“One boat’s coming into the quay, sir. I’ll have the officer reporting here in fifteen minutes,” said Howard.

Brown was across the room at the far door. Now, if ever, Hornblower had the opportunity—his unaccountable brain recognised it at this moment—to show himself a man of iron. All he had to do was to say ‘My breakfast, Brown’ and sit down and eat it. But he could not pose, faced as he was by the possibility of Bush’s death. It was all very well to do those things when it was merely a battle that lay before him, but this was the loss of his dearest friend. Brown must have read the expression on his face, for he withdrew without making any suggestion about breakfast. Hornblower stood undecided.

“I have the court-martial verdicts here for confirmation, sir,” said Howard, calling his attention to a mass of papers.

Hornblower sat down and picked one up, looked at it unseeing, and put it down again.

“I’ll deal with that later on,” he said.

“Cider’s begun coming into the city from the country in great quantity, sir, now that the farmers have found it’s a good market,” said Dobbs. “Drunkenness among the men’s increasing. Can we—?”

“I’ll leave it to your judgment,” said Hornblower. “Now. What is it you want to do?”

“I would submit, sir, that—”

The discussion lasted a few minutes. It led naturally to the vexed question of an established rate of exchange for British and French currency. But it could not dull the gnawing anxiety about Bush.

“Where the hell’s that officer?” said Howard, petulantly pushing back his chair and going out of the room. He was back almost immediately.

“Mr. Livingstone, sir,” he said. “Third of Camilla.”

A middle-aged lieutenant, steady and reliable enough to outward appearance; Hornblower looked him over carefully as he came into the room.

“Make your report, please.”

“We went up the river without incident, sir. Flame’s boat went aground but was refloated directly. We could see the lights of Caudebec before we were challenged from the bank—we were just rounding the bend, then. Cap’n Bush’s longboat was leading, sir.”

“Where was your boat?”

“Last in the line, sir. We went on without replying, as our orders said. I could see two barges anchored in midstream, an’ clusters of others against the bank. I put the tiller over and ran beside the one farthest downstream, as my orders said, sir. There was a lot of musketry fire higher up, but only a few Frenchies where we were, an’ we chased ‘em away. On the bank where we were there were two twenty-four-pounders on travelling carriages. I had ‘em spiked, and then we levered them off the bank into the river. One fell onto the barge underneath an’ went through it, sir. It sank alongside my launch, deck just level with the water; just before the turn of the tide, that was. Don’t know what she carried, sir, but I think she was light, judging by the height she rode out of the water when I boarded her. Her hatches were open.”

“Yes?”

“Then I led my party along the bank as ordered, sir. There was a lot of shot there, just landed from the next barge. The barge was only half unloaded. So I left a party to scuttle the barge and roll the shot into the river, an’ went on myself with about fifteen men, sir. Flame’s boat’s crew was there, an’ the party they were fighting against ran away when we came on their flank. There were guns on shore and guns still in the barges, sir. We spiked ‘em all, threw the ones that had been landed into the river, and scuttled the barges. There was no powder, sir. My orders were to blow the trunnions off the guns if I could, but I couldn’t.”

“I understand.”

Guns spiked and pitched into the slime at the bottom of a rapid tidal river would be out of action for some time, even though it would have been better to blow off their trunnions and disable them permanently. And the shot at the bottom of the river would be difficult to recover. Horablower could picture so well in his mind the fierce and bloody little struggle in the dark on the river bank.

“Just then we heard drums beating, sir, and a whole lot of soldiers came bearing down on us. A battalion of infantry, I should think it was—I think we had only been engaged up to then with the gunners an’ sappers. My orders were to withdraw if opposed in force, so we ran back to the boats. We’d just shoved off and the soldiers were firing at us from the banks when the explosion came.”

Livingstone paused. His unshaven face was grey with fatigue, and when he mentioned the explosion his expression changed to one of helplessness.

“It was the powder-barges higher up the river, sir. I don’t know who set them off. Maybe it was a shot from the shore. Maybe Cap’n Bush, sir—”

“You had not been in touch with Captain Bush since the attack began?”

“No, sir. He was at the other end of the line to me, and the barges were in two groups against the bank. I attacked one, an’ Cap’n Bush attacked the other.”

“I understand. Go on about the explosion.”

“It was a big one, sir. It threw us all down. A big wave came an’ swamped us, filled us to the gunnels, sir. I think we touched the bottom of the river, sir, after that wave went by. A bit of flying wreckage hit Flame’s boat. Gibbons, master’s mate, was killed an’ the boat smashed. We picked up the survivors while we bailed out. Nobody was firing at us from the bank any more, so I waited. It was just the top of the tide, sir. Presently two boats came down to us, Camilla’s second launch and the fishing-boat that the marines manned. We waited, but we could not see anything of Nonsuch’s boats. Mr. Hake of the marines told me that Cap’n Bush an’ the other three boats were all alongside the powder-barges when the explosion happened. Perhaps a shot went into the cargo, sir. Then they began to open fire on us from the bank again, and as senior officer I gave the order to retire.”

“Most likely you did right, Mr. Livingstone. And then?”

“At the next bend they opened fire on us with field-pieces, sir. Their practice was bad in the dark, sir, but they hit and sank our second launch with almost their last shot, and we lost several more men—the current was running fast by then.”

That was clearly the end of Livingstone’s story, but Hornblower could not dismiss him without one more word.

“But Captain Bush, Mr. Livingstone? Can’t you tell me any more about him?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t pick up a single survivor from the Nonsuch’s boats. Not one.”

“Oh, very well then, Mr. Livingstone. You had better go and get some rest. I think you did very well.”

“Let me have your report in writing and list of casualties before the end of the day, Mr. Livingstone,” interposed Dobbs—as Assistant-Adjutant-General he lived in an atmosphere of reports and Lists of casualties.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Livingstone withdrew, and the door had hardly closed upon him before Hornblower regretted having let him go with such chary words of commendation. The operation had been brilliantly successful. Deprived of his siege-train and munitions, Quiot would not be able to besiege Le Havre, and it would probably be a long time before Bonaparte’s War Ministry in Paris could scrape together another train. But the loss of Bush coloured all Hornblower’s thoughts. He found himself wishing that he had never conceived the plan—he would rather have stood a siege here in Le Havre and have Bush alive at his side. It was hard to think of a world without Bush in it, of a future where he would never, never see Bush again. People would think the loss of a captain and a hundred and fifty men a small price to pay for robbing Quiot of all his offensive power, but people did not understand.

Dobbs and Howard were sitting glum and silent when he glanced at them; they respected his sorrow. But the sight of their deferential gloom roused Hornblower’s contrariness. If they expected him to be upset and unable to work, he would show them how mistaken they were.