be in the Gazette, and they might even be copied to appear in the Naval Chronicle and the daily newspapers. Most of the honour and glory, of course, would go to Ford, but a few crumbs might come Hornblower's way; there was enough chance of that to put Hornblower in a good temper as he walked along with the wooden wheels of the barrow thumping and squeaking over the cobbles behind him.

The sadness and distress he had suffered when he parted from Atropos had largely died away by now. He was back in England, walking as fast as the old man's legs would allow towards Maria and the children, free for the moment from all demands upon his patience or his endurance, free to be happy for a while, free to indulge in ambitious dreams of the frigate Their Lordships might give him, free to relax in Maria's happy and indifferent chatter, with little Horatio running round the room, and with little Maria making valiant efforts to crawl at his feet. The thumping of the barrow wheels beat out a pleasant rhythm to accompany his dreams.