Hornblower 05 - Hornblower and the Atropos (28 page)

There was a bit of timber! No, it was the plank which had been used as a marker buoy.

“Haul in on that line,” said Hornblower to the man pulling stroke oar. There was only ten feet of line attached to the plank — the line had been broken at that point; so the explosion had effected something, at least. It was ironical that that was all — just a marker buoy torn loose.

“Put on another grapnel and line,” ordered Hornblower. They must still be close enough to the spot for the marker to be better than nothing.

Hornblower caught Looney's eye; he seemed willing enough to all appearance. It would save time if an examination of the scant results were made now.

“Looney,” said Hornblower, and pointed overside. He had only to point a second time for Looney to nod his agreement and pull off his clothes again. As far as Hornblower could remember Looney had not yet made his daily quota of five dives yet. Looney inflated his chest and slipped in, and the launch lay drifting. The little waves that slapped against her sides had a different quality from usual; they had not even the small amount of system arising from the wind that agitated the surface — they seemed to come from all points at once. Hornblower realized that they were the last dying remnants of turbulence which the explosion had set up.

Up came Looney, his slender bundle of black hair bobbing beside his face. His white teeth showed in what might almost be thought to be a smile, except that of course he was gasping for breath. He struck out towards the launch saying something to his colleagues as he did so which set them off twittering volubly. Apparently the explosion which had torn the marker buoy loose had not driven it any distance from its position. They hauled Looney on board into the bows. The chattering went on; now Looney was making his way aft over the thwarts and between the men. He was rubbing something in a portion of his clothing as he came — something which he put into Hornblower's hand with a broad grin. Something disc-shaped and heavy, tarnished, encrusted, and yet — and yet —

“God bless my soul,” said Hornblower.

It was a shilling; Hornblower could only stare at it, and turn it over in his fingers. Every eye in the boat was directed at it; the men were quick enough to guess even if they could not see it clearly. Someone started to cheer, and the others took it up. Hornblower looked down the boat at the grinning faces. Even Clout was waving his hat and yelling.

“Silence!” shouted Hornblower. “Mr. Clout, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

But the noise did not stop instantly as before; the men were too excited. But it died away at length, and the men waited. Hornblower had to think now about the next moves completely at a loss — this development had taken him by surprise and he had no idea for the moment what to do next. It would have to be anti-climax, he decided at last. For the recovery of the treasure fresh equipment would be necessary; that was certain. The divers had made nearly as many dives that day as they could. Moreover, McCullum must be informed of the results of the explosion and his decision heard regarding further steps. Hornblower even realized that there was no certainty that subsequent operations would be easy. One shilling did not make a quarter of a million sterling. There might be much further work necessary.

“Oars!” he snapped at the waiting men. The oar-looms clattered into the rowlocks and the men bent forward ready to pull. “Give way!”

The oar-blades bit into the water and the launch slowly gathered way.

“Head for the ship!” he growled at the coxswain.

He sat glowing in the stern-sheets. Anyone seeing his face might well have thought that the launch was returning after a complete failure, but it was merely that he was annoyed with himself at not being quick-witted enough to have had the appropriate orders ready at once when that astonishing shilling was put into his hand. The whole boat's crew had seen him at a loss. His precious dignity was hurt. When he got on board he was inclined to sulk in his cabin, but common sense made him go forward soon to discuss the situation with McCullum.

“There's a cascade of silver,” said McCullum, who had been listening to the reports of the divers. “The bags have rotted, and when the treasure room was blown open the silver poured out. I think that's clear enough.”

“And the gold?” asked Hornblower.

“Looney can't tell me as yet,” said McCullum. “If I had been in the launch I daresay I should have acquired more information.”

Hornblower bit back an angry retort. Nothing would please McCullum better than a quarrel, and he had no wish to indulge him.

“At least the explosion served its purpose,” he said pacifically.

“Like enough.”

“Then why,” asked Hornblower — the question had been awaiting the asking for a long time — “if the wreck was blown open why didn't wreckage come to the surface?”

“You don't know?” asked McCullum in reply, dearly gratified at possessing superior knowledge.

“No.”

“That's one of the elementary facts of science. Timber submerged at great depths soon becomes waterlogged.”

“Indeed?”

“Wood only floats — as I presume you known — virtue of the air contained in the cavities in its substance. Under pressure that air is squeezed out, and, deprived of this upthrust, the residual material has no tendency to rise.”

“I see,” said Hornblower. “Thank you, Mr. McCullum.”

“I am accustomed by now,” said McCullum, “to supplementing the education of King's officers.”

“Then I trust,” said Hornblower, still keeping his temper, “you will continue with mine. What is the next step to take?”

McCullum pursed his lips.

“If that damned Dutch doctor,” he said, “would only have the sense to allow me out of this bed I could attend to it all myself.”

“He'll have the stitches out of you soon,” said Hornblower. “Meanwhile time is of importance.”

It was infuriating that a captain in his own ship should have to endure this sort of insolence. Hornblower thought of the official complaints he could make. He could quarrel with McCullum, abandon the whole attempt, and in his report to Collingwood he would declaim that “owing to the complete lack of co-operation on the part of Mr. William McCullum, of the Honourable East India Company's Service” the expedition had ended in failure. No doubt McCullum would then be rapped on the knuckles officially. But it was better to achieve success, even without receiving any sympathy for the trials he was enduring, than to return with the best of excuses empty-handed. It was just as meritorious to pocket his pride and to coax McCullum into giving clear instructions as it was to head a boarding party on to an enemy's deck. Just as meritorious — although less likely to achieve a paragraph in the Gazette. He forced himself to ask the right questions and to listen to McCullum's grudging explanations of what should next be done.

And it was pleasant, later, when eating his dinner, to be able to congratulate himself on his duty done, orders given, all prepared. Those words of McCullum's, “a cascade of silver,” ran in his mind as he sat and ate. It called for little imagination to conjure up a mental picture of the wreck down there in the translucent water, with her strong-room torn open and the silver in a frozen stream pouring out of it. Gray could have written a poem about it; and somewhere in that strong-room there was the gold. Life was good, and he was a fortunate man. He slowly consumed his last mouthful of roast lamb, and addressed himself to his lettuce salad, tender young plants, sweet and delicious, the first fruits of the Turkish spring.

Hornblower and the “Atropos”

The Turkish spring was not going to give way to summer without a last struggle, without calling the vanished winter back to her aid. The wind blew wildly and cold from the north-westward; the skies were grey, and the rain lashed down torrentially. It drummed upon the deck, streaming out through the scuppers; it poured in unexpected streams down from points in the rigging; even though it grudgingly gave to the crew the chance to wash their clothes in fresh water it denied them the opportunity of drying them again. Atropos swung fitfully to her anchor as the gusts blowing down from the surrounding mountains backed and veered, whipping the surface of the Bay into turbulent white-caps. Wind and rain seemed peculiarly searching. Everyone seemed to be colder and wetter than if the ship were battling a storm in mid-Atlantic, with the deck leaking as she worked in a sea way and the waves crashing down upon it; sulkiness and bad temper made their appearance among the ship's company along with the cold and wet — lack of exercise and lack of occupation combined with the constant drumming of the rain to bring that about.

Walking upon the quarterdeck with the raindrops rattling upon his oilskin seemed to Hornblower to be a cheerless business, the more so until this gale dropped there would be no chance of continuing the salvage operations. Boxes of gold lay over there under that wind-whipped surface; he hated having to wait through these empty hours before knowing if they could be recovered. He hated the thought of having to rouse himself from his inertia and exert himself to re-establish the good spirits of the ship's company, but he knew he must.

“Messenger!” he said, “my compliments to Mr. Smiley and Mr. Horrocks, and I'll see them at once in my cabin.”

Half an hour later both watches were assembled on deck by divisions (“Half an hour I'll give you to get it all arranged,” Hornblower had said) wearing only their duck trousers in the rain, the cold drops beating on their bare chests and feet. There was plenty of growling at the discomfort, but there was amusement among the topmen because every idler in the ship was there — “I'll have 'em all,” Hornblower had said, “waisters and holders, gunner's crew and sailmaker's crew.” And there was the excitement always attendant upon a race; and there was the compensation of seeing the three senior watch-keeping officers, Jones and Still and Turner, climbing the ratlines to take their places in the cross-trees to see that the racing was fair. Hornblower stood forward by the knightheads with his speaking trumpet so that the wind would carry his voice plainly along the deck.

“One to get steady!” he shouted. “Two to be ready! Three — and you're off!”

It was a relay race, up the rigging of each mast in turn and down again, port watch against starboard; it was the inclusion of the men who rarely, if ever, went aloft that gave spice to the proceedings. Soon divisions down on deck were dancing with excitement as they watched the slow ascent and descent of some lumbering gurneys mate or ship's corporal; until he completed the journey they were not free to dash to the next mast and start again.

“Come on, Fatty!”

The Pegasus-winged topmen to whom the ascent was a trifle leaped up and down on deck with never a thought for the streaming rain as some rival division, set free by the eventual descent of its last man, rushed loyally along the deck to the next mast while they were forced to stand and witness the cautious movements of the slowest of their own side.

Up went the men and down, round and across. The Prince of Seitz-Bunau came shrieking round the deck, wild with excitement; Horrocks and Smiley, captains of the two sides, were croaking like crows, their voices failing them with the continual shouting as they organized and encouraged. The cook's mate, who was the last man of the port watch, was already close to the mainmast head when Horrocks, who had reserved himself to be the last of the starboard watch, began the ascent on the other side. Everyone in the ship seemed to be shouting and gesticulating. Up ran Horrocks, the shrouds vibrating with the ape-like speed of his passage. The cook's mate reached the cross-trees and started down again.

“Come on, Fatty!”

The cook's mate did not even look to see where to put his feet, and he was coming down two ratlines at a time. Horrocks reached the crosstrees and leaped for the deck stay. Down he came, sliding at a speed that must burn his hands. Cook's mate and midshipman reached the deck together, but Horrocks had farther to run to reach his place with his division than did the cook's mate. There was a final yell as both of them staggered gasping to their places, but the cook's mate was first by a full yard, and every eye was turned towards Hornblower.

“Port watch wins!” he announced. “Starboard watch provides the entertainment tomorrow night!”

The port watch cheered again, but the starboard watch — Hornblower was observing them closely — was not humiliated. He could guess that there were plenty of men among them who were not too displeased at the thought of tomorrow exhibiting their talents to an audience and who were already planning their turns. He put his speaking trumpet to his lips again.

“Attention! Mr. Horrocks! Mr. Smiley! Dismiss your teams.”

Aft, beside the wardroom door, as Hornblower was returning to his cabin, there was an unusual figure, walking with slow steps under the supervision of the doctor.

“This is a pleasure, Mr. McCullum,” said Hornblower. “It's good to see you out of your bed.”

“The incision has entirely healed, sir,” said Eisenbeiss, proudly. “Not only are the sutures removed, but I have judged it safe to remove the bristle from the wound, as the drainage was complete.”

“Excellent!” said Hornblower. “Then that arm will come out of its sling soon?”

“Within a few days. The broken ribs seem to have knitted well.”

“Still a bit stiff round here,” said McCullum, feeling his right armpit with his left hand. He was displaying none of his usual ill temper; but a convalescent, making his first attempt to walk, and with his wound under discussion, could feel so much in the centre of the picture as to be well disposed towards humanity.

“Well it might be,” said Hornblower. “A pistol bullet at twelve paces is not a welcome visitor. We thought we had lost you. At Malta they thought that bullet was in your lungs.”

“It would have been easier,” said Eisenbeiss, “if he had not been so muscular. The bullet could not be felt in that mass of muscle.”

McCullum fished from his left trouser pocket a small object which he handed to Hornblower.