"Lord Hornblower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forester Cecil Scott)

Chapter VI

It was late afternoon when the Porta Coeli, apparently unable to reach any decision, stood away from the Flame and crossed the broad estuary with the wind blowing briskly on her port beam. The thick weather still persisted; she was far enough both from Flame and from Le Havre for the details to be quite obscure when she took in her foretopsail and substituted for it the patched one which an enthusiastic gang of toilers had made ready on deck abaft the foremast. Hurried work with paintbrush and paint erased one name and substituted the other; Hornblower and Freeman wore their plain pea-jackets over their uniforms, concealing their rank. Freeman kept his glass trained on the harbour as they stood in.

“That’s the Indiaman, sir. At anchor. And there’s a lighter beside her. O’ course, they wouldn’t unload her at the quay. Not here, sir. They’d put her cargo into lighters an’ barges, and send ‘em up the river, to Rouen and Paris. O’ course they would. I ought to ha’ thought o’ that before.” Hornblower had already thought of it. His glass was sweeping the defences of the town; the forts of Ste. Adresse and Tourneville on the steep cliff above the town; the twin lighthouses on Cape de la Hève—which for a dozen years had not shown a light—the batteries on the low ground beside the old jetty. These last would be the great danger to the enterprise; he hoped that the big forts above would not know of what was going on down below in time to open fire.

“There’s a lot of shipping farther in, sir,” went on Freeman. “Might even be ships of the line. They haven’t their yards crossed. I’ve never been in as close as this before.”

Hornblower turned to look at the western sky. Night was fast falling, and the thick weather on the horizon showed no signs of clearing. He wanted light enough to find his way, and darkness enough to cover him on his way out.

“Here’s the pilot lugger standing out, sir,” said Freeman. “They’ll think we’re Flame all right.”

“Very good, Mr. Freeman. Set the men to cheering at the ship’s side. Secure the pilot when he comes on board. I’ll con her in.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was just the sort of order to suit the temperament of British seamen. They entered whole-heartedly into the spirit of the thing, yelling like lunatics along the bulwarks, waving their hats, dancing exuberantly, just as one would expect of a horde of mutineers. The Porta Coeli backed her main-topsail, the lugger surged alongside, and the pilot swung himself into the mainchains.

“Lee braces!” roared Hornblower, the maintopsail caught the wind again, the wheel went over, and the Porta Coeli stood into the harbour, while Freeman put his shoulder between the pilot’s shoulderblades and shot him neatly down the hatchway where two men were waiting to seize and pinion him.

“Pilot secured, sir,” he reported.

He, too, was obviously carried away by the excitement of the moment, infected even by the din the hands were making; his pose of amused irony had completely disappeared.

“Starboard a little,” said Hornblower to the helmsman. “Meet her! Steady as you go!”

It would be the last word in ignominy if all their high hopes were to come to an end on the sandbanks guarding the entrance. Hornblower wondered if he would ever feel cool again.

“A cutter standing out to us, sir,” reported Freeman. That might be a committee of welcome, or orders telling them where to berth—both at once, probably.

“Set the hands to cheering again,” ordered Hornblower. “Have the boarding-party secured as they come on board.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

They were nearing the big Indiaman; she lay, her sails loose, swinging to a single anchor. There was a lighter beside her, but obviously little enough had been done so far towards unloading her. In the fading light Hornblower could just make out a dozen of her seamen standing at the ship’s side gazing curiously at them. Hornblower backed the maintopsail again, and the cutter came alongside, and half a dozen officials climbed onto the Porta Coeli’s deck. Their uniforms proclaimed their connection with the navy, the army, and the customs service, and they advanced slowly towards Hornblower, looking curiously about them as they did so. Hornblower was giving the orders that got the Porta Coeli under way again, and as she drew away from the cutter in the gathering darkness he wore her round and headed her for the Indiaman. Cutlasses suddenly gleamed about the new arrivals.

“Make a sound and you’re dead men,” said Freeman.

Somebody made a sound, beginning to protest volubly. A seaman brought a pistol butt down on his head and the protests ended abruptly as the protester clattered on the deck. The others were hustled down the hatchway, too dazed and startled to speak.

“Very well, Mr. Freeman,” said Hornblower, drawling the words so as to convey the impression that he felt perfectly at home here in the middle of a hostile harbour. “You may hoist out the boats. Maintops’l aback!”

The shore authorities would be watching the brig’s movements by what little light was left. If the Porta Coeli did anything unexpected, they would wonder idly what unknown condition on board had caused the harbourmaster’s representative—now gagged and bound under hatches—to change his plans. The Porta Coeli’s motion died away; the sheaves squealed as the boats dropped into the water, and the picked crews tumbled down into them. Hornblower leaned over the side.

“Remember men, don’t fire a shot!”

The oars splashed as the boats pulled over to the Indiaman. It was practically dark by now; Hornblower could hardly follow the boats to the Indiaman’s side fifty yards away, and he could see nothing of the men as they swarmed up her side. Faintly he heard some startled exclamations, and then one loud cry; that might puzzle the people on shore, but would not put them on their guard. Here were the boats returning, each pulled by the two men detailed for the work. The tackles were hooked on and the boats swayed up; as the sheaves squealed again Hornblower heard a crunching sound from the Indiaman, and a dull thump or two—the hand detailed to cut the cable was doing his work, and had actually remembered to carry the axe with him when he went up the ship’s side. Hornblower felt the satisfaction of a job well done; his careful instruction of the boarding-party in the afternoon, his methodical allocation of duties to each individual man, and his reiteration of his orders until everyone thoroughly understood the part he had to play were bearing fruit.

Against the misty sky he saw the Indiaman’s topsails changing shape; the men allotted to the task were sheeting them home. Thank God for a few prime seamen who, arriving in darkness in a strange ship, could find their way to the right places and lay their hands on the right lines without confusion. Hornblower saw the Indiaman’s yards come round; in the darkness he could just see a black blur detach itself from her side, the lighter, cut adrift and floating away.

“You can square away, Mr. Freeman, if you please,” he said. “The Indiaman will follow us out.”

The Porta Coeli gathered way and headed for the southeastern exit of the harbour, the Indiaman close at her stern. For several long seconds there was no sign of any interest being taken in these movements. Then came a hail, apparently from the cutter which had brought the officials aboard. It was so long since Hornblower had heard or spoken French that he could not understand the words used.

“Comment?” he yelled back through the speaking-trumpet.

An irascible voice asked him again what in the name of the devil he thought he was doing.

“Anchorage—mumble—current—mumble—tide,” yelled Hornblower in reply.

This time the unknown in the cutter invoked the name of God instead of that of the devil.

“Who in God’s name is that?”

“Mumble mumble mumble,” bellowed Hornblower back again, and quietly to the helmsman, “Bring her slowly round to port.”

Carrying on a conversation with the French authorities while taking a vessel down an involved channel—however well he had memorised the latter on the chart—taxed his resources.

“Heave-to!” yelled the voice.

“Pardon, Captain,” yelled Hornblower back. “Mumble—anchor-cable—mumble—impossible.”

Another loud hail from the cutter, full of menace.

“Steady as you go,” cried Hornblower to the helmsman. “Mr. Freeman, a hand at the lead, if you please.”

He knew there was no chance of gaining any more precious seconds; by the time the leadsman was calling the depths and revealing the brig’s design of evasion the shore authorities would be fully alert. A pinpoint of light stabbed the thin mist and the sound of a musket-shot came over the water; the cutter was taking the quickest method of attracting the attention of the shore batteries.

“Stand by to go about!” rasped Hornblower; this was the most ticklish moment of the outward passage.

The brig’s canvas volleyed as she came round, and simultaneously there was a bigger tongue of red flame in the darkness and the sound of the cutter’s six-pounder bow chaser, cleared away and loaded at last. Hornblower beard no sound of the ball. He was busy looking back at the Indiaman, dimly showing in the minute light of the brig’s wake. She was coming about neatly. That master’s mate—Calverly—whom Freeman had recommended for the command of the boarding-party was a capable officer, and must be highly praised when the time should come to send in a report.

And then from the jetty came a succession of flashes and a rolling roar; the big thirty-two pounders there had opened are at last. The sound of the last shot was instantly followed by the noise of a ball passing close by; Hornblower had time somehow to note how much he hated that noise. They were having to round the jetty, and would be within range for several minutes. There was no sign of damage either to the brig or the Indiaman as yet—and there was nothing in favour of returning the fire, for the brig’s little six-pounders would make no impression on the solid battery, while the flashes would reveal the vessel’s position. He took note of the cry of the leadsman; it would be some minutes before he could tack again and stand directly away from the jetty. It was a long time, on the other hand, before the battery fired again. Bonaparte must have stripped his shore defences of seasoned gunners in order to man the artillery of his army in Germany; untrained recruits, called upon suddenly to man their guns, and working in darkness, would naturally be unhandy. Here it came, the flash and the roar, but this time there was no sound of any shot passing—maybe the gunners had lost all sense of direction and elevation, which was easy enough in the darkness. And the flashes from the guns were convenient in enabling Hornblower to check his position.

A yell came from the lookout in the bows, and Hornblower, looking forward, could just make out the dark square of the top of the pilot-lugger’s mainsail, close in on their starboard bow. They were making an effort to impede the brig’s escape.

“Steady!” said Hornblower to the helmsman.

Let the weakest go to the wall; there was a shattering crash as brig and lugger met, starboard bow to starboard bow. The brig shuddered and lurched and drove on, the lugger rasping down her side. Something caught and tore loose again, and there came, as the vessels parted, a thin despairing yell from the lugger. The little vessel’s bows must have been smashed in like an eggshell by that shock, and the water must be pouring in. The cries died away; Hornblower distinctly heard one wailing voice abruptly cut short, as if water was pouring into the mouth of the despairing swimmer. The Indiaman was still holding her course in the brig’s wake.

“By the mark eight!” called the leadsman.

He could lay her on the other tack now, and as he gave the order the battery at the jetty again roared harmlessly. They would be out of range by the time the gunners could reload.

“A very good piece of work, Mr. Freeman,” said Hornblower, loudly. “All hands did their duty admirably.”

Somebody in the darkness began to cheer, and the cry was taken up throughout the brig. The men were yelling like madmen.

“Horny! Good old Horny!” yelled somebody, and the cheering redoubled.

Even from astern they could hear the exiguous prize crew of the Indiaman joining in; Hornblower felt a sudden smarting of the eyes, and then experienced a new revulsion of feeling. He felt a little twinge of shame at being fond of these simpletons. Besides—

“Mr. Freeman,” he said, harshly, “kindly keep the hands quiet.”

The risk he had run had been enormous. Not merely the physical danger, but the danger to his reputation. Had he failed, had the Porta Coeli been disabled and captured, men would not have stopped to think about his real motive, which was to make the French authorities believe that the Flame’s mutiny was merely a ruse to enable the brig to enter the harbour. No; men would have said that Hornblower had tried to take advantage of the mutiny to feather his own nest, had thrown away the Porta Coeli and had left the mutineers unmolested merely to grab at an opportunity to acquire prize-money. That was what they would have said—and all the appearances would have borne out the assumption—and Hornblower’s reputation would have been eternally tarnished. He had risked his honour as well as his life and liberty. He had gambled everything in hare-brained fashion, thrown colossal stakes on the board for a meagre prize, like the fool he was.

Then the wave of black reaction ebbed away. He had taken a calculated risk, and his calculation had proved exact. It would be a long time before the mutineers could clear up their misunderstanding with the French authorities—Hornblower could imagine the messengers hurrying at this moment to warn the coastal defences at Honfleur and Caen—even if eventually they should succeed in doing so. He had turned the mutineers’ position, cut off their retreat. He had bearded Bonaparte under the batteries of his own capital river. And there was the prize he had taken; at least a thousand pounds, his share would be, when the prize-money came to be reckoned up, and a thousand pounds was a welcome sum of money, a gratifying sum. Barbara and he would find it useful.

Emotion and excitement had left him tired. He was about to tell Freeman that he was going below, and then he checked himself. It would be an unnecessary speech; if Freeman could not find him on deck he would know perfectly well that he was in his cabin. He dragged himself wearily down to his cot.