The Hurricane

Hornblower came walking into his office at Admiralty House at half past five o’clock in the morning exactly. Now that the summer was come there was just enough daylight at that time to transact business and it was a fairly cool moment as well. Gerard and Spendlove, his flag-lieutenant and secretary, were waiting for him there—it would have gone hard with them if they had not been—and they pulled themselves erect, without any clicking of heels (for in three years they had found that their chief discountenanced the practice) and they said “Good morning, My Lord,” “Good morning, My Lord” as if they were the two barrels of a shotgun.

“Morning,” said Hornblower. He had not had his breakfast coffee yet; otherwise he would have put ‘good’ in front of ‘morning’.

He sat down at his desk, and Spendlove came to hover over his shoulder with a sheaf of papers while Gerard made the dawn report.

“Weather conditions normal, My Lord. High water today at eleven-thirty. No arrivals during the night, and nothing in sight this morning from the signal station. No news of the packet, My Lord, and no news of Triton.”

“A negative report if ever there was one,” said Hornblower. The negatives in the last two phrases balanced each other; HMS Triton was bringing out his successor to relieve him of his command at the end of his three years’ appointment, and Hornblower was not happy over the prospect of ceasing to be Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies; but the West India packet was bringing out his wife, whom he had not seen during all this time, and to whose arrival he was eagerly looking forward. She was coming out so as to make the return voyage to England with him.

“The packet’s due any day, My Lord,” said Gerard, soothingly.

“Your business is to tell me things I don’t know, Mr. Gerard,” snapped Hornblower. It annoyed him to be soothed like a child, and it annoyed him still more that his personal staff should think him human enough to be anxious to see his wife. He looked over his shoulder at his secretary. “What do you have there, Spendlove?”

Spendlove made a hasty rearrangement of the papers in his hand. Hornblower’s morning coffee was due at any moment, and Spendlove had something he did not want to show his chief until it had come and was half drunk at least.

“Here are the dockyard returns to the thirty-first ultimo, My Lord,” he said.

“Can’t you say ‘to the end of last month’?” demanded Hornblower, taking them from him.

“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Spendlove, passionately hoping the coffee would come soon.

“Anything in these?” asked Hornblower, glancing over them.

“Nothing for your special attention, My Lord.”

“Then why trouble me with them? Next?”

“The warrants for the new gunner in Clorinda, My Lord, and for the dockyard cooper.”

“Your coffee, My Lord,” said Gerard at this moment, the relief in his voice perfectly apparent.

“Better late than never,” snapped Hornblower. “And for God’s sake don’t fuss round me. I’ll pour it for myself.”

Spendlove and Gerard were busily making room on his desk for the tray to be put down, and Spendlove hastily withdrew his hand from the coffee-pot handle.

“Too damned hot,” said Hornblower, taking a sip. “It’s always too damned hot.”

Last week the new system had been begun, whereby coffee was brought in to him after his arrival in his office, instead of awaiting him there, because he had complained then that it was always too cold, but neither Spendlove nor Gerard saw fit to remind him of this.

“I’ll sign those warrants,” said Hornblower. “Not that I think that cooper’s worth his salt. His barrels open up into bird-cages.”

Spendlove scattered sand from the caster over the wet ink of Hornblower’s signatures, and put the warrants aside. Hornblower took another sip of coffee.

“Here’s your refusal of the Crichtons’ invitation, My Lord. In the third person, so your signature isn’t necessary.”

If that had been said to him a little while before, Hornblower would have demanded why in that case he was being bothered with it, forgetful of his own standing order that nothing was to go out in his name without his seeing it. But even two sips of coffee had done their work.

“Very well,” he said, glancing over it, and taking up his cup again.

Spendlove watched the level of the liquid sink in the cup, and judged the moment to be more propitious now. He laid a letter on the desk.

“From Sir Thomas, My Lord.”

Hornblower uttered a small groan as he picked it up; Captain Sir Thomas Fell of HMS Clorinda was a fussy individual, and a communication from him usually meant trouble—unnecessary trouble, and therefore to be grudged. Not in this case, though. Hornblower read the official document and then craned over his shoulder at Spendlove.

“What’s all this about?” he demanded.

“It’s rather a curious case, I hear, My Lord,” answered Spendlove.

It was a ‘circumstantial letter’, a formal request from Captain Fell for a court martial to be held on Bandsman Hudnutt of the Royal Marines, for ‘wilful and persistent disobedience to orders’. Such a charge if substantiated meant death, or else such a flogging that death would be preferable. Spendlove was perfectly well aware that his admiral detested hangings and floggings.

“The charges are preferred by the Drum-Major,” commented Hornblower to himself.

He knew the Drum-Major, Cobb, perfectly well, or at least as well as the peculiar circumstances permitted. As Admiral and Commander-in-Chief Hornblower had his own band, which was under the command of Cobb, holding warrant rank. Previous to all official occasions where music had to be provided Cobb reported to Hornblower for orders and instructions, and Hornblower would go through the farce of agreeing with the suggestions put forward. He had never publicly admitted that he could not tell one note from another; he could actually distinguish one tune from another by the jigginess or otherwise of the time. He was a little uneasy in case all this was more common knowledge than he hoped.

“What d’you mean by ‘a curious case’, Spendlove?” he asked.

“I believe an artistic conscience is involved, My Lord,” replied Spendlove, cautiously. Hornblower was pouring, and tasting, his second cup of coffee; that might have a bearing on the breaking of Bandsman Hudnutt’s neck, thought Spendlove. At the same time Hornblower was feeling the inevitable irritation resulting from having to listen to gossip. An Admiral in his splendid isolation never—or only rarely—knew as much about what was going on as his most junior subordinate.

“An artistic conscience?” he repeated. “I’ll see the Drum-Major this morning. Send for him now.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

He had received the one necessary clue, and need not demean himself by prying further unless the interview with Cobb should prove unfruitful.

“Now let’s have that draught report until he comes.”

Drum-Major Cobb did not arrive for some time, and his resplendent uniform when he did arrive hinted that he had taken care about his appearance; tunic and pantaloons were freshly ironed, his buttons glittered, his sash was exactly draped, his sword-hilt shone like silver. He was an enormous man with an enormous moustache, and he made an enormous entrance into the room, striding over the resounding floor as if he were twice as heavy as he actually was, clashing his boot-heels together as he halted before the desk and swept his hand upward in the salute fashionable at the moment among the Royal Marines.

“Good morning, Mr. Cobb,” said Hornblower, mildly; the ‘Mr’, like the sword, was an indication that Cobb was a gentleman by virtue of his warrant even though he had risen from the ranks.

“Good morning, My Lord.” There was as much flourish in the phrase as there had been in the salute.