 Call all hands. Beat the quarters. It's terrible battery. One broadside into it, if you please, Captain Bush. Point is on target. Lin stops ready. Eyes are ready. Fire! Michael Redgrave at C.S. Forester's Indomitable Man of the Sea. Horatio Hornblower. Unfortunately, for us, this meant a stalemate. A summer faded into autumn and flurries of snow hurried us towards one of those earlier Russian winters. Riga Bay, where my squadron lay, was covered with a thin film of ice. Though I get a tall bush, not at all, with winter coming. I know, sir. If we stay on here much longer, we're certainly be frozen in. And yet the admiralty... My orders from the admiralty are nothing if not explicit. Remain here at all costs, give every support within our path. Riga must be protected to the last man and ship. Are there words? Yes, sir. If only we could be sure that Alexander would hold for us. You don't have a reputation for constancy, I'm afraid. Oh, well. At least we're helping to block the French path to St. Petersburg. I said, Bush, what are they doing up for, at Midshipman's Castle? Yes. With all this recent inactivity, our youngsters needed some work. I warded regular resumption of all peacetime instruction under the sailing master, Mr. Tooth. Excellent idea, Bush. Midshipman and a curious breed, Bush. I'm afraid their lot is not a happy one. Did I ever tell you of my first dubious distinction in the service of his majesty? The day I came aboard the old Justinian as Midshipman, she lay just off Portsmouth. And I was seasick, Bush. Seasick in spithead. Young, too shy, too gawky, not long out of a quiet country village. Nervous, but deeply conscious of my new estate in life. Poor old Keen, captain of the Justinian. Already a sick man, very, very morose. Yet he was not unkind that day when I reported to his cabin. Rather shakily. Mr. Hornbauer, I'm glad to welcome you on board my ship. Yes, sir. That is, er, my eye, sir. Your age is, er, let me see, er, 17. Is that correct? Yes, sir. Birthday, July 4th, 1776. I'd been six years as lieutenant before you were born, Hornbauer. Yes, sir? Doctor's son, eh? How far did your education go? I studied Greek at school, sir. I read Cicero, too. Better if you could foresee a squall in time to get the to-gallons in. With no use for ablative absolutes in the Navy. Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Did you bring your dunge aboard with you? My, er, my sea chest, sir? Oh, yes, sir. It's at the, er, at the entry port. Good. I'll get a boy to show you down to the midshipman's quarters. Well, obey orders, Hornbauer. Learn your duties, and no harm can come to you that will do. Thank you, sir. Despite the captain's words, a bush harm began to come to me almost at once. I was led down ladder after ladder into the twilight of the tween decks and came at last to an especially gloomy research. There are half a dozen shirt-sleeved young men, all a good deal older than myself, sat around the table, lighted faintly by a candle, and I entered rather hesitantly. Well, well, who's this? Who's this? Can it be our ranks are swelling? Simpson, look at him. Look. He's positively green. Oh, no, no. I'm quite all right. It's just... Well, sure, but it did toss quite a bit, isn't it? I'm a way out, man. Do you know what it is, Simpson? I do believe he's seasick. What'll they send us next, Simpson? Seasick in spithead? Oh, we're still at anchor, sonny. Did you know it? Seasick in spithead. I thought to myself that I was now labeled for life, but I'd soon cease to care. A moment later, I was prone in my hammock. In the days that followed, I learned a great deal more about the arrogant Mr. Simpson. There he goes now. Notice that strut? I could admit he is a handsome dude. Yes, sir. I suppose so. You see, Hornblower Simpson's a man who's angry at himself and at the world. He had high hopes, but just before you came aboard, he was sent back here as senior warrant officer of Midship. Oh, Mr. Commission? Exactly. Two a week in mathematics, captain's board turned him down. So acting of turning Simpson is now a Midshipman game. Maybe for years. And Simpson must be 35, at least. I understand him better now. Makes you, well, almost sorry for him, doesn't it? Don't stress, Senator. Well, thank you, General. You know, you're the first aboard who's taken time to say a word to me on any subject. Just keep out of his way as much as you can. Any time anyone rebels, he just pounds in senseless with those big fists. He's a medical prize fighter. And it's always the other who has the black eye who gets the captain's mast for fighting. All of us hate the man, Hornblower. And that's an understatement. All of them did hate Simpson, yes. And some of them even showed it. But from the first, this didn't prevent him singling me out as his favorite victim. His tyrannies were petty, but ingenious. Mr. Hornblower, don't put on your coat. You haven't finished here. But you said that... I said swap down our birth dick. You called that a clean dick? Mr. Simpson, if you haven't just tracked... Put it on your hand on these, Hornblower. Put some drizzle into it. You've got a knick. That's better. I haven't forgotten how to give you a beating yesterday, have you? No more miserable, lonely midshipman ever rode a British ship. We hadn't even said say a word. Weeks passed and we still lay in spithead, awaiting the rest of the channel for eat. Shiners kept me from making friends and Simpson's persecutions mounted daily. I even thought of death as one way out. In my black despair, the waters of spithead promised a friendly escape and often at night I made elaborate plans for suicide. And then, one afternoon, some of us had shore leave in Portsmouth. By chance, I wanted them to the Georgian as three of our ship's company were looking for a fourth of their card table. Why, it's young Hornblower. I say, youngster, do you play whisk to the means of passing the time? Yes, sir. Left-handed masters, yes, I do. Oh, you're just the man we want, then. Haven't been able to find anybody else. Come over here. We barely need a fourth. Mr. Simpson and Mr. Graves and I... Simpson? Well, I... I like whisk, sir, but... Well, I just remember that. I have an appointment. No, no, no, I shall let you escape now. Don't mind Simpson. As senior left in it, I could order you to stay, young man. Now, come along, come along. Yes, sit down, Hornblower. Simpson dained to give me a curt nod, as I said, then. He and Graves have been drinking wine. Their faces were quite flushed. Now, it happened that I did like whisked for years. I made a fourth at home, and I even had a kind of passion for it. Excellent, excellent. Now we can cut for places and partners. Simpson and Graves against you and me, Hornblower. Shilling a trick of stakes, is that too steep, gentlemen? As you wish, Lieutenant. Well, like any sort of gambling. Good, good. Join you, Mr. Graves. Let us be at it. It soon appeared that Simpson was a very poor whisk player. Those shaky mathematics, possibly. On the other hand, I was, um... rather experienced. Masters and I took the first game and the second, Simpson grew more and more sullen and angry, and then came the end of the third game. Well, the rest of mine. What do you mean? Are the King of Hearts still in my hand? Five tricks. Game and rubber. Well, don't want to take it. All right, Hornblower. You know too much about this game, my cocky friend. Now, the backs will record as well as the fronts, don't you? Simpson was muddled. I'm quite sure he spoke without intention, but suddenly a plan occurred to me in stark outline. His life for mine. Perhaps it was my only escape from an intolerable existence. That's a very insulting remark, Mr. Simpson. I should... I should have to ask that as faction, I'm afraid. Satisfaction? No, no, I see here, Hornblower, you can't be... Now, look, look. Dueling's a serious business. But Mr. Simpson will explain that he was merely jokingly... I'm going to use the cheating at cards, Mr. Masters. That's a hard thing to explain away. Mr. Hornblower, I must insist. Oh, no. Now, now, come. The wine was in and the wit was out. Let's forget this. Oh, with pleasure, sir. If Mr. Simpson will apologize at once in a fit that he spoke in a manner most un-gentleman-lit. Apologize to you, you little whipper snapper. To you? Tom. I'll see you roasted by the devil first. That does it, gentlemen. But then... Then there was a life or death issue. Listen to me. You're only half his age. You're hardly more than a boy. Are you determined to press this murderous business? Yes, sir. But why? Why? I've waved the pros and cons, sir. Well, I'll be frank. Simpson has the advantage physically. These conditions are the only ones that give me a... an even chance. Mathematically, one shot from each of us is better. All right, all right, I understand. Well, since you won't call it off, you'd better know. The captain's ordered me to attend the duel in person. Mr. Hippro White, the surgeon, will also attend. Aye, aye, sir. Very well. The place selected is the small heath north of Portsmouth. The hour at dawn tomorrow. The two parties will go separately, of course. Mathematically, I trust you've made the right decision, Mr. Hornblower. I hope you'll get some sleep tonight. Good luck. The yard between. That means no distances to be faced off. Will you stand here, Mr. Simpson? Mr. Hornblower, yeah. You're almost breast-to-breast interval. For the last time, can you not be reconciled? It wouldn't so be it. We haven't settled who's to give the word. Let Mr. Masters give it, Graves. Why not? Very well. Now say one, two, three, and fire. For the last word, you can fire as you will. Ready? Yes. Ready. One. Pulled the trigger. And there was a click. And that was all. Mine was the unnoted, just a half-second fast, and Simpson fired. Another click. And both of us still stood there, stiff and dazed. A misfire by heaven. A misfire, Hornblower. Give me those best horses. The loaded one might still be hanging fire. Which was the loaded one? That's better not to know. I'm shuffling them. But sir, why not a second shot? There will be no second shot, Mr. Gerard. Honor is satisfied. No one can now think to let Mr. Simpson, if he regrets his hasty words, nor of Mr. Hornblower, if he accepts those regrets graciously. They're faces! They're faces! You young fools! You ought to see how you all look! So long as cows! Mr. Hepplewhite, your behavior is indecorous. Our coaches are waiting on the road. The cutlery's at the jetty. I think all of us can do with a little breakfast now, including Mr. Hepplewhite. Of course, but aboard the Justinian, they were whispers. Whispers that circulated before and after. At last, I decided permission to speak privately with Captain Keane. I was so hurt and so angry, I bear it rather clonishly, I'm afraid. Keep your head young man. I can guess what you're going to say to me. Look, those bristles in the duel were not loaded, neither of them. Hepplewhite blabbed, I suppose. Ma'am, to understand that was by your orders. That is correct, I gave those orders to Mr. Vastus. Sir, it isn't unwarrantable, Liberty, sir. Possibly it was, but I saved a life for the King's service, a young life. Both you and Simpson have had your courage amply proved, and no one's harmed. You'll touch my personal honor, sir. Do I understand that you are now issuing me a challenge? Let me remind you, Mr. Hornblower, have won useful regulation of the Navy. No junior officer may challenge his superior to a duel. Indeed, it is a court-martial offence. Yes, I know, sir. Now, here is some gratuitous advice. You have fought one duel with honor, that is good. Never fight another. As some men acquire a taste for dueling, there are never good officers. It seems to become a habit to, well, to occupy the center of the stage. I understand, sir. There's another matter I wanted to take up with you, Mr. Hornblower. Captain Pellue of the frigate in the Fatigable has a room for another midshipman. Perhaps you haven't been too happy here, and Pellue is partial to a game of fist. Has no good forth on bought his ship, in fact. He and I have agreed to consider favorably your application for the transfer, if you should care to make it. Why, anybody jump at the chance of... Well, what were you about to say? Is it settled then? It's very good of you, sir. I don't know how to thank you, but you accepted me as a midshipman, sir, and, of course, I shall remain with you. I appreciate your saying that. I know the heart-burning it entails. But I think I'm going to insist on your accepting Pellue's offer. This ship is not the place for you. This ship with her ailing, outworn captain. Oh, sir, please. Don't interrupt me. I have the good of the service in mind, Mr. Hornblower, when I suggest you go, and might be less disturbing for us, if you did. I never saw him again. He's been dead a long time now, Bush. I've often thought of him, though, when I became a captain and learned of all those extra burdens that go with a command. Well, at least we've passed a little while away from the Russian winter, and we've still got regatta to defend in the morning. It must be the ravens up here. Lieutenant Coe must be worried. Well, kind of make up a proper signal, if you please, Captain Bush. Commodore on board? Always well. Mario Hornblower starring Michael Redgrave is based on the novels by C.S. Forrester. Music composed and conducted by Sydney Torch. Produced by Harry Allen Towers.