The Commodore

Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Republic.”

“Captain Hornblower,” said Hornblower. He was suddenly excessively cautious, because his government had never recognized those resounding titles which Dumoulin had just reeled off. In the eyes of King George and his ministers, Napoleon, Emperor of the French, was merely General Bonaparte in his personal capacity, and Chief of the French Government in his official one. More than once British officers had found themselves in serious trouble for putting their names to documents—cartels and the like—which bore even incidental references to the Empire.

“Is there anyone who can speak French?” asked Dumoulin politely, “I regret bitterly my complete inability to speak English.”

“You can address yourself to me, sir,” said Hornblower, “and I should be glad of an explanation of your presence in this ship.”

“You speak admirable French, sir,” said Dumoulin. “Ah, of course, I remember. You are the Captain Hornblower who made the sensational escape from France a year ago. It is a great pleasure to meet a gentleman of such renown.”

He bowed again. It gave Hornblower a queer self-conscious pleasure to find that his reputation had preceded him even into this obscure corner of the Baltic, but it irritated him at the same time, as having nothing to do with the urgent matter in hand.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I am still waiting for an explanation of why I have the honour of this visit.”

“I am here to support M. le Baron in his statement of the belligerent position of Swedish Pomerania.”

Braun interpreted, and Basse’s embarrassment perceptibly increased.

“Boat with English colours alongside, sir,” interrupted Bush.

The man who came on board was immensely fat, and dressed in a sober black civilian suit.

“Hauptmann,” he said, bending himself at the waist; he spoke English with a thick German accent. “His Britannic Majesty’s consular agent at Stralsund.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hauptmann?” asked Hornblower, trying not to allow himself to grow bewildered.

“I have come,” said Hauptmann—actually what he said was “I haf gome”—“to help explain to you the position here in Swedish Pomerania.”

“I see no need for explanation,” said Hornblower. “If Sweden is neutral, then that privateer must be either forced to leave or taken into custody. If Sweden is a belligerent, then my hands are free and I can take whatever steps I think proper.”

He looked round at his audience. Braun began to translate into Swedish.

“What was it you said, Captain?” asked Dumoulin.

Desperately Hornblower plunged into a French translation, and the curse of Babel descended upon the Nonsuch. Everyone tried to speak at once; translation clashed with expostulation. Clearly, what Basse wanted was the best of both worlds, to make both France and England believe Sweden was friendly. What Dumoulin wanted was to make sure that Blanchefleur would be enabled to continue her depredations among British shipping. Hornblower looked at Hauptmann.

“Come with me for a minute, please,” said Hauptmann. He put his fat hand on Hornblower’s shrinking arm and led him across the quarter-deck out of earshot.

“You are a young man,” said Hauptmann, “and I know you naval officers. You are all headstrong. You must be guided by my advice. Do nothing in a hurry, sir. The international situation here is tense, very tense indeed. A false move may mean ruin. An insult to Sweden might mean war, actual war instead of pretending war. You must be careful what you do.”

“I am always careful,” snapped Hornblower, “but do you expect me to allow that privateer to behave as if this were Brest or Toulon?”

Braun came over to them.

“Baron Basse asks me to say to you, sir, that Bonaparte has 200,000 men on the borders of Pomerania. He wants me to say that one cannot offend the master of an army that size.”

“That bears out what I say, Captain,” said Hauptmann.

Here came Dumoulin, and Basse after him—no one would trust any one of his colleagues to be alone with the British captain for a moment. Hornblower’s tactical instinct came to his rescue; the best defensive is a vigorous local offensive. He turned on Hauptmann.

“May I ask, sir, how His Majesty maintains a consular agent in a port whose neutrality is in doubt?”

“It is necessary because of the need for licences to trade.”

“Are you accredited to the Swedish Government by His Majesty?”

“No, sir. I am accredited by His Bavarian Majesty.”

“His Bavarian Majesty?”

“I am a subject of His Bavarian Majesty.”

“Who happens to be at war with His Britannic Majesty,” said Hornblower dryly. The whole tangle of Baltic politics, of hole-and-corner hostilities and neutralities, was utterly beyond unravelling. Hornblower listened to everyone’s pleas and expostulations until he could bear it no longer; his impatience grew at length apparent to his anxious interviewers.

“I can form no conclusion at present, gentlemen,” said Hornblower. “I must have time to think over the information you have given me. Baron Basse, as representative of a governor-general, I fancy you are entitled to a seventeen-gun salute on leaving this ship?”

The salutes echoed over the yellow-green water as the officials went over the side. Seventeen guns for Baron Basse. Eleven for Dumoulin, the Consul-General. Hauptmann, as a mere consular agent, rated only five, the smallest salute noticed in naval ceremonial. Hornblower stood at the salute as Hauptmann went down into his boat, and then sprang into activity again.

“Signal for the captains of Moth, Harvey, and Clam to come on board,” he ordered, abruptly.

The bomb-vessels and the cutter were within easy signalling distance now; there were three hours of daylight left, and over there the spars of the French privateer still showed over the sand-dunes of Hiddensoe as though to taunt him.

Chapter Nine

Hornblower swung himself up over the side of the Harvey, where Lieutenant Mound stood at attention to welcome him with his two boatswain’s mates twittering their pipes. The bang of a gun, coming unexpectedly and not a yard from him, made him jump. As the Commodore was shifting his broad pendant from one ship to another (there it was breaking out at the lofty mast-head of the Harvey) it was the correct moment for another salute, which they were firing off with one of the four six-pounders which Harvey carried aft.

“Belay that nonsense,” said Hornblower.

Then he felt suddenly guilty. He had publicly described the Navy’s beloved ceremonial as nonsense—just as extraordinary he had applied the term to a compliment which ought to have delighted him as it was only the second time he had received it. But discipline had not apparently suffered, although young Mound was grinning broadly as he gave the order to cease firing.

“Square away and let’s get going, Mr. Mound,” said Hornblower.

As the Harvey filled her sails and headed diagonally for the shore with Moth close astern, Hornblower looked round him. This was a new experience for him; in twenty years of service he had never seen action in a bomb-vessel. Above him towered the enormous mainmast (they had made a good job of replacing the spar shot away in the Sound) which had to make up in the amount of canvas it carried for the absence of a foremast. The mizzenmast, stepped far aft, was better proportioned to the