The Commodore

gratefully when Hornblower gave him permission to do so as soon as they were in his cabin.

“Well?” said Hornblower. “I’ll hear you first, Vickery.”

“It went off very well, sir.” Vickery dragged a scrap of paper out of his pocket on which apparently he had kept notes. “There was no trouble going past the boom on the night of the 15th. We saw nothing of the enemy. At dawn on the 16th we were off the mouth of the Konigsberg river. There we took and destroyed the—the Fried Rich, coaster, of Elbing, about two hundred tons, seven of a crew, with a cargo of rye and live pigs. We burned her, and sent the crew ashore in their own boat. Then we caught the—the— Blitzer, also of Elbing, about one hundred tons, laden with grain. We burned her, too. Then the Charlotte, of Danzig. She was ship-rigged, four hundred tons, twenty-five crew, laden with general cargo of military stores—tents, stretchers, horseshoes, ten thousand stand of small arms; we burned her. Then the Ritter Horse, powder barge, about seventy tons. We blew her up.”

“We saw that, I think,” said Hornblower. “That was Nonsuch’scutter.”

“Yes, sir. That was all at this end of the bay. Then we bore down to the westward. We caught the Weece Ross of Kolberg, two hundred tons. She carried four six-pounders and showed fight, but Montgomery boarded her over the bows and they threw down their arms. We had two men wounded. We burned her. Then there was—”

“How many altogether?”

“One ship, sir. Eleven sail of coasting vessels. Twenty-four barges. All destroyed.”

“Excellent,” said Hornblower. “And then?”

“By then it was nigh on dark, sir. I anchored on the north side of the bay until midnight. Then I ran over to the sandspit. We found two soldiers there, and made ‘em prisoners. ‘Twas easy enough crossing the spit, sir. We burned a blue light and made contact with the Harvey. They started taking us aboard at two a.m., and I was aboard at three, by the first light. I went back and burned the boats before I embarked, sir.”

“Better still.”

The enemy, then, had not even the sorry compensation of the capture of four ships’ boats in exchange for the frightful destruction Vickery had wrought. He turned to Mound.

“I have nothing particular to report, sir. Those waters are shoal, without a doubt, sir. But I had no difficulty making my way to the rendezvous. After taking Mr. Vickery’s party on board we touched bottom, sir. We had nearly a hundred extra hands on board an’ must have been drawing nigh on a foot more water. But we got off all right. I had the men run from side to side to rock the vessel, an’ I threw all aback an’ she came off.”

“I understand.”

Hornblower looked at Mound’s expressionless face and smiled inwardly at his studied languid manner. Picking the way in the dark through the shoals to the rendezvous must have been something of an epic achievement. Hornblower could estimate the seamanship it called for, but it was not in the tradition to lay stress on difficulties surmounted. And a less reliable officer might have tried to suppress the fact that his ship had touched ground once. It was to Mound’s credit that he had not done so.

“I shall call the attention of the Admiralty,” said Hornblower, trying his best to combat the pomposity which persisted in making itself heard in his voice, “to the conduct of both of you officers. I consider it excellent. I shall, of course, require reports from you immediately in writing.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Now that he was a Commodore Hornblower felt more sympathy towards senior officers who had been pompous to him; he was pompous himself—it was one way in which could be concealed the fact that he had been anxious.

Chapter Sixteen

Hornblower was dining by himself. He had Gibbon securely wedged against the cheese-crock on the table before him, and his legs stretched out at ease under it. To-day he was indulging himself extraordinarily with a half- bottle of wine, and the sea pie from which he was about to help himself smelt most appetizing. It was one of those days when there was nothing wrong with the world at all, when he could allow himself to sway with the rhythm of the ship without any further thought, when food tasted good and wine delicious. He dug a spoon into the sea pie just at the moment when there was a knock on the door and a midshipman entered.

“Clam in sight to wind’ard, sir,” he said.

“Very good.”

Hornblower proceeded to transfer the sea pie from the dish to his plate, and as he spread out his helping to allow it to cool his mind began to rouse itself. Clam would be bringing news; she had been left at St. Petersburg for the very purpose of waiting for news. Maybe Russia was at war with Bonaparte now. Or maybe Alexander had made the abject surrender which would be the only thing that could save him from war. Or maybe Alexander was dead, murdered by his officers as his father had been. It would be by no means the first time that a change in Russian policy had been ushered in by a palace revolution. Maybe—maybe anything, but the sea pie was growing cold. He applied himself to it, just as the midshipman knocked at the door again.

“Clam signals ‘Have despatches for Commodore’, sir.”

“How far off is she?”

“Hull-up to wind’ard, sir. We’re running down to her.”

“Make ‘Commodore to Clam. Send despatches on board as soon as practicable’.”

“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.