Hornblower and the Crisis Forester, S. (fox in socks read aloud .TXT) 📖

said Marsden in complete disregard of it, “has already approved in principle of the attempt being made. I consulted him this morning. Mr Barrow, I am sure, has in mind the French émigrés to attend to the composition and writing of the dispatch.”

“I have, Mr Marsden,” said Barrow.

“It will be necessary to recapture the style, of course, sir,” said Hornblower.

“Undoubtedly, Captain,” agreed Barrow.

“And the orders must be such that there is nothing patently impossible about them, too.”

Marsden intervened.

“Did your grandmother never learn to suck eggs, Captain?” he asked, in the same unvarying tone. It was a deft reminder that the Secretaries had had years of experience in the writing of orders, and Hornblower had the sense to smile.

“I had forgotten how much practice she has had,” he said. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I was only anxious about the success of the plan.”

Now the thunderstorm had burst. A breath of cooler air came stealing into the room, bearing with it the sound of torrential rain roaring down outside. Through the windows there was nothing to be seen but the rain.

“Mr Barrow and Dorsey and Claudius can be trusted to deal with the details. The next point to consider is the landing.”

“That should be the simplest part of the whole operation, sir.”

The Spanish Biscay coast extended for almost three hundred miles from the French frontier to Ferrol, sparsely populated and rugged. There were inlets innumerable. The Royal Navy, omnipresent at sea, could be relied upon to put a small party on shore undetected.

“I am delighted that you think so, Captain,” said Marsden.

There was a dramatic pause — a melodramatic pause. Hornblower looked from Marsden to Barrow and back again, and experienced an internal upheaval as he observed the glances they exchanged.

“What have you in mind, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Is it not quite obvious, Captain, that you are the man best fitted to undertake this mission?”

That was what Marsden said, in that same tone. Barrow spoke in his support.

“You are acquainted with Ferrol, Captain. You have had some experience of Spain. You speak a little Spanish. You should have command.”

That gave the cue for Marsden again.

“You have no other command at present, Captain.”

The significance of this particular remark was too obvious.

“Really, gentlemen —” said Hornblower. For once he could not think quickly enough to word his protests.

“It is not a duty you could be ordered to perform,” went on Marsden. “That is quite clear. It would be a purely voluntary mission.”

To enter a hostile country in disguise would be to risk a shameful death. The gallows, the rope — but in Spain it would be the iron collar of the garotte. Strangulation. Convulsions, contortions, preceding death. No fighting service could ever order its officers to take that risk.

“This Spaniard, Miranda, can be trusted, I am sure,” said Barrow. “And if a Frenchman is needed as well — your opinion on that point would be valuable, Captain — there are at least three who have already done important work for us.”

It was inconceivable that these two Secretaries, men of marble, could ever abase themselves to plead, but it seemed as if they were as close to doing so as ever in their lives. The Navy could order a man to climb the highest, steepest side of a ship of the line in face of well aimed musketry; it took it for granted that a man would face unflinching broadside after broadside of grape; it could send him aloft on the darkest and stormiest night to save a few yards of canvas; and it could hang him or shoot him or flog him to death should he hesitate. But it could not order him to risk the garotte, not even with the nation's existence trembling in the balance.

Now this — this recollection of England's desperate need — was something overwhelming, something that overshadowed every other consideration. In the calm atmosphere of this very room he had estimated the vital need for a victory at sea, and had balanced against it the trifling cost of his suggested attempt. That cost might be his own life, as it now appeared. And — and — who could he trust to keep a clear head, who could he trust to plan and to extemporize in an emergency? And already, unsought, there were forming in his mind improvements, refinements, in the rough plan which demanded his own personal action. He would have to agree; and in a moment of illumination he felt that he would never be happy again if he were to refuse. He must say yes.

“Captain,” said Marsden. “We have not forgotten Admiral Cornwallis' recommendation that you should be made post.”

The speech was so utterly disassociated from Hornblower's present train of thought, so unrelated to what he had been about to say, that he could not possibly say it. Barrow glanced over at Marsden and then made his contribution.

“There would be no need to find you a ship, Captain,” he said. “You could be given a command in the Sea Fencibles which would confer post rank. Then you could be transferred for special service.”

Indeed this was something alien intruding into the conversation. This was what Hornblower had given more than a passing thought to on his way here. Promotion to captain's rank; he would be 'made post', placed on the list of captains. He would cease to be a mere commander perennially irked by the conventional form of address of 'Captain'. He would be a real captain, he would have achieved the ambition of every naval officer down to the lowest King's Letterboy in the service; once on the list only a court martial or death could stop his eventually becoming an admiral. And he had quite forgotten about promotion; he had forgotten his decision to press for it. It was not so surprising that he had forgotten about the Sea Fencibles, who constituted a volunteer reserve navy formed of wherrymen and bargees and fishermen who could be called into active service should an actual attempt at invasion