The Commodore

“Square away, Mr. Mound. We’ll close the shore in the direction of that church. Set a good hand at work with the lead.”

The bomb-ketch, with anchor catted and ready to go, stole forward over the still water. There was still plenty of light from the sky, for here in 57° North, within a few days of the solstice, the sun was not very far below the horizon.

“Moon rises in an hour’s time, sir,” said Mound, “three-quarters full.”

It was a marvellous evening, cool and invigorating. There was only the tiniest whisper of water round the bows of the ketch as she glided over the silvery surface; Hornblower felt that they only needed a few pretty women on board and someone strumming a guitar to make a yachting expedition of it. Something on shore attracted his attention, and he whipped his glass to his eye at the very moment when Mound beside him did the same.

“Lights on shore,” said Mound.

“Those are bivouac fires,” said Hornblower.

He had seen bivouac fires before—the fires of el Supremo’s army in Central America, the fires of the landing force at Rosas. They sparkled ruddily in the twilight, in roughly regular lines. Traversing his glass round, Hornblower picked up further groups of lights; there was a dark space between one mass and the other, which Hornblower pointed out to Mound.

“That’s no-man’s-land between the two forces, I fancy,” he said. “The Russians must be holding the village as an outwork on the left bank of the river.”

“Couldn’t all those fires be French fires, sir?” asked Mound. “Or Russian fires?”

“No,” said Hornblower. “Soldiers don’t bivouac if they can billet in villages with roofs over their heads. If two armies weren’t in presence they’d all be comfortably asleep in the cottagers’ beds and barns.”

There was a long pause while Mound digested this.

“Two fathoms, sir,” he said, at length. “I’d like to bear up, if I may.”

“Very good. Carry on. Keep as close inshore as you think proper.”

The Harvey came round with the wind abeam, half a dozen hands hauling lustily on the mainsheet. There was the moon, rising round and red over the land; the dome of the church was silhouetted against it. A sharp cry came from the forward lookout.

“Boat ahead! Fine on the port bow, sir. Pulling oars.”

“Catch that boat if you can, Mr. Mound,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, sir. Starboard two points! Clear away the gig. Boat’s crew stand by!”

They could see the dim shape of the boat not far ahead; they could even see the splashes of the oars. It occurred to Hornblower that the rowers could not be men of much skill, and whoever was in charge was not very quick in the uptake if he wanted to avoid capture; he should have headed instantly for shoal water if he wanted to avoid capture, while as it was he tried to pit oars against sails—a hopeless endeavour even with that light breeze blowing. It was several minutes before they turned for the shore, and during that time their lead was greatly reduced.

“Hard-a-lee,” roared Mound. “Away, gig!”

Harvey came into the wind, and as she lost her way the gig dropped into the water with the boat’s crew falling into it.

“I want prisoners!” roared Hornblower at the departing boat.

“Aye aye, sir,” came the reply as the oars tore the water.

Under the impulse of the skilled oarsmen the gig rapidly was overtaking the strange boat; they could see the distance narrowing as the two boats disappeared in the faint light. Then they saw the orange-red flashes of half a dozen pistol-shots, and the faint reports reached them over the water directly after.

“Let’s hope they’re not Russans, sir,” said Mound.

The possibility had occurred to Hornblower as well, and he was nervous and uncomfortable, but he spoke bluffly—

“Russians wouldn’t run away. They wouldn’t expect to find Frenchmen at sea.”

Soon the two boats, rowing slowly, emerged from the gloom.

“We’ve got ‘em all, sir,” said a voice in reply to Mound’s hail.

Five prisoners were thrust up onto the deck of the Harvey, one of them groaning with a pistol bullet through his arm. Someone produced a lantern and shone it on them, and Hornblower heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that the star which glittered on the breast of the leader was the Legion of Honour.

“I would like to know monsieur’s name and rank,” he said, politely, in French.

“Jussey, chef de bataillon du corps de Genie des armees de l’Empereur.”

A major of engineers; quite an important capture. Hornblower bowed and presented himself, his mind working rapidly on the problem of how to induce the major to say all he knew.

“I regret very much the necessity of taking M. le chef de bataillon prisoner,” he said. “Especially at the beginning of such a promising campaign. But good fortune may allow me the opportunity of arranging a cartel of exchange at an early date. I presume M. le chef de bataillon has friends in the French Army whom he would like informed of what has happened to him? I will take the opportunity of the first flag of truce to do so.”

“The Marshal Duke of Tarentum would be glad to hear,” said Jussey, brightening a little. “I am on his staff.”

The Marshal Duke of Tarentum was Macdonald, the local French commander-in-chief—son of a Scottish exile who had fled after the Young Pretender’s rebellion—so that it seemed likely that Jussey was the chief engineer, a bigger catch than Hornblower had hoped for.

“It was extremely bad fortune for you to fall into our hands,” said Hornblower. “You had no reason to suspect the presence of a British squadron operating in the bay.”

“Indeed I had none. Our information was to the contrary. These Livonians—”

So the French staff was obtaining information from Livonian traitors; Hornblower might have guessed it, but it was as well to be sure.

“Of course they are useless, like all Russians,” said Hornblower, soothingly, “I suppose your Emperor has met with little opposition?”

“Smolensk is ours, and the Emperor marches on Moscow. It is our mission to occupy St. Petersburg.”

“But perhaps passing the Dwina will be difficult?”

Jussey shrugged in the lamplight.

“I do not expect so. A bold push across the mouth of the river and the Russians will retreat the moment their flank is turned.”

So that was what Jussey was doing; reconnoitring for a suitable place to land a French force on the Russian side of the river mouth.

“A daring move, sir, worthy of all the great traditions of the French Army. But no doubt you have ample craft to transport your force?”

“Some dozens of barges. We seized them at Mitau before the Russians could destroy them.”

Jussey checked himself abruptly, clearly disturbed at realizing how much he had said.

“Russians are always incompetent,” said Hornblower, in a tone of complete agreement. “A prompt attack on your part, giving them no chance of steadying themselves, is of course your best plan of operations. But will you pardon me, sir, while I attend to my duties?”

There was no chance of wheedling anything more out of Jussey at the moment. But he had at least yielded up the vital information that the French had laid hands on a fleet of barges which the Russians had neglected, or been unable, to destroy, and that they planned a direct attack across the river mouth. By feigning entire indifference Hornblower felt that Jussey might be inveigled later into talking freely again. Jussey bowed, and Hornblower turned to Mound.

“We’ll return to the squadron,” he said.

Mound gave the orders which laid the Harvey close-hauled on the starboard tack— the French prisoners ducked hastily as the big mainsail boom swung over their heads, and the seamen bumped into them as they ran to the sheet. While Jussey and Hornblower had been talking two of the prisoners had cut off the sleeve of the wounded man and bandaged his arm; now they all squatted in the scuppers out of the way, while the Harvey crept back to where the Nonsuch lay at anchor.