January 1793.
The british fleet lies at
anchor at Spithead.
Ships and men rot in idleness.
Across the channel,
revolution in France is sweeping away
the old order.
- Shore boat, ahoy!
- Aye, aye!
Jump!
You’ll be all right!
Welcome to purgatory.
Mr. Eccleston, sir.
- Come aboard, sir.
- Your name?
H-h- Horatio Hornblower, sir.
Midshipman.
Eccleston, first lieutenant.
Mr. Chadd, lieutenant of the watch.
Did you bring your dunnage
aboard with you?
My seachest is coming
aboard for’ard.
I’ll see it’s sent below,
where you should go too.
Get out of those wet clothes.
Yes, sir. I mean, aye, aye, sir.
Mr. Kennedy,take Mr.Hornblower down
to the midshipmen’s birth.
Aye, aye, sir.
Mind your step.
Difficult to say
who smells the worst,
the men or the beasts in
the manger for’ard.
One gets used to it.
Watch your head.
There goes His Majesty’s latest
bad bargain.
Belay that, Styles
unless you want
to find yourself at the gratings.
Aye, aye, sir.
They’re not bad men for
the most part,
provided they’re kept busy.
But this, endless waiting
most of us have been here
six months already.
Discipline, you see?
Things will be different once
we transfer to a fighting vessel,
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