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Title: Hornblower and the Hotspur
Author: Forester, C. S. [Cecil Scott]
   [Smith, Cecil Louis Troughton] (1899-1966]
Date of first publication: 1962
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Michael Joseph, 1962
   [first U.K. edition]
Date first posted: 19 August 2017
Date last updated: 19 August 2017
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1460

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






HORNBLOWER AND THE HOTSPUR

by C. S. Forester






                               CHAPTER I


'Repeat after me,' said the parson. '"I, Horatio, take thee, Maria
Ellen--"'

The thought came up in Hornblower's mind that these were the last few
seconds in which he could withdraw from doing something which he knew to
be ill-considered. Maria was not the right woman to be his wife, even
admitting that he was suitable material for marriage in any case. If he
had a grain of sense, he would break off this ceremony even at this last
moment, he would announce that he had changed his mind, and he would
turn away from the altar and from the parson and from Maria, and he
would leave the church a free man.

'To have and to hold--' he was still, like an automaton, repeating the
parson's words. And there was Maria beside him, in the white that so
little became her. She was melting with happiness. She was consumed with
love for him, however misplaced it might be. He could not, he simply
could not, deal her a blow so cruel. He was conscious of the trembling
of her body beside him. That was not fear, for she had utter and
complete trust in him. He could no more bring himself to shatter that
trust than he could have refused to command the _Hotspur_.

'And thereto I plight thee my troth,' repeated Hornblower. That settled
it, he thought. Those must be the final deciding words that made the
ceremony legally binding. He had made a promise and now there was no
going back on it. There was a comfort in the odd thought that he had
really been committed from a week back, when Maria had come into his
arms sobbing out her love for him, and he had been too soft-hearted to
laugh at her and too--too weak? too honest?--to take advantage of her
with the intention of betraying her. From the moment that he had
listened to her, from the moment that he had returned her kisses,
gently, all these later results, the bridal dress, this ceremony in the
church of St Thomas  Becket--and the vague future of cloying
affection--had been inevitable.

Bush was ready with the ring, and Hornblower slipped it over Maria's
finger, and the final words were said.

'I now pronounce that they are man and wife,' said the parson, and he
went on with the blessing, and then a blank five seconds followed, until
Maria broke the silence.

'Oh, Horry,' she said, and she laid her hand on his arm.

Hornblower forced himself to smile down at her, concealing the newly
discovered fact that he disliked being called 'Horry' even more than he
disliked being called Horatio.

'The happiest day of my life,' he said; if a thing had to be done it
might as well be done thoroughly, so that in the same spirit he
continued. 'In my life so far.'

It was actually painful to note the unbounded happiness of the smile
that answered this gallant speech. Maria put her other hand up to him,
and he realised she expected to be kissed, then and there, in front of
the altar. It hardly seemed a proper thing to do, in a sacred
edifice--in his ignorance he feared lest he should affront the
devout--but once more there was no drawing back, and he stooped and
kissed the soft lips that she proffered.

'Your signatures are required in the register,' prompted the parson, and
led the way to the vestry.

They wrote their names.

'Now I can kiss my son-in-law,' announced Mrs Mason loudly, and
Hornblower found himself clasped by two powerful arms and soundly kissed
on the cheek. He supposed it was inevitable that a man should feel a
distaste for his mother-in-law.

But here was Bush to disengage him, with outstretched hand and unusual
smile, offering felicitations and best wishes.

'Many thanks,' said Hornblower, and added, 'Many thanks for many
services.'

Bush was positively embarrassed, and tried to brush away Hornblower's
gratitude with the same gestures as he would have used to brush away
flies. He had been a tower of strength in this wedding, just as he had
been in the preparation of the _Hotspur_ for sea.

'I'll see you again at the breakfast, sir,' he said, and with that he
withdrew from the vestry, leaving behind him an awkward gap.

'I was counting on Mr Bush's arm for support down the aisle,' said Mrs
Mason, sharply.

It certainly was not like Bush to leave everyone in the lurch like this;
it was in marked contrast with his behaviour during the last few
whirlwind days.

'We can bear each other company, Mrs Mason,' said the parson's wife. 'Mr
Clive can follow us.'

'You are very kind, Mrs Clive,' said Mrs Mason, although there was
nothing in her tone to indicate that she meant what she said. 'Then the
happy pair can start now. Maria, take the captain's arm.'

Mrs Mason marshalled the tiny procession in business-like fashion.
Hornblower felt Maria's hand slipped under his arm, felt the light
pressure she could not help giving to it, and--he could not be cruel
enough to ignore it--he pressed her hand in return, between his ribs and
his elbow, to be rewarded by another smile. A small shove from behind by
Mrs Mason started him back in the church, to be greeted by a roar from
the organ. Half a crown for the organist and a shilling for the blower
was what that music had cost Mrs Mason; there might be better uses for
the money. The thought occupied Hornblower's mind for several seconds,
and was naturally succeeded by the inevitable wonderment as to how
anyone could possibly find enjoyment in these distasteful noises. He and
Maria were well down the aisle before he came back to reality.

'The sailors are all gone,' said Maria with a break in her voice.
'There's almost no one in the church.'

Truth to tell, there were only two or three people in the pews, and
these obviously the most casual idlers. All the few guests had trooped
into the vestry for the signing, and the fifty seamen whom Bush had
brought from _Hotspur_--all those who could be trusted not to
desert--had vanished already. Hornblower felt a vague disappointment
that Bush had failed again to rise to the situation.

'Why should we care?' he asked, groping wildly for words of comfort for
Maria. 'Why should any shadow fall on our wedding day?'

It was strangely painful to see and to feel Maria's instant response,
and her faltering step changed to a brave stride as they marched down
the empty church. There was bright sunshine awaiting them at the west
door, he could see; and he thought of something else a tender bridegroom
might say.

'Happy is the bride the sun shines on.'

They came out of the dim light into the bright sun, and the transition
was moral as well as physical, for Bush had not disappointed them; he
had not been found wanting after all. Hornblower heard a sharp word and
a ragged clash of steel, and there were the fifty seamen in a double
rank stretching away from the door, making an arch of their drawn
cutlasses for the couple to walk beneath.

'Oh, how nice!' said Maria, in childish delight; furthermore the array
of seamen at the church door had attracted a crowd of spectators, all
craning forward to see the captain and his bride. Hornblower darted a
professional glance first down one line of seamen and then down the
other. They were all dressed in the new blue and white checked shirts
with which he had stocked the slop chest of the _Hotspur_; their white
duck trousers were mostly well worn but well washed, and long enough and
baggy enough to conceal the probable deficiencies of their shoes. It was
a good turnout.

Beyond the avenue of cutlasses stood a horseless post-chaise, with Bush
standing behind it. Wondering a little, Hornblower led Maria towards it;
Bush gallantly handed Maria up into the front seat and Hornblower
climbed up beside her, finding time now to take his cocked hat from
under his arm and clap it on his head. He had heard the cutlasses rasp
back into their sheaths; now the guard of honour came pattering forward
in a disciplined rush. There were pipe-clayed drag ropes where the
traces should have been, and the fifty men seized their coils,
twenty-five to a coil, and ran them out. Bush craned up towards
Hornblower.

'Let the brake off, if you please, sir. That handle there, sir.'

Hornblower obeyed, and Bush turned away and let loose a subdued bellow.
The seamen took the strain in half a dozen quickening steps and then
broke into a trot, the post-chaise rattling over the cobbles, while the
crowd waved their hats and cheered.

'I never thought I could be so happy--Horry--darling,' said Maria.

The men at the drag ropes, with the usual exuberance of the seaman on
land, swung round the corner into the High Street and headed at the
double towards the George, and with the turn Maria was flung against him
and clasped him in delicious fear. As they drew up it was obvious that
there was a danger of the chaise rolling forward into the seamen, and
Hornblower had to think fast and reach for the brake lever, hurriedly
casting himself free from Maria's arm. Then he sat for a moment,
wondering what to do next. On this occasion there should be a group to
welcome them, the host of the inn and his wife, the boots, the ostler,
the drawer, and the maids, but as it was there was no one. He had to
leap down from the chaise unassisted and single handed help Maria down.

'Thank you, men,' he said to the parting seamen, who acknowledged his
thanks with a knuckling of foreheads and halting words.

Bush was in sight now round the corner, hurrying towards them;
Hornblower could safely leave Bush in charge while he led Maria into the
inn with a sad lack of ceremony.

But here was the host at last, bustling up with a napkin over his arm
and his wife at his heels.

'Welcome, sir, welcome, madam. This way, sir, madam.' He flung open the
door into the coffee-room to reveal the wedding breakfast laid on a
snowy cloth. 'The Admiral arrived only five minutes ago, sir, so you
must excuse us, sir.'

'Which Admiral?'

'The Honourable Admiral Sir William Cornwallis, sir, commanding the
Channel Fleet. 'Is coachman says war's certain, sir.'

Hornblower had been convinced of this ever since, nine days ago, he had
read the King's message to Parliament, and witnessed the activities of
the press gangs, and had been notified of his appointment to the command
of the _Hotspur_--and (he remembered) had found himself betrothed to
Maria. Bonaparte's unscrupulous behaviour on the Continent meant--

'A glass of wine, madam? A glass of wine, sir?'

Hornblower was conscious of Maria's enquiring glance when the innkeeper
asked this question. She would not venture to answer until she had
ascertained what her new husband thought.

'We'll wait for the rest of the company,' said Hornblower. 'Ah--'

A heavy step on the threshold announced Bush's arrival.

'They'll all be here in two minutes,' said Bush.

'Very good of you to arrange about the carriage and the seamen, Mr
Bush,' said Hornblower, and he thought that moment of something else
that a kind and thoughtful husband would say. He slipped his hand under
Maria's arm and added--'Mrs Hornblower says you made her very happy.'

A delighted giggle from Maria told him that he had given pleasure by
this unexpected use of her new name, as he expected.

'Mrs Hornblower, I give you joy,' said Bush, solemnly, and then to
Hornblower, 'By your leave, sir, I'll return to the ship.'

'Now, Mr Bush?' asked Maria.

'I fear I must, ma'am,' replied Bush, turning back at once to
Hornblower. 'I'll take the hands back with me, sir. There's always the
chance that the lighters with the stores may come off.'

'I'm afraid you're right, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower. 'Keep me informed,
if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Bush, and with that he was gone.

Here came the others, pouring in, and any trace of awkwardness about the
party disappeared as Mrs Mason marshalled the guests and set the wedding
breakfast into its stride. Corks popped and preliminary toasts were
drunk. There was the cake to be cut, and Mrs Mason insisted that Maria
should make the first cut with Hornblower's sword; Mrs Mason was sure
that in this Maria would be following the example of naval brides in
good society in London. Hornblower was not so sure; he had lived for ten
years under a strict convention that cold steel should never be drawn
under a roof or a deck. But his timid objections were swept away, and
Maria, the sword in both hands, cut the cake amid general applause.
Hornblower could hardly restrain his impatience to take the thing back
from her, and he quickly wiped the sugar icing from the blade, wondering
grimly what the assembled company would think if they knew he had once
wiped human blood from it. He was still engaged on this work when he
became aware of the innkeeper whispering hoarsely at his side.

'Begging your pardon, sir. Begging your pardon.'

'Well?'

'The Admiral's compliments, sir, and he would be glad to see you when
you find it convenient.'

Hornblower stood sword in hand, staring at him in momentary
incomprehension.

'The Admiral, sir. 'E's in the first floor front, what we always calls
the Admiral's Room.'

'You mean Sir William, of course?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. My respects to the Admiral and--No, I'll go up at once.
Thank you.'

'Thank'ee, sir. Begging your pardon again.'

Hornblower shot his sword back into its sheath and looked round at the
company. They were watching the maid bustling round handing slices of
wedding cake and had no eyes for him at present. He settled his sword at
his side, twitched at his neckcloth, and unobtrusively left the room,
picking up his hat as he did so.

When he knocked at the door of the first floor front a deep voice that
he well-remembered said, 'Come in.' It was so large a room that the
four-poster bed at the far end was inconspicuous; so was the secretary
seated at the desk by the window. Cornwallis was standing in the middle,
apparently engaged in dictation until this interruption.

'Ah, it's Hornblower. Good morning.'

'Good morning, sir.'

'The last time we met was over that unfortunate business with the Irish
rebel. We had to hang him, I remember.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cornwallis, 'Billy Blue,' had not changed perceptibly during those four
years. He was still the bulky man with the composed manner, obviously
ready to deal with any emergency.

'Please sit down. A glass of wine?'

'No, thank you, sir.'

'I expected that, seeing the ceremony you've just come from. My
apologies for interrupting your wedding, but you must blame Boney, not
me.'

'Of course, sir.' Hornblower felt that a more eloquent speech would have
been in place here, but he could not think of one.

'I'll detain you for as short a time as possible. You know I've been
appointed to the command of the Channel Fleet?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You know that _Hotspur_ is under my command?'

'I expected that, but I didn't know, sir.'

'The Admiralty letter to that effect came down in my coach. You'll find
it awaiting you on board.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Is _Hotspur_ ready to sail?'

'No, sir.' The truth and no excuses. Nothing else would do.

'How long?'

'Two days, sir. More if there's delay with the ordnance stores.'

Cornwallis was looking at him very sharply indeed, but Hornblower
returned glance for glance. He had nothing with which to reproach
himself; nine days ago _Hotspur_ was still laid-up in ordinary.

'She's been docked and breamed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'She's manned?'

'Yes, sir. A good crew--the cream of the press.'

'Rigging set up?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Yards crossed?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Officers appointed?'

'Yes, sir. A lieutenant and four master's mates.'

'You'll need three months' provisions and water.'

'I can stow a hundred and eleven days at full rations, sir. The
cooperage is delivering the water-butts at noon. I'll have it all stowed
by nightfall, sir.'

'Have you warped her out?'

'Yes, sir. She's at anchor now in Spithead.'

'You've done well,' said Cornwallis.

Hornblower tried not to betray his relief at that speech; from
Cornwallis that was more than approval--it was hearty praise.

'Thank you, sir.'

'So what do you need now?'

'Bos'n's stores, sir. Cordage, canvas, spare spars.'

'Not easy to get the dockyard to part with those at this moment. I'll
have a word with them. And then the ordnance stores, you say?'

'Yes, sir. Ordnance are waiting for a shipment of nine-pounder shot.
None to be had here at the moment.'

Ten minutes ago Hornblower had been thinking of words to please Maria.
Now he was selecting words for an honest report to Cornwallis.

'I'll deal with that, too,' said Cornwallis. 'You can be certain of
sailing the day after tomorrow if the wind serves.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now for your orders. You'll get them in writing in the course of the
day, but I'd better tell you now, while you can ask questions. War's
coming. It hasn't been declared yet, but Boney may anticipate us.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'm going to blockade Brest as soon as I can get the fleet to sea, and
you're to go ahead of us.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're not to do anything to precipitate war. You're not to provide
Boney with an excuse.'

'No, sir.'

'When war's declared you can of course take the appropriate action.
Until then you have merely to observe. Keep your eye on Brest. Look in
as far as you can without provoking fire. Count the ships of war--the
number and rate of ships with their yards crossed, ships still in
ordinary, ships in the roads, ships preparing for sea.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Boney sent the best of his ships and crews to the West Indies last
year. He'll have more trouble manning his fleet even than we have. I'll
want your report as soon as I arrive on the station. What's the
_Hotspur's_ draught?'

'She'll draw thirteen feet aft when she's complete with stores, sir.'

'You'll be able to use the Goulet pretty freely, then. I don't have to
tell you not to run her aground.'

'No, sir.'

'But remember this. You'll find it hard to perform your duty unless you
risk your ship. There's folly and there's foolhardiness on one side, and
there's daring and calculation on the other. Make the right choice and
I'll see you through any trouble that may ensue.'

Cornwallis's wide blue eyes looked straight into Hornblower's brown
ones. Hornblower was deeply interested in what Cornwallis had just said,
and equally interested in what he had left unsaid. Cornwallis had made a
promise of sympathetic support, but he had refrained from uttering the
threat which was the obvious corollary. This was no rhetorical device,
no facile trick of leadership--it was a simple expression of
Cornwallis's natural state of mind. He was a man who preferred to lead
rather than to drive; most interesting.

Hornblower realised with a start that for several seconds he had been
staring his commander-in-chief out of countenance while following up
this train of thought; it was not the most tactful behaviour, perhaps.

'I understand, sir,' he said, and Cornwallis rose from his chair.

'We'll meet again at sea. Remember to do nothing to provoke war before
war is declared,' he said, with a smile--and the smile revealed the man
of action. Hornblower could read him as someone to whom the prospect of
action was stimulating and desirable, and who would never seek reasons
or excuses for postponing decisions.

Cornwallis suddenly withheld his proffered hand.

'By Jove!' he exclaimed. 'I was forgetting. This is your wedding day.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You were only married this morning?'

'An hour ago, sir.'

'And I've taken you away from your wedding breakfast.'

'Yes, sir.' It would be cheap rhetoric to add anything trite like 'For
King and Country,' or even 'Duty comes first.'

'Your good lady will hardly be pleased.'

Nor would his mother-in-law, more especially, thought Hornblower, but
again it would not be tactful to say so.

'I'll try to make amends, sir,' he contented himself with saying.

'It's I who should make amends,' replied Cornwallis. 'Perhaps I could
join the festivities and drink the bride's health?'

'That would be most kind of you, sir,' said Hornblower.

If anything could reconcile Mrs Mason to his breach of manners, it would
be the presence of Admiral the Hon. Sir William Cornwallis, K.B., at the
breakfast table.

'I'll come, then, if you're certain I shan't be unwelcome. Hachett, find
my sword. Where's my hat?'

So that when Hornblower appeared again through the door of the
coffee-room Mrs Mason's instant and bitter reproaches died away on her
lips, the moment she saw that Hornblower was ushering in an important
guest. She saw the glittering epaulettes, and the red ribbon and the
star which Cornwallis had most tactfully put on in honour of the
occasion. Hornblower made the introductions.

'Long life and much happiness,' said Cornwallis, bowing over Maria's
hand, 'to the wife of one of the most promising officers in the King's
service.'

Maria could only bob, overwhelmed with embarrassment in this glittering
presence.

'Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Sir William,' said Mrs Mason.

And the parson and his wife, and the few neighbours of Mrs Mason's who
were the only other guests, were enormously gratified at being in the
same room as--let alone being personally addressed by--the son of an
Earl, a Knight of the Bath, and a Commander-in-Chief combined in one
person.

'A glass of wine, sir?' asked Hornblower.

'With pleasure.'

Cornwallis took the glass in his hand and looked round. It was
significant that it was Mrs Mason whom he addressed.

'Has the health of the happy couple been drunk yet?'

'No, sir,' answered Mrs Mason, in a perfect ecstasy.

'Then may I do so? Ladies, gentlemen. I ask you all to stand and join me
on this happy occasion. May they never know sorrow. May they always
enjoy health and prosperity. May the wife always find comfort in the
knowledge that the husband is doing his duty for King and Country, and
may the husband be supported in his duty by the loyalty of the wife. And
let us hope that in time to come there will be a whole string of young
gentlemen who will wear the King's uniform after their father's example,
and a whole string of young ladies to be mothers of further young
gentlemen. I give you the health of the bride and groom.'

The health was drunk amid acclamation, with all eyes turned on the
blushing Maria, and then from her all eyes turned on Hornblower. He
rose; he had realised, before Cornwallis had reached the midpoint of his
speech, that the Admiral was using words he had used scores of times
before, at scores of weddings of his officers. Hornblower, keyed up on
the occasion, met Cornwallis's eyes and grinned. He would give as good
as he got; he would reply with a speech exactly similar to the scores
that Cornwallis had listened to.

'Sir William, ladies and gentlemen, I can only thank you in the name
of'--Hornblower reached down and took Maria's hand--'my wife and
myself.'

As the laughter died away--Hornblower had well known that the company
would laugh at his mention of Maria as his wife, although he himself did
not think it a subject for laughter--Cornwallis looked at his watch, and
Hornblower hastened to thank him for his presence and to escort him to
the door. Beyond the threshold Cornwallis turned and thumped him on the
chest with his large hand.

'I'll add another line to my orders for you,' he said; Hornblower was
acutely aware that Cornwallis's friendly smile was accompanied by a
searching glance.

'Yes, sir?'

'I'll add my written permission for you to sleep out of your ship for
tonight and tomorrow night.'

Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; for once in his
life his readiness of wit had deserted him. His mind was so busy
re-assessing the situation that it had nothing to spare for his organ of
speech.

'I _thought_ you might have forgotten,' said Cornwallis, grinning.
'_Hotspur's_ part of the Channel Fleet now. Her captain is forbidden by
law to sleep anywhere except on board without the permission of the
Commander-in-Chief. Well, you have it.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Hornblower, at last able to articulate.

'Maybe you won't sleep ashore again for a couple of years. Maybe more
than that, if Boney fights it out.'

'I certainly think he'll fight, sir.'

'In that case you and I will meet again off Ushant in three weeks' time.
So now good-bye, once more.'

For some time after Cornwallis had left Hornblower stood by the
half-closed door of the coffee-room in deep thought, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, which was the nearest he could get to pacing
up and down. War was coming; he had always been certain of that, because
Bonaparte would never retreat from the position he had taken up. But
until this moment Hornblower had thought recklessly that he would not be
ordered to sea until war was declared, in two or three weeks' time,
after the final negotiations had broken down. He had been utterly wrong
in this surmise, and he was angry with himself on that account. The
facts that he had a good crew--the first harvest of the press--that his
ship could be quickly made ready for sea, that she was small and of no
account in the balance of power, even that she was of light draught and
therefore well adapted to the mission Cornwallis had allotted her,
should have warned him that he would be packed off to sea at the
earliest possible moment. He should have foreseen all this and he had
not.

That was the first point, the first pill to swallow. Next he had to find
out why his judgement had been so faulty. He knew the answer instantly,
but--and he despised himself for this even more--he flinched from
expressing it. But here it was. He had allowed his judgement to be
clouded on account of Maria. He had shrunk from hurting her, and in
consequence he had refused to allow his mind to make calculations about
the future. He had gone recklessly forward in the wild hope that some
stroke of good fortune would save him from having to deal her this blow.

He pulled himself up abruptly at this point. Good fortune? Nonsense. He
was in command of his own ship, and was being set in the forefront of
the battle. This was his golden chance to distinguish himself. That was
his good fortune--it would have been maddening bad luck to have been
left in harbour. Hornblower could feel the well-remembered thrill of
excitement at the thought of seeing action again, of risking
reputation--and life--in doing his duty, in gaining glory, and in (what
was really the point) justifying himself in his own eyes. Now he was
sane again; he could see things in their proper proportion. He was a
naval officer first, and a married man only second, and a bad second at
that. But--but--that did not make things any easier. He would still have
to tear himself free from Maria's arms.

Nor could he stay here outside the coffee-room any longer. He must go
back, despite his mental turmoil. He turned and reentered the room,
closing the door behind him.

'It will look well in the _Naval Chronicle_,' said Mrs Mason, 'that the
Commander-in-Chief proposed the health of the happy pair. Now, Horatio,
some of your guests have empty plates.'

Hornblower was still trying to be a good host when he saw across the
room the worried face of the innkeeper again; it called for a second
glance to see what had caused him to come in. He was ushering in
Hornblower's new coxswain, Hewitt, a very short man who escaped
observation across the room. Hewitt made up in breadth a good deal of
what he lacked in height, and he sported a magnificent pair of glossy
black side-whiskers in the style which was newly fashionable on the
lower-deck. He came rolling across the room, his straw hat in his hand,
and, knuckling his forehead, gave Horatio a note. The address was in
Bush's handwriting and in the correct phrasing, although now a little
old-fashioned--Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander. Silence
fell on the assembled company--a little rudely, Hornblower thought--as
he read the few lines.

    H.M. Sloop _Hotspur_

     April 2nd, 1803
    Sir,

    I hear from the dockyard that the first of the lighters is ready
    to come alongside. Extra pay is not yet authorized for dockyard
    hands, so that work will cease at nightfall. I respectfully
    submit that I can supervise the embarkation of the stores if you
    should find it inconvenient to return on board.

                                            Your obdt servant,
                                                      Wm. Bush.

'Is the boat at the Hard?' demanded Hornblower.

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. I'll be there in five minutes.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Oh, Horry,' said Maria, with a hint of reproach in her voice. No, it
was disappointment, not reproach.

'My dear--' said Hornblower. It occurred to him that he might now quote
'I could not love thee, dear, so much--' but he instantly discarded the
idea; it would not be at all suitable at this moment, with this wife.

'You're going to the ship again,' said Maria.

'Yes.'

He could not stay away from the ship while there was work to be done.
Today, by driving the hands, they could get half the stores on board at
least. Tomorrow they could finish, and if Ordnance responded to the
prodding of the Admiral, they could get the powder and shot on board as
well. Then they could sail at dawn the day after tomorrow.

'I'll be back again this evening,' he said. He forced himself to smile,
to look concerned, to forget that he was on the threshold of adventure,
that before him lay a career of possible distinction.

'Nothing shall keep me from you, dear,' he said.

He clapped his hands on her shoulders and gave her a smacking kiss that
drew applause from the others; that was the way to reintroduce a note of
comedy into the proceedings, and, under cover of the laughter, he made
his exit. As he hastened down to the Hard two subjects for thought
intertwined in his mind, like the serpents of the medical caduceus--the
tender love that Maria wished to lavish upon him, and the fact that the
day after tomorrow he would be at sea, in command.




                               CHAPTER II


Someone must have been knocking at the bedroom door for some time;
Hornblower had been conscious of it but was too stupid with sleep to
think more about it. But now the door opened with a clank of the latch,
and Maria, awakening with a start, clutched at him in sudden fright, and
he was now fully awake. There was the faintest gleam of light through
the thick bed curtains, a shuffling step on the oak floor of the
bedroom, and a high-pitched female voice.

'Eight bells, sir. Eight bells.'

The curtains opened an inch to let in a ray of brighter light still, and
Maria's grip tightened, but they came together again as Hornblower found
his voice.

'Very well. I'm awake.'

'I'll light your candles for you,' piped the voice, and the shuffling
step went round the room and the light through the curtains grew
brighter.

'Where's the wind? What way's the wind?' asked Hornblower, now so far
awake as to feel the quickening of his heartbeat and the tensing of his
muscles as he realised what this morning meant to him.

'Now that I can't tell you, sir,' piped the voice. 'I'm not one who can
box the compass, and there's no one else awake as yet.'

Hornblower snorted with annoyance at being kept in ignorance of this
vital information, and without a thought reached to fling off the
bedclothes so as to get up and find out for himself. But there was Maria
clasping him, and he knew that he could not leap out of bed in such a
cavalier fashion. He had to go through the proper ritual and put up with
the delay. He turned and kissed her, and she returned his kisses,
eagerly and yet differently from on other occasions. He felt something
wet on his cheek; it was a tear, but there was only that one single tear
as Maria forced herself to exert self control. His rather perfunctory
embrace changed in character.

'Darling, we're being parted,' whispered Maria. 'Darling, I know you
must go. But--but--I can't think how I'm going to live without you.
You're my whole life. You're...'

A great gust of tenderness welled up in Hornblower's breast, and there
was compunction too, a pricking of conscience. Not the most perfect man
on earth could merit this devotion. If Maria knew the truth about him
she would turn away from him, her whole world shattered. The cruelest
thing he could do would be to let her find him out; he must never do
that. Yet the thought of being loved so dearly set flowing deeper and
deeper wells of tenderness in his breast and he kissed her cheeks and
sought out the soft eager lips. Then the soft lips hardened, withdrew.

'No, angel, darling. No, I mustn't keep you. You would be angry with
me--afterwards. Oh, my dear life, say good-bye to me now. Say that you
love me--say that you'll always love me. Then say good-bye, and say that
you'll think of me sometimes as I shall always think of you.'

Hornblower said the words, the right words, and in his tenderness he
used the right tone. Maria kissed him once more, and then tore herself
free and flung herself on to the far side of the bed face downward.
Hornblower lay still, trying to harden his heart to rise, and Maria
spoke again; her voice was half muffled by the pillow, but her forced
change of mood was apparent even so.

Your clean shirt's on the chair, dear, and your second best shoes are
beside the fireplace.'

Hornblower swung himself out of bed and out through the curtains. The
air of the bedroom was certainly fresher than that inside. The door
latch clanked again and he had just time to whip his be-gown in front of
him as the old chambermaid put her head in. She let out a high cackle of
mirth at Hornblower's modesty.

'The ostler says 'light airs from the s'uth'ard sir.'

'Thank you.'

The door closed behind her.

'Is that what you want, darling?' asked Maria, still behind the
curtains. 'Light airs from the s'uth'ard--that means south, does it
not?'

'Yes, it may serve,' said Hornblower, hurrying over to the wash basin
and adjusting the candles so as to illuminate his face.

Light airs from the south now, at the end of March, were hardly likely
to endure. They might back or they might veer, but would certainly
strengthen with the coming of day. If _Hotspur_ handled as well as he
believed she would he could weather the Foreland and be ready for the
next development, with plenty of sea room. But of course--as always in
the Navy--he could not afford to waste any time. The razor was rasping
over his cheeks, and as he peered into the mirror he was vaguely
conscious of Maria's reflection behind his own as she moved about the
room dressing herself. He poured cold water into the basin with which to
wash himself, and felt refreshed, turning away with his usual rapidity
of movement to put on his shirt.

'Oh, you dress so fast,' said Maria in consternation.

Hornblower heard her shoes clacking on the oaken floor; she was
hurriedly putting on a fresh mob cap over her hair, and clearly she was
dressing as quickly as she could, even at the cost of some informality.

'I must run down to see that your breakfast is ready,' she said, and was
gone before he could protest.

He folded his neckcloth carefully, but with practised fingers, and
slipped on his coat, glanced at his watch, put it in his pocket and then
put on his shoes. He rolled his toilet things into his housewife and
tied the tapes. Yesterday's shirt and his nightshirt and bed gown he
stuffed in the canvas bag that awaited them, and the housewife on top. A
glance round the room told him that he had omitted nothing, although he
had to look more carefully than usual because there were articles
belonging to Maria scattered here and there. Bubbling with excitement,
he opened the window curtains and glanced outside; no sign of dawn as
yet. Bag in hand, he went downstairs and into the coffee-room. This
smelt of stale living, and was dimly lit by an oil lamp dangling from
the ceiling. Maria looked in at him from the farther door.

'Here's your place, dear,' she said. 'Only a moment before breakfast.'

She held the back of the chair for him to be seated.

'I'll sit down after you,' said Hornblower; it went against the grain to
have Maria waiting on him.

'Oh, no,' said Maria. 'I have your breakfast to attend to--only the old
woman is up as yet.'

She coaxed him into the chair. Hornblower felt her kiss the top of his
head, felt a momentary touch of her cheek against his, but before he
could seize her, reaching behind him, she was gone. She left behind her
the memory of something between a sniff and a sob; the opening of the
door into the kitchen admitted a smell of cooking, the sizzling of
something in a pan, and a momentary burst of conversation between Maria
and the old woman. Then in came Maria, her rapid steps indicating that
the plate she held was too hot to be comfortable. She dropped it in
front of him, a vast rump steak, still sizzling on the plate.

'There, dear,' she said, and busied herself with putting the rest of the
meal within his reach, while Hornblower looked down at the steak with
some dismay.

'I picked that out for you specially yesterday,' she announced proudly.
'I walked over to butcher's while you were on the ship.'

Hornblower steeled himself not to wince at hearing a naval officer's
wife speak about being 'on' a ship; he also had to steel himself to
having steak for breakfast, when steak was by no means his favourite
dish, and when he was so excited that he felt he could eat nothing. And
dimly he could foresee a future--if ever he returned, if ever,
inconceivably, he settled down in domestic life--when steak would be put
before him on any special occasion. That thought was the last straw; he
felt he could not eat a mouthful, and yet he could not hurt Maria's
feelings.

'Where's yours?' he asked, temporising.

'Oh, I shan't be having any steak,' replied Maria. The tone of her voice
proved that it was quite inconceivable to her that a wife should eat
equally well as her husband. Hornblower raised his voice and turned his
head.

'Hey, there!' he called. 'In the kitchen! Bring another plate--a hot
one.'

'Oh, no, darling,' said Maria, all fluttered, but Hornblower was by now
out of his chair and seating her at her own place.

'Now, sit there,' said Hornblower. 'No more words. I'll have no
mutineers in my family. Ah!'

Here came the other plate. Hornblower cut the steak in two, and helped
Maria to the larger half.

'But darling--'

'I said I'll have no truck with mutiny,' growled Hornblower parodying
his own quarter-deck rasp.

'Oh, Horry, darling. You're good to me, far too good to me.' Momentarily
Maria clapped hands and handkerchief to her face, and Hornblower feared
she would break down finally, but then she put her hands in her lap and
straightened her back, controlling her emotions in an act of the purest
heroism. Hornblower felt his heart go out to her. He reached out and
pressed the hand she gladly proffered him.

'Now let me see you eat a hearty breakfast,' he said; he was still using
his mock-bullying tone, but the tenderness he felt was still evident.
Maria took up her knife and fork and Hornblower did the same. He forced
himself to eat a few mouthfuls, and so mangled the rest of his steak
that it did not appear as if he had left too much. He took a pull at his
pot of beer--he did not like drinking beer for breakfast, not even beer
as small as this, but he realised that the old woman could not be
expected to have access to the tea-caddy.

A rattling at the windows attracted their attention. The ostler was
opening the shutters, and they could dimly see his face for a moment,
but it was still quite dark outside. Hornblower looked at his watch; ten
minutes to five, and he had ordered his boat to be at the Sally Port at
five. Maria saw the gesture and looked over at him. There was a slight
trembling of her lips, a slight moisture in her eyes, but she kept
herself under control.

'I'll get my cloak,' she said quietly, and fled from the room. She was
back in no time, her grey cloak round her, and her face shadowed in her
hood; in her arms was Hornblower's heavy coat.

'You're leaving us now, sir?' piped the old woman coming into the
coffee-room.

'Yes. Madam will settle the score when she returns,' said Hornblower; he
fumbled out half a crown from his pocket and put it on the table.

'Thank you kindly, sir. And a good voyage, and prize money galore.' The
sing-song tone reminded Hornblower that she must have seen naval
officers by the hundreds leaving the George to go to sea--her memories
must go back to Hawke and Boscawen.

He buttoned up his coat and took up his bag.

'I'll have the ostler come with us with a lantern to escort you back,'
he said, consideringly.

'Oh, no please, darling. It's so short a way, and I know every step,'
pleaded Maria, and there was enough truth in what she said for him not
to insist.

They walked out into the keen cold air, having to adjust their eyes to
the darkness even after the miserable light of the coffee-room.
Hornblower realised that if he had been an Admiral, or even a
distinguished Captain, he would never have been allowed to leave with so
little ceremony; the innkeeper and his wife would certainly have risen
and dressed to see him on his way. They turned the corner and started on
the steep slope down to the Sally Port, and it was borne in anew on
Hornblower that he was about to start out for the wars. His concern for
Maria had actually distracted him from this thought, but now he found
himself gulping with excitement.

'Dear,' said Maria. 'I have a little present for you.'

She was bringing something out from the pocket of her cloak and pressing
it into his hand.

'It's only gloves, dear, but my love comes with them,' she went on. 'I
could make nothing better for you in this little time. I would have
liked to have embroidered something for you--I would have liked to give
you something worthy of you. But I have been stitching at these every
moment since--since--'

She could not go on, but once more she straightened her back and refused
to break down.

'I'll be able to think of you every moment I wear them,' said
Hornblower. He struggled into the gloves despite the handicap of the bag
he was carrying; they were splendid thick woollen gloves, each with
separate thumb and forefinger.

'They fit me to perfection. I thank you for the kind thought, dear.'

Now they were at the head of the steep slope down the Hard, and this
horrible ordeal would soon be over.

'You have the seventeen pounds safely?' asked Hornblower--an unnecessary
question.

'Yes, thank you, dearest. I fear it is too much--'

'And you'll be able to draw my monthly half-pay,' went on Hornblower
harshly, to keep the emotion from his voice, and then, realising how
harshly, he continued. 'It is time to say good-bye now, darling.'

He had forced himself to use that unaccustomed last word. The water
level was far up the Hard; that meant, as he had known when he had given
the orders, that the tide was at the flood. He would be able to take
advantage of the ebb.

'Darling!' said Maria, turning to him and lifting up her face to him in
its hood.

He kissed her; down at the water's edge there was the familiar rattle of
oars on thwarts, and the sound of male voices, as his boat's crew
perceived the two shadowy figures on the Hard. Maria heard those sounds
as clearly as Hornblower did, and she quickly snatched away from him the
cold lips she had raised to his.

'Good-bye, my angel.'

There was nothing else to say now, nothing else to do; this was the end
of this brief experience. He turned his back on Maria; he turned his
back on peace and on civilian married life and walked down towards war.




                              CHAPTER III


'Slack water now, sir,' announced Bush. 'First of the ebb in ten
minutes. And anchor's hove short, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush.' There was enough grey light in the sky now to see
Bush's face as something more definite than a blur. At Bush's shoulder
stood Prowse, the acting-master, senior master's mate with an
acting-warrant. He was competing unobtrusively with Bush for
Hornblower's attention. Prowse was charged, by Admiralty instructions,
with 'navigating and conducting the ship from port to port under the
direction of the captain.' But there was no reason at all why Hornblower
should not give his other officers every opportunity to exercise their
skill; on the contrary. And it was possible, even likely, that Prowse,
with thirty years of sea duty behind him, would endeavour to take the
direction of the ship out of the hands of a young and inexperienced
captain.

'Mr Bush!' said Hornblower. 'Get the ship under way, if you please. Set
a course to weather the Foreland.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower watched Bush keenly, while doing his best not to appear to be
doing so. Bush took a final glance round him, gauging the gentle wind
and the likely course of the ebb.

'Stand by there, at the capstan,' he ordered. 'Loose the heads'ls. Hands
aloft to loose the tops'ls.'

Hornblower could see in a flash that he could place implicit reliance on
Bush's seamanship. He knew he should never have doubted it, but his
memories were two years old and might have been blurred by the passage
of time. Bush gave his orders in a well-timed sequence. With the anchor
broken out _Hotspur_ gathered momentary sternway. With the wheel hard
over and the forecastle hands drawing at the headsail sheets she brought
her head round. Bush sheeted home and ordered hands to the braces. In
the sweetest possible way _Hotspur_ caught the gentle wind, lying over
hardly more than a degree or two. In a moment she was under way,
slipping forward through the water, rudder balanced against
sail-pressure, a living, lovely thing.

There was no need to drop any word of commendation to Bush regarding
such a simple operation as getting under way. Hornblower could savour
the pleasure of being afloat, as the hands raced to set the topgallant
sails and then the courses. Then suddenly he remembered.

'Let me have that glass, please, Mr Prowse.'

He put the massive telescope to his eye and trained it out over the port
quarter. It was still not yet full daylight, and there was the usual
hint of haze, and _Hotspur_ had left her anchorage half a mile or more
astern. Yet he could just see it; a solitary, lonely speck of grey, on
the water's edge, over there on the Hard. Perhaps--just possibly--there
was a flicker of white; Maria might be waving her handkerchief, but he
could not be sure. In fact he thought not. There was just the solitary
grey speck. Hornblower looked again, and then he made himself lower the
telescope; it was heavy, and his hands were trembling a trifle so that
the image was blurred. It was the first time in all his life that he had
put to sea leaving behind him someone who was interested in his fate.

Thank you, Mr Prowse,' he said, harshly, handing back the telescope.

He knew he had to think about something different, that he must quickly
find something else to occupy his thoughts; fortunately as captain of a
ship just setting sail there was no lack of subjects.

'Now, Mr Prowse,' he said, glancing at the wake and at the trim of the
sails. 'The wind's holding steady at the moment. I want a course for
Ushant.'

'Ushant, sir?' Prowse had a long lugubrious face like a mule's, and he
stood there digesting this piece of information without any change of
expression.

'You heard what I said,' snapped Hornblower, in sudden irritation.

'Yes, sir,' answered Prowse, hastily. 'Ushant, sir. Aye aye, sir.'

There was of course, some excuse for his first reaction. Nobody in the
ship save Hornblower knew the content of the orders which were taking
_Hotspur_ to sea; nobody knew to what point in the whole world she was
destined to sail. The mention of Ushant narrowed down the field to some
extent at least. The North Sea and the Baltic were ruled out. So were
Ireland and the Irish Sea and the St Lawrence across the Atlantic. But
it still might be the West Indies or the Cape of Good Hope or the
Mediterranean; Ushant was a point of departure for all those.

'Mr Bush!' said Hornblower.

'Sir!'

'You may dismiss the watch below, and send the hands to breakfast when
you think proper.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Who's the officer of the watch?'

'Cargill, sir.'

'He has charge of the deck, then.'

Hornblower looked about him. Everything was in order, and _Hotspur_ was
standing out for the Channel. But there was something odd, something
different, something unusual. Then it dawned upon him. For the first
time in his life he was going to sea in time of peace. He had served ten
years as a naval officer without this experience. Always before,
whenever his ship emerged from harbour, she was in instant danger
additional to the hazards of the sea. In every previous voyage any
moment might bring an enemy up over the horizon; at an hour's notice
ship and ship's company might be fighting for their lives. And the most
dangerous time of all was when first putting to sea with a raw crew,
with drill and organisation incomplete--it was a likely moment to meet
an enemy, as well as the most inconvenient one.

Now here they were putting to sea without any of these worries. It was
an extraordinary sensation, something new--something new, like leaving
Maria behind. He tried to shake that thought from him; as a buoy
slithered past the starboard quarter he tried to leave the thought with
it. It was a relief to see Prowse approaching again, with a piece of
paper in his hand as he glanced up to the commission pendant and then
out to the horizon in an attempt to forecast the weather.

'Course is sou'west by west, half west, sir,' he said. 'When we tack we
may just be able to make that good, close-hauled.'

'Thank you, Mr Prowse. You may mark it on the board.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Prowse was pleased at this mark of confidence. He
naturally had no idea that Hornblower, revolving in his mind, yesterday
afternoon, all the responsibilities he would be carrying on the morrow,
had made the same calculation to reach the same result. The green hills
of the Isle of Wight were momentarily touched by a watery and level sun.

'There's the buoy, sir,' said Prowse.

'Thank you. Mr Cargill! Tack the ship, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower withdrew aft. He wanted not merely to observe how Cargill
handled the ship, but also how _Hotspur_ behaved. When war should come
it was not a mere possibility, but a definite probability, that success
or failure, freedom or captivity, might hinge on how _Hotspur_ went
about, how handy she was in stays.

Cargill was a man of thirty, red-faced and corpulent in advance of his
years; he was obviously trying hard to forget that he was under the
simultaneous scrutiny of the captain, the first lieutenant, and the
sailing master, as he applied himself to the manoeuvre. He stood beside
the wheel looking warily up at the sails and aft at the wake. Hornblower
watched Cargill's right hand, down by his thigh, opening and shutting.
That might be a symptom of nervousness or a mere habitual gesture of
calculation. The watch on deck were all at their stations. So far the
men were all unknown faces to Hornblower; it would be profitable to
devote some of his attention to the study of their reactions as well.

Cargill obviously braced himself for action and then gave his
preliminary order to the wheel.

'Helm's alee!' he bellowed, but not a very effective bellow, for his
voice cracked half-way.

'Headsail sheets!' That was hardly better. It would not have served in a
gale of wind, although it carried forward in present conditions. Jib and
fore-topsail began to shiver.

'Raise up tacks and sheets!'

_Hotspur_ was coming round into the wind, rising to an even keel. She
was coming round, coming round--now was she going to hang in stays?

'Haul, mains'l! Haul!'

This was the crucial moment. The hands knew their business; the port
side bowlines and braces were cast off smartly, and the hands tailed on
to the starboard side ones. Round came the yards, but the _Hotspur_
refused to answer. She baulked. She hung right in the eye of the wind,
and then fell off again two points to port, with every sail a-shiver and
every yard of way lost. She was in irons, helpless until further action
should be taken.

'A fine thing if we were on a lee shore, sir,' growled Bush.

'Wait,' said Hornblower. Cargill was glancing round at him for orders,
and that was disappointing. Hornblower would have preferred an officer
who went stolidly on to retrieve the situation. 'Carry on, Mr Cargill.'

The hands were behaving well. There was no chatter, and they were
standing by for further orders. Cargill was drumming on his right thigh
with his fingers, but for his own sake he must find his way out of his
troubles unaided. Hornblower saw the fingers clench, saw Cargill glance
ahead and astern as he pulled himself together. _Hotspur_ was slowly
gathering sternway as the wind pushed directly back on the sails.
Cargill took the plunge, made the effort. A sharp order put the wheel
hard-a-port, another order brought the yards ponderously round again.
_Hotspur_ hung reluctant for a moment, and then sulkily turned back on
the starboard tack and gathered way as Cargill in the nick of time sent
the wheel spinning back and took a pull on the braces. There was no lack
of sea room, there was no dangerous lee shore to demand instant action,
and Cargill could wait until every sail was drawing fully again and
_Hotspur_ had plenty of way on her to enable the rudder to bite. Cargill
even had the sense to allow her head to fall off another point so as to
give plenty of momentum for his next attempt, although Hornblower
noticed with a slight pang of regret that he hurried it a trifle more
than he should have done. He should have waited perhaps two more
minutes.

'Headsail sheets!' ordered Cargill again; his fingers started drumming
on his thigh once more with the strain of waiting.

But Cargill's head was clear enough to give his orders in the correct
sequence. Round came _Hotspur_ into the wind again. Sheets and braces
were handled smartly. There was a paralysing moment as she baulked
again, hung as though she was determined once more to miss stays, but
this time she had a trifle more momentum, and in the last possible
second a fortunate combination of wind and wave pushed her bows round
through the vital final degrees of swing. Round she came, at last.

'Full and bye!' said Cargill to the helmsman, the relief very evident in
his voice. 'Fore tack, there! Sheets! Braces!'

With the operation completed he turned to face the criticism of his
superiors; there was sweat trickling down his forehead. Hornblower could
feel Bush beside him ready to rate him thoroughly; Bush believed
sincerely that everyone was the better for a severe dressing-down in any
circumstance, and he was usually right. But Hornblower had been watching
_Hotspur's_ behaviour closely.

'Carry on, Mr Cargill,' he said, and Cargill, relieved turned away
again, and Bush met Hornblower's glance with some slight surprise.

'The ship's trimmed too much by the head,' said Hornblower. 'That makes
her unhandy in stays.'

'It might do so,' agreed Bush, doubtfully.

If the bow gripped the water more firmly than the stern _Hotspur_ would
act like a weather-vane, persisting in keeping her bow to the wind.

'We'll have to try it,' said Hornblower. 'She'll never do as she is.
We'll have to trim her so that she draws six inches more aft. At least
that. Now, what is there we can shift aft?'

'Well--' began Bush.

In his mind's eye he called up a picture of the interior of the
_Hotspur_, with every cubic foot crammed with stores. It had been a
Herculean feat to prepare her for sea; to find room for everything
necessary had called for the utmost ingenuity. It seemed as if no other
arrangement could be possible. Yet maybe--

'Perhaps--' went on Bush, and they were instantly deep in a highly
technical discussion.

Prowse came up and touched his hat, to report that _Hotspur_ was just
able to make good the course for Ushant. Bush could hardly help but
prick up his ears at the mention of the name; Prowse could hardly help
but be drawn into the discussion regarding the alteration in the trim of
the ship. They had to move aside to make room for the hourly casting of
the log; the breeze flapped their coats round them. Here they were at
sea; the nightmare days and nights of fitting out were over, and so were
the--what was the right word? Delirious, perhaps--the delirious days of
marriage. This was normal life. Creative life, making a living organism
out of _Hotspur_, working out improvements in material and in personnel.

Bush and Prowse were still discussing possible alteration in the ship's
trim as Hornblower came back into his present world.

'There's a vacant port right aft on each side,' said Hornblower; a
simple solution had presented itself to his mind, as so often happened
when his thoughts had strayed to other subjects. 'We can bring two of
the forward guns aft.'

Prowse and Bush paused while they considered the matter; Hornblower's
rapid mind was already dealing with the mathematics of it. The ship's
nine-pounders weighed twenty-six hundredweight each. Along with the
gun-carriages and the ready use shot which would have to be brought aft
too there would be a total transfer of four tons. Hornblower's eye
measured the distances, forward and aft of the centre of flotation, from
forty feet before to thirty feet abaft. No, the leverage would be a
little excessive, even though _Hotspur's_ dead weight was over four
hundred tons.

'Maybe she'd gripe a little, sir,' suggested Prowse, reaching the same
conclusions two minutes later.

'Yes. We'll take the No. 3 guns. That should be exactly right.'

'And leave a gap, sir?' asked Bush in faint protest.

It certainly would, as conspicuous as a missing front tooth. It would
break into the two ordered rows of cannon, conveying a make-shift
appearance to the ship.

'I'd rather have an ugly ship afloat,' said Hornblower, 'than a
good-looking one on the rocks of a lee shore.'

'Yes, sir,' said Bush, swallowing this near-heresy.

'As the stores are consumed we can put things to rights again,' added
Hornblower soothingly. 'Perhaps you'll be good enough to attend to it
now?'

'Aye aye, sir.' Bush turned his mind to the practical aspects of the
problem of shifting cannon in a moving ship. 'I'll hoist 'em out of the
carriages with the stay-tackles and lower them on to a mat--'

'Quite right. I'm sure you can deal with it, Mr Bush.'

No one in his senses would try to move a gun in its carriage along a
heeling deck--it would go surging about out of control in a moment. But
out of its carriage, lying helpless on a mat, with its trunnions
prohibiting any roll, it could be dragged about comparatively easily,
and hoisted up into its carriage again after that had been moved into
its new position. Bush had already passed the word for Mr Wise, the
boatswain, to have the stay-tackles rigged.

'The quarter-bill will have to be changed,' said Hornblower incautiously
as the thought struck him--the guns' crews would need to be re-allotted.

'Aye aye, sir,' said Bush. His sense of discipline was too acute to
allow more than a hint of reproach to be apparent in his tone. As first
lieutenant it was his business to remember these things without being
reminded by his captain. Hornblower made amends as best he could.

'I'll leave it all in your charge, then, Mr Bush. Report to me when the
guns are moved.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower crossed the quarter-deck to go to his cabin, passing Cargill
as he went; Cargill was keeping an eye on the hands rigging the
stay-tackles.

'The ship will be more handy in stays when those guns are shifted, Mr
Cargill,' said Hornblower. 'Then you'll have another opportunity to show
how you can handle her.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Cargill. He had clearly been brooding over his
recent failure.

Hornblower walked along to his cabin; the moving cogs in the complex
machine that was a ship always needed lubrication, and it was a
captain's duty to see that it was provided. The sentry at his door came
to attention as he passed in. He glanced round at the bare necessities
there. His cot swung from the deck-beams; there was a single chair, a
mirror on the bulkhead with a canvas basin on a frame below it. On the
opposite bulkhead was clamped his desk, with his sea chest beneath it. A
strip of canvas hanging from the deck-beams served as a wardrobe to
screen the clothes hanging within. That was all; there was no room for
anything else, but the fact that the cabin was so tiny was an advantage
in one way. There were no guns mounted in it--it was right aft--and
there would be no necessity when the ship cleared for action, to sweep
all this away.

And this was luxury, this was affluence, this was the most superlative
good fortune. Nine days ago--no, ten days, now--he had been a half-pay
lieutenant, under stoppage of pay because the Peace of Amiens had
resulted in his promotion not being confirmed. He had been doubtful
where his next meal would be coming from. A single night had changed all
this. He had won forty-five pounds at a sitting of whist from a group of
senior officers, one of them a Lord of Admiralty. The King had sent a
message to Parliament announcing the government's decision to set the
Navy on a war footing again. And he had been appointed Commander and
given the _Hotspur_ to prepare for sea. He could be sure now of his next
meal, even though it would be salt beef and biscuit. And--not so much as
a coincidence, but rather as a sequel to all this--he had found himself
betrothed to Maria and committed to an early marriage.

The fabric of the ship transmitted the sound of one of the nine-pounders
being dragged aft; Bush was a fast worker. Bush had been a half-pay
lieutenant too, ten days ago, and senior to Hornblower. It was with
diffidence that Hornblower had asked him if he would care to serve as
first lieutenant--as the only lieutenant allowed on the establishment of
a sloop of war--of the _Hotspur_, under Hornblower's command. It had
been astonishing, and extremely flattering, to see the delight in Bush's
face at the invitation.

'I'd been hoping you'd ask me, sir,' said Bush. 'I couldn't really think
you'd want me as a first lieutenant.'

'Nobody I'd like better,' Hornblower had replied.

At this moment he nearly lost his footing as _Hotspur_ heaved up her
bows, rolled, and then cocked up her stern in the typical motion of a
ship close-hauled. She was out now from the lee of the Wight, meeting
the full force of the Channel rollers. Fool that he was! He had almost
forgotten about this; on the one or two occasions during the past ten
days when the thought of sea-sickness had occurred to him he had
blithely assumed that he had grown out of that weakness in eighteen
months on land. He had not thought about it at all this morning, being
too busy. Now with his first moment of idleness here it came. He had
lost his sea-legs--a new roll sent him reeling--and he was going to be
sick. He could feel a cold sweat on his skin and the first wave of
nausea rising to his throat. There was time for a bitter jest--he had
just been congratulating himself on knowing where his next meal was
coining from, but now he could be more certain still about where his
last meal was going to. Then the sickness struck, horribly.

Now he lay face downward across his cot. He heard the rumble of wheels,
and cleared his thoughts sufficiently to make the deduction that, with
the guns brought aft, Bush was bringing the gun-carriages aft as well.
But he hardly cared. His stomach heaved again and he cared even less. He
could think about nothing but his own misery. Now what was that? Someone
pounding vigorously on the door, and he realised that the pounding had
grown-up from an earlier gentle tapping that he had ignored.

'What is it?' he called, croaking.

'Message from the master, sir,' said an unknown voice. 'From Mr Prowse.'

He had to hear what it was. He dragged himself from his cot, and
staggered over and dumped himself into his chair, hunching his shoulders
over his desk so that his face could not be seen.

'Come in!' he called.

The opening of the door admitted considerably more of the noise that had
been more and more insistently making itself heard.

'What is it?' repeated Hornblower, hoping that his attitude indicated
deep concentration upon the paper-work of the ship.

'Message from Mr Prowse, sir,' said a voice that Hornblower could hardly
place. 'Wind's freshening an' hauling forward. Course will have to be
altered, sir.'

'Very well. I'll come.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

He certainly would have to come. He stood up, holding on to the desk
with one hand while he adjusted his clothes with the other. He braced
himself, and then he plunged out on to the quarter-deck. He had
forgotten all these things; he had forgotten how fresh the wind blew at
sea, how the rigging shrieked in a gust, how the deck heaved under
unwary feet. As the stern rose he was hurried forward, struggling vainly
to retain his dignity, and just managed to fetch up without disaster
against the hammock netting. Prowse came up at once.

'Course is sou'west by south, now, sir,' he said. 'I had to let her fall
off a couple of points. Wind's still backing westerly.'

'So I see,' said Hornblower. He looked at sky and sea, making himself
think. 'How's the glass?'

'Hardly fallen at all, sir. But it's going to blow harder before
nightfall, sir.'

'Perhaps you're right.'

Bush appeared at this moment, touching the hat that was now pulled down
hard on to his head.

'The guns are shifted aft, sir. The lashings are bowsed up taut.'

'Thank you.'

Hornblower kept his hands on the hammock netting, and his gaze steadily
forward, so that, by not turning either to Bush on one side or to Prowse
on the other, the whiteness of his landlubber's face might not be
noticed. He struggled to picture the chart of the Channel that he had
studied so carefully yesterday. There was the twenty-league gap between
the Casquets and the Start; an incorrect decision now might keep them
windbound for days inside it.

'We might just weather the Start on this course, sir,' prompted Prowse.

Unexpected nausea suddenly welled up in Hornblower, and he moved
restlessly as he fought with it. He did not want Prowse to prompt him,
and as he swung about he caught sight of Cargill standing by the wheel.
It was still Cargill's watch--that was one more factor to bring
Hornblower to a decision, along with Bush's report and Prowse's
prompting.

'No,' he said. 'We'll put the ship about.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Prowse, in reluctant agreement.

Hornblower looked towards Cargill, summoning him with a glance; he did
not wish to leave the comforting support of the hammock netting.

'Mr Cargill,' said Hornblower. 'Let's see you tack the ship again, now
that we've altered her trim.'

'Aye aye, sir,' answered Cargill. That was the only thing the poor devil
could say in any case, in reply to a direct order. But he was clearly
nervous. He went back to the wheel and took the speaking-trumpet from
its beckets--the freshening wind made that necessary.

'Hands 'bout ship!' he called, and the order was instantly underlined by
the calls of the bos'n's mates and the bellowings of Mr Wise. The hands
ran to their stations. Cargill stared round at wind and sea; Hornblower
saw him swallow as he nerved himself. Then he gave the order to the
wheel; this time it was the fingers of his left hand that drummed upon
his thigh, for his right was occupied by the speaking-trumpet. _Hotspur_
rose to an even keel while sheets and braces were being handled. She was
turning--she was turning.

'Let go and haul!' yelled Cargill into the speaking-trumpet. Hornblower
felt he would have waited three or four more seconds before giving that
order, but he knew that he might be wrong; not only was sea-sickness
dulling his judgement but, standing as he did, looking aft, he did not
have the 'feel' of the ship. Events proved that Cargill did, or else was
lucky, for _Hotspur_ came on round without hesitation.

'Hard-a-lee!' snapped Cargill to the helmsman, and the wheel spun round
in a blur of spokes, catching _Hotspur_ at the moment when she was
beginning to fall off. A straining group of men hauled out the
fore-tack; others tailed on to the bowlines. _Hotspur_ was on the new
tack, having handled as sweetly, apparently, as anyone could ask.

Hornblower walked up to the wheel.

'Does she gripe?' he asked the quartermaster.

The quartermaster eased off the wheel a couple of spokes, squinting up
at the leech of the maintopsail, and then brought her up to the wind
again.

'Can't say that she does, sir,' he decided. 'Mebbe she does, a trifle.
No, sir, I can't say that she gripes. Just a touch of weather helm's all
she needs now, sir.'

'That's as it should be,' said Hornblower. Bush and Prowse had not
spoken a word, and there was no need even for a glance to underline the
situation, but a word to Cargill would not be out of place. 'You can go
off watch feeling better pleased with yourself now, Mr Cargill.'

'Yes, sir, thank you, sir,' said Cargill.

Cargill's round red face split into a grin. _Hotspur_ rose to a wave,
lay over, and Hornblower, taken by surprise, staggered down the deck on
to Cargill's broad chest. Luckily Cargill was a heavy-weight and fast of
footing; he took the shock without staggering--otherwise he and his
captain might have gone reeling across the deck into the scuppers.
Hornblower felt a burst of shame. He had no more sea-legs than the
merest landlubber; his envy of Cargill and Bush and Prowse, standing
firm and swaying easily with the send of the ship, amounted to positive
dislike. And his stomach was about to betray him again. His dignity was
in peril, and he summoned up all that was left of it, turning to Bush
stiff-legged and stiff-necked.

'See that I am called when any alteration of course is necessary, if you
please, Mr Bush,' he said.

'Aye aye, sir.'

The deck was heaving, but he knew it was not heaving as much as his
distorted mind told him it was. He forced himself somehow to walk aft to
his cabin; twice he had to stop and brace himself, and when _Hotspur_
rose to a wave he was nearly made to run--certainly he had to walk
faster than a captain should--past the sentry, and he fetched up against
the door with some little violence. It was no comfort--in fact it added
to his distress--to see that the sentry had a bucket on the deck beside
him. He wrenched open the door, hung suspended for a moment as _Hotspur_
completed her pitch, with her stern in the air, and then crashed down
groaning on to his cot, his feet dragging on the deck as the cot swung.




                               CHAPTER IV


Hornblower sat at his desk in his cabin holding a package in his hand.
Five minutes earlier he had unlocked his chest and taken this out; in
five minutes more he would be entitled to open it--at least, that was
what his dead reckoning indicated. It was a remarkably heavy package; it
might be weighted with shot or scrap metal, except that Admiral
Cornwallis was hardly likely to send shot or scrap metal to one of his
captains. It was heavily sealed, in four places, and the seals were
unbroken. Inked upon the canvas wrapper was the superscription:--

'Instructions for Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander, H.M.
Sloop _Hotspur_. To be opened on passing the Sixth Degree of Longitude
West of Greenwich.'

Sealed orders. Hornblower had heard about such things all his
professional life, but this was his first contact with them. They had
been sent on board the _Hotspur_ on the afternoon of his wedding day,
and he had signed for them. Now the ship was about to cross the sixth
meridian; she had come down-Channel with remarkable ease; there had been
only one single watch when she had not been able to make good her direct
course. Putting her about in order to restore Cargill's self-confidence
had been extraordinarily fortunate. The wind had hardly backed westerly
at all, and only momentarily even then. _Hotspur_ had escaped being
embayed in Lyme Bay; she had neatly weathered the Casquets, and it all
stemmed from that fortunate order. Hornblower was aware that Prowse was
feeling a new respect for him as a navigator and a weather prophet. That
was all to the good, and Hornblower had no intention of allowing Prowse
to guess that the excellent passage was the result of a fortunate fluke,
of a coincidence of circumstances.

Hornblower looked at his watch and raised his voice in a shout to the
sentry at the door.

'Pass the word for Mr Bush.'

Hornblower could hear the sentry shouting, and the word being passed on
along the quarter-deck. _Hotspur_ rose in a long, long, pitch with
hardly any roll about it. She was meeting the long Atlantic swell now,
changing her motion considerably, and all for the better, in
Hornblower's opinion--and his sea-sickness was rapidly coming under
control. Bush was taking a long time to respond to the call--he
obviously was not on the quarter-deck, and the chances were he was
taking a nap or was engaged on some other private business. Well, it
would do him no harm and cause him no surprise to be summoned from it,
for that was the way of the Navy.

At last came the knock on the door, and Bush entered.

'Sir?'

'Ah, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower pedantically. Bush was the closest friend
he had, but this was a formal matter, to be carried through formally.
'Can you tell me the ship's position at this moment?'

'No, sir, not exactly, sir,' replied the puzzled Bush. 'Ushant bears ten
leagues to the east'ard, I believe, sir.'

'At this moment,' said Hornblower 'we are in longitude six degrees and
some seconds west. Latitude 48 40, but we do not have to devote any
thought to our latitude at present, oddly enough. It is our longitude
that matters. Would you be so kind as to examine this packet?'

'Ah. I see, sir,' said Bush, having read the superscription.

'You observe that the seals are unbroken?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then perhaps you will have the further kindness, when you leave this
cabin, to make sure of the ship's longitude so that, should it become
necessary, you can bear witness that I have carried out my orders?'

'Yes, sir, I will,' said Bush, and then, after a pause long enough for
him to realise that Hornblower intended the interview to be at an end,
'Aye aye, sir.'

The temptation to tease Bush was a very strong one, Hornblower realised
as Bush left the cabin. It was a temptation he must resist. It might be
indulged to the extent of causing resentment; in any case, Bush was too
easy a target--he was a sitting bird.

And thinking along those lines had actually delayed for several seconds
the exciting moment of opening the orders. Hornblower took out his
penknife and cut the stitching. Now the weight of the packet was
explained. There were three rolls of coins--golden coins. Hornblower
split them out on to his desk. There were fifty small ones, about the
size of sixpences; twenty larger ones, and ten larger still. Examination
revealed that the medium-sized ones were French twenty-franc pieces,
exactly like one he had seen in Lord Parry's possession a week or two
ago, with 'Napoleon First Consul' on one side and 'French Republic' on
the other. The small ones were ten-franc pieces, the larger ones forty
francs. Altogether it made a considerable sum, over fifty pounds without
allowing for the premium on gold in an England plagued by a depreciating
paper currency.

And here were his supplementary instructions, explaining how he should
employ the money. 'You are therefore required--' said the instructions
after the preliminary sentences. Hornblower had to make contact with the
fishermen of Brest; he had to ascertain if any of them would accept
bribes; he had to glean from them all possible information regarding the
French fleet in that port; finally he was informed that in case of war
information of any kind, even newspapers, would be acceptable.

Hornblower read his instructions through twice; he referred again to the
unsealed orders he had received at the same time; the ones that had sent
him to sea. There was need for thought, and automatically he rose to his
feet, only to sit down again, for there was no chance whatever of
walking about in that cabin. He must postpone his walk for a moment.
Maria had stitched neat linen bags in which to put his hair
brushes--quite useless, of course, seeing that he always rolled his
brushes in his housewife. He reached for one, and swept the money into
it, put the bag and the orders back into his chest and was about to lock
it when a further thought struck him, and he counted out ten ten-franc
pieces and put them into his trouser pocket. Now, with his chest locked,
he was free to go on deck.

Prowse and Bush were pacing the weather side of the quarter-deck in deep
conversation; no doubt the news that their captain had opened his sealed
orders would spread rapidly through the ship--and no one on board save
Hornblower could be really sure that _Hotspur_ was not about to set
course for the Cape and India. It was a temptation to keep them all on
tenterhooks, but Hornblower put the temptation aside. Besides, it would
be to no purpose--after a day or two of hanging about outside Brest
everyone would be able to guess _Hotspur's_ mission. Prowse and Bush
were hurriedly moving over to the lee side, leaving the weather side for
their captain, but Hornblower halted them.

'Mr Bush! Mr Prowse! We are going to look into Brest and see what our
friend Boney is up to.'

Those few words told the whole story to men who had served in the last
war and who had beaten about in the stormy waters off the Brittany
coast.

'Yes, sir,' said Bush, simply.

Together they looked into the binnacle, out to the horizon, up to the
commission pendant. Simple enough to set a course; Bush and Prowse could
do that easily, but it was not so simple to deal with problems of
international relations, problems of neutrality, problems of espionage.

'Let's look at the chart, Mr Prowse. You can see that we'll have to keep
well clear of Les Fillettes.'

The Islands of the Little Girls, in the middle of the fairway into
Brest; it was a queer name for rocks that would be sites for batteries
of guns.

'Very well, Mr Prowse. You can square away and set course.'

There were light airs from the northwestward today, and it was the
easiest matter in the world to stand down towards Brest; _Hotspur_ was
hardly rolling at all and was pitching only moderately. Hornblower was
fast recovering his sea-legs and could trust himself to walk the deck,
and could almost trust his stomach to retain its contents. There was a
certain feeling of well-being that came with a remission from
sea-sickness. The April air was keen and fresh, but not paralysingly
cold; Hornblower's gloves and heavy coat were barely necessary. In fact
Hornblower found it hard to concentrate on his problems; he was willing
to postpone their consideration, and he halted his step and looked
across at Bush with a smile that brought the latter over with hurried
steps.

'I suppose you have plans for exercising the crew, Mr Bush?'

'Yes, sir.' Bush did not say, 'Of course, sir,' for he was too good a
subordinate. But his eyes lit up, for there was nothing Bush enjoyed
more than reefing topsails and unreefing them, sending down topgallant
yards and sending them up again, rousting out cables and carrying them
to a stern port in readiness to be used as a spring, and in fact
rehearsing all the dozens--hundreds--of manoeuvres that weather or war
might make necessary.

'Two hours of that will do for today, Mr Bush. I can only remember one
short exercise at the guns?'

Tortured by sea-sickness while running down the Channel he could not be
sure.

'Only one, sir.'

'Then after dinner we'll have an hour at the guns. One of these days we
might use them.'

'We might, sir,' said Bush.

Bush could face with equanimity the prospects of a war that would engulf
the whole world.

The pipes of the bos'n's mates called all hands, and very soon the
exercises were well under way, the sweating sailors racing up and down
the rigging tailing on to ropes under the urgings of the petty officers
and amid a perfect cloud of profanity from Mr Wise. It was as well to
drill the men, simply to keep them exercised, but there were no serious
deficiencies to make up. _Hotspur_ had benefited by being the very first
ship to be manned after the press had been put into force. Of her
hundred and fifty hands no fewer than a hundred were prime seamen, rated
A.B. She had twenty ordinary seamen and only ten landsmen all told, and
no more than twenty boys. It was an extraordinary proportion, one that
would never be seen again as the manning of the fleet continued. Not
only that, but more than half the men had seen service in men o' war
before the Peace of Amiens. They were not only seamen, but Royal Navy
seamen, who had hardly had time to make more than a single voyage in the
merchant navy during the peace before being pressed again. Consequently
most of them had had experience with ship's guns; twenty or thirty of
them had actually seen action. The result was that when the gun exercise
was ordered they went to their stations in business-like fashion. Bush
turned to Hornblower and touched his hat awaiting the next order.

'Thank you, Mr Bush. Order "silence," if you please.'

The whistles pealed round the deck, and the ship fell deathly still.

'I shall now inspect, if you will be so kind as to accompany me, Mr
Bush.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower began by glowering down at the starboard side quarter-deck
carronade. Everything was in order there, and he walked down into the
waist to inspect the starboard side nine-pounders. At each he stopped to
look over the equipment. Cartridge, crowbar, hand-spike. Sponge, quoin.
He passed on from gun to gun.

'What's your station if the larboard guns are being worked?'

He had picked for questioning the youngest seaman visible, who moved
uneasily from one foot to another finding himself addressed by the
captain.

'Stand to attention, there!' bellowed Bush.

'What's your station?' repeated Hornblower, quietly.

'O--over there, sir. I handle the rammer, sir.'

'I'm glad you know. If you can remember your station when the captain
and the first lieutenant are speaking to you I can trust you to remember
it when round-shot are coming in through the side.'

Hornblower passed on; a captain could always be sure of raising a laugh
if he made a joke. Then he halted again.

'What's this? Mr Cheeseman!'

'Sir.'

'You have an extra powder-horn here. There should be only one for every
two guns.'

'Er--yessir. It's because--'

'I know the reason. A reason's no excuse, though, Mr Cheeseman. Mr
Orrock! What powder-horns have you in your section? Yes, I see.'

Shifting No. 3 gun aft had deprived Orrock's section of a powder-horn
and given an additional one to Cheeseman's.

'It's the business of you young gentlemen to see that the guns in your
section are properly equipped. You don't have to wait for orders.'

Cheeseman and Orrock were two of the four 'young gentlemen' sent on
board from the Naval College to be trained as midshipmen. Hornblower
liked nothing he had seen as yet of any of them. But they were what he
had to use as petty officers, and for his own sake he must train them
into becoming useful lieutenants--his needs corresponded with his duty.
He must make them and not break them.

'I'm sure I won't have to speak to you young gentlemen again,' he said.
He was sure he would, but a promise was better than a threat. He walked
on, completing the inspection of the guns on the starboard side. He went
up to the forecastle to look at the two carronades there, and then back
down the main-deck guns of the port side. He stopped at the marine
stationed at the fore-hatchway.

'What are your orders?'

The marine stood stiffly at attention, feet at an angle of forty-five
degrees, musket close in at his side, forefinger of the left hand along
the seam of his trousers, neck rigid in its stock, so that, as
Hornblower was not directly in front of him, he stared over Hornblower's
shoulder.

'To guard my post--' he began, and continued in a monotonous sing-song,
repeating by rote the sentry's formula which he had probably uttered a
thousand times before. The change in his tone was marked when he reached
the final sentence added for this particular station--'To allow no one
to go below unless he is carrying an empty cartridge bucket.'

That was so that cowards could not take refuge below the waterline.

'What about men carrying wounded?'

The astonished marine found it hard to answer; he found it hard to think
after years of drill.

'I have no orders about them, sir,' he said at last, actually allowing
his eyes, though not his neck, to move.

Hornblower glanced at Bush.

'I'll speak to the sergeant of marines, sir,' said Bush.

'Who's on the quarter-bill to attend to the wounded?'

'Cooper and his mate, sir. Sailmaker and his mate. Four altogether,
sir.'

Trust Bush to have all those details at his fingers' ends, even though
Hornblower had found two small points to find fault with, for which Bush
was ultimately responsible. No need to stress those matters with
Bush--he was burning with silent shame.

Down the hatchway to the magazine. A candle glimmered faintly through
the glass window of the light-room, throwing just enough light for
powder-boys to see what they were doing as they received loaded
cartridges through the double serge curtains opening into the magazine;
inside the magazine the gunner and his mate, wearing list slippers, were
ready to pass out, and, if necessary, fill cartridges. Down the after
hatchway to where the surgeon and his lob-lolly boy were ready to deal
with the wounded. Hornblower knew that he himself might at some time be
dragged in here with blood streaming from some shattered limb--it was a
relief to ascend to the main-deck again.

'Mr Foreman,'--Foreman was another of the "young gentlemen"--'what are
your orders regarding lanterns during a night action?'

'I am to wait until Mr Bush expressly orders them, sir.'

'And who do you send if you receive those orders?'

'Firth, sir.'

Foreman indicated a likely-looking young seaman at his elbow. But was
there perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation about that reply?
Hornblower turned on Firth.

'Where do you go?'

Firth's eyes flickered towards Foreman for a moment. That might be with
embarrassment; but Foreman swayed a little on his feet, as if he were
pointing with his shoulder, and one hand made a small sweeping gesture
in front of his middle, as if he might be indicating Mr Wise's abdominal
rotundity.

'For'rard, sir,' said Firth. 'The bos'n issues them. At the break of the
fo'c'sle.'

'Very well,' said Hornblower.

He had no doubt that Foreman had quite forgotten to pass on Bush's
orders regarding battle lanterns. But Foreman had been quick-witted
enough to remedy the situation, and Firth had not merely been
quick-witted but also loyal enough to back up his petty officer. It
would be well to keep an eye on both those two, for various reasons. The
break of the forecastle had been an inspired guess, as being adjacent to
the bos'n's locker.

Hornblower walked up on to the quarter-deck again, Bush following him,
and he cast a considering eye about him, taking in the last uninspected
gun--the port side quarter-deck carronade. He selected a position where
the largest possible number of ears could catch his words.

'Mr Bush,' he said, 'we have a fine ship. If we work hard we'll have a
fine crew too. If Boney needs a lesson we'll give it to him. You may
continue with the exercises.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The six marines on the quarter-deck, the helmsman, the carronades'
crews, Mr Prowse and the rest of the afterguard had all heard him. He
had felt it was not the time for a formal speech, but he could be sure
his words would be relayed round the ship during the next dog watch. And
he had chosen them carefully. That 'we' was meant as a rallying call.
Meanwhile Bush was continuing with the exercise. 'Cast loose your guns.
Level your guns. Take out your tompions,' and all the rest of it.

'We'll have them in shape soon enough, sir,' said Bush. 'Then we'll only
have to get alongside the enemy.'

'Not necessarily alongside, Mr Bush. When we come to burn powder at the
next exercise I want the men schooled in firing at long range.'

'Yes, sir. Of course,' agreed Bush.

But that was lip-service only on Bush's part. He had not really thought
about the handling of _Hotspur_ in battle--close action, where the guns
could not miss, and only needed to be loaded and fired as rapidly as
possible, was Bush's ideal. Very well for a ship of the line in a fleet
action, but perhaps not so suitable for _Hotspur_. She was only a sloop
of war, her timbers and her scantlings more fragile even than those of a
frigate. Her twenty nine-pounders that gave her 'rate'--the four
carronades not being counted--were 'long guns,' better adapted for work
at a couple of cables' lengths than for close action when the enemy's
guns stood no more chance of missing than hers did. She was the smallest
thing with three masts and quarter-deck and forecastle in the Navy List.
The odds were heavy that any enemy she might meet would be her superior
in size, in weight of metal, in number of men--probably immeasurably her
superior. Dash and courage might snatch a victory for her, but skill and
forethought and good handling might be more certain. Hornblower felt the
tremor of action course through him, accentuated by the vibrating rumble
of the guns being run out.

'Land ho! Land ho!' yelled the look-out of the fore-topmast head. 'Land
one point on the lee bow!'

That would be France, Ushant, the scene of their future exploits,
perhaps where they would meet with disaster or death. Naturally there
was a wave of excitement through the ship. Heads were raised and faces
turned.

'Sponge your guns!' bellowed Bush through his speaking-trumpet. Bush
could be relied on to maintain discipline and good order through any
distraction. 'Load!'

It was hard for the men to go through the play-acting of gun drill in
these circumstances; discipline on the one side, resentment,
disillusionment on the other.

'Point your guns! Mr Cheeseman! The hand-spike man on No. 7 gun isn't
attending to his duty. I want his name.'

Prowse was training a telescope forward; as the officer responsible for
navigation that was his duty, but it was also his privilege.

'Run your guns in!'

Hornblower itched to follow Prowse's example, but he restrained himself;
Prowse would keep him informed of anything vital. He allowed the drill
to go on through one more mock broadside before he spoke.

'Mr Bush, you may secure the guns now, thank you.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Prowse was offering his telescope.

'That's the light-tower on Ushant, sir,' he said.

Hornblower caught a wavering glimpse of the thing, a gaunt framework
topped by a cresset, where the French government in time of peace
maintained a light for the benefit of the ships--half the world's trade
made a landfall off Ushant--that needed it.

'Thank you, Mr Prowse.' Hornblower visualised the chart again; recalled
the plans he had made in the intervals of commissioning his ship, in the
intervals of his honeymoon, in the intervals of sea-sickness, during the
past crowded days. 'Wind's drawing westerly. But it'll be dark before we
can make Cape Matthew. We'll stand to the s'uth'ard under easy sail
until midnight. I want to be a league off the Black Stones an hour
before dawn.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Bush joined them, fresh from the business of securing the guns.

'Look at that, sir! There's a fortune passing us by.'

A large ship was hull-up to windward, her canvas reflecting the
westering sun.

'French Indiaman,' commented Hornblower, turning his glass on her.

'A quarter of a million pounds, all told!' raved Bush. 'Maybe a hundred
thousand for you, sir, if only war were declared. Doesn't that tease
you, sir? She'll carry this wind all the way to Havre and she'll be
safe.'

'There'll be others,' replied Hornblower soothingly.

'Not so many, sir. Trust Boney. He'll send warnings out the moment he's
resolved on war, and every French flag'll take refuge in neutral ports.
Madeira and the Azores, Cadiz and Ferrol, while we could make our
fortunes!'

The possibilities of prize money bulked large in the thoughts of every
naval officer.

'Maybe we will,' said Hornblower. He thought of Maria and his allotment
of pay; even a few hundreds of pounds would make a huge difference.

'Maybe, sir,' said Bush, clearly discounting the possibility.

'And there's another side to the picture,' added Hornblower, pointing
round the horizon.

There were half a dozen other sails all visible at this time, all
British. They marked the enormous extent of British maritime commerce.
They bore the wealth that could support navies, sustain allies, maintain
manufactories of arms--to say nothing of the fact that they provided the
basic training for seamen who later would man the ships of war which
kept the seas open for them and closed them to England's enemies.

'They're only British, sir,' said Prowse, wonderingly. He had not the
vision to see what Hornblower saw. Bush had to look hard at his captain
before it dawned upon him.

The heaving of the log, with the changing of the watch, relieved
Hornblower of the temptation to preach a sermon.

'What's the speed, Mr Young?'

'Three knots and a half, sir.'

'Thank you.' Hornblower turned back to Prowse. 'Keep her on her present
course.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower was training his telescope out over the port bow. There was a
black dot rising and falling out there towards Molene Island. He kept it
under observation.

'I think, Mr Prowse,' he said, his glass still at his eye, 'we might
edge in a little more inshore. Say two points. I'd like to pass that
fishing-boat close.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

She was one of the small craft employed in the pilchard fishery, very
similar to those seen off the Cornish coast. She was engaged at the
moment in hauling in her seine; as _Hotspur_ approached more closely the
telescope made plain the rhythmical movements of the four men.

'Up with the helm a little more, Mr Prowse, if you please. I'd like to
pass her closer still.'

Now Hornblower could make out a little area of water beside the
fishing-boat that was of a totally different colour. It had a metallic
sheen quite unlike the rest of the grey sea; the fishing-boat had found
a shoal of pilchards and her seine was now closing in on it.

'Mr Bush. Please try to read her name.'

They were fast closing on her; within a few moments Bush could make out
the bold white letters on her stern.

'From Brest, sir. _Duke's Freers._'

With that prompting Hornblower could read the name for himself, the
_Deux Frres_, Brest.

'Back the maintops'l, Mr Young!' bellowed Hornblower to the officer of
the watch, and then, turning back to Bush and Prowse, 'I want fish for
my supper tonight.'

They looked at him in ill-concealed surprise.

'Pilchards, sir?'

'That's right.'

The seine was close in alongside the _Deux Frres_, and masses of silver
fish were being heaved up into her. So intent were the fishermen on
securing their catch that they had no knowledge of the silent approach
of the _Hotspur_, and looked up in ludicrous astonishment at the lovely
vessel towering over them in the sunset. They even displayed momentary
panic, until they obviously realised that in time of peace a British
ship of war would do them less harm than a French one might, a French
one enforcing the _Inscription Maritime_.

Hornblower took the speaking-trumpet from its beckets. He was pulsing
with excitement now, and he had to be firm with himself to keep calm.
This might be the first step in the making of the history of the future;
besides, he had not spoken French for a considerable time and he had to
concentrate on what he was going to say.

'Good day, captain!' he yelled, and the fishermen, reassured, waved back
to him in friendly fashion. 'Will you sell me some fish?'

Hurriedly they conferred, and then one of them replied.

'How much?'

'Oh, twenty pounds.'

Again they conferred.

'Very well.'

'Captain,' went on Hornblower, searching in his mind not only for the
necessary French words but also for an approach to bring about the
situation he desired. 'Finish your work. Then come aboard. We can drink
a glass of rum to the friendship of nations.'

The beginning of that sentence was clumsy, he knew, but he could not
translate 'Get in your catch;' but the prospect of British navy rum he
knew would be alluring--and he was a little proud of _l'amiti des
nations_. What was the French for 'dinghy?' _Chaloupe_, he fancied. He
expanded on his invitation, and someone in the fishing-boat waved in
assent before bending to the business of getting in the catch. With the
last of it on board two of the four men scrambled into the dinghy that
lay alongside the _Deux Frres_; it was nearly as big as the
fishing-boat itself, as was to be expected when she had to lay out the
seine. Two oars stoutly handled brought the dinghy rapidly towards
_Hotspur_.

'I'll entertain the captain in my cabin,' said Hornblower. 'Mr Bush, see
that the other man is taken forward and well looked after. See he has a
drink.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

A line over the side brought up two big buckets of fish, and these were
followed by two blue-jerseyed men who scrambled up easily enough despite
their sea-boots.

'A great pleasure, captain,' said Hornblower in the waist to greet him.
'Please come with me.'

The captain looked curiously about him as he was led up to the
quarter-deck and aft to the cabin. He sat down cautiously in the only
chair while Hornblower perched on the cot. The blue jersey and trousers
were spangled with fish scales--the cabin would smell of fish for a
week. Hewitt brought rum and water, and Hornblower poured two generous
glasses; the captain sipped appreciatively.

'Has your fishing been successful?' asked Hornblower, politely.

He listened while the captain told him, in his almost unintelligible
Breton French, about the smallness of the profits to be earned in the
pilchard fishery. The conversation drifted on. It was an easy transition
from the pleasures of peace to the possibilities of war--two seamen
could hardly meet without that prospect being discussed.

'I suppose they make great efforts to man the ships of war?'

The captain shrugged.

'Certainly.'

The shrug told much more than the word.

'It marches very slowly, I imagine,' said Hornblower, and the captain
nodded.

'But of course the ships are ready to take the sea?'

Hornblower had no idea of how to say 'laid-up in ordinary' in French,
and so he had to ask the question in the opposite sense.

'Oh, no,' said the captain. He went on to express his contempt for the
French naval authorities. There was not a single ship of the line ready
for service. Of course not.

'Let me refill your glass, captain,' said Hornblower. 'I suppose the
frigates receive the first supplies of men?'

Such supplies as there were, perhaps. The Breton captain was not sure.
Of course there was--Hornblower had more than a moment's difficulty at
this point. Then he understood. The frigate _Loire_ had been made ready
for sea last week (it was the Breton pronunciation of that name which
had most puzzled Hornblower) for service in Far Eastern waters, but with
the usual idiocy of the naval command had now been stripped of most of
her trained men to provide nuclei for the other ships. The Breton
captain, whose capacity for rum was quite startling, did nothing to
conceal either the smouldering Breton resentment against the atheist
rgime now ruling France or the contempt of a professional user of the
sea for the blundering policies of the Republican Navy. Hornblower had
only to nurse his glass and listen, his faculties at full stretch to
catch all the implications of a conversation in a foreign language. When
at last the captain rose to say good-bye there was a good deal of truth
in what Hornblower said, haltingly, about his regrets at the termination
of the visit.

'Yet perhaps even if war should come, captain, we may still meet again.
As I expect you know, the Royal Navy of Great Britain does not make war
on fishing vessels. I shall always be glad to buy some of your catch.'

The Frenchman was looking at him keenly now, perhaps because the subject
of payment was arising. This was a most important moment, calling for
accurate judgement. How much? What to say?

'Of course I must pay for today's supply,' said Hornblower, his hand in
his pocket. He took out two ten-franc pieces and dropped them into the
horny palm, and the captain could not restrain an expression of
astonishment from appearing in his weather-beaten face. Astonishment,
followed instantly by avarice, and then by suspicion, calculation, and
finally by decision as the hand clenched and hurried the money into a
trouser-pocket. Those emotions had played over the captain's face like
the colours of a dying dolphin. Twenty francs in gold, for a couple of
buckets of pilchards; most likely the captain supported himself, his
wife and children for a week on twenty francs. Ten francs would be a
week's wage for his hands. This was important money; either the British
captain did not know the value of gold or--. At least there was the
indubitable fact that the French captain was twenty francs richer, and
there was at least the possibility of more gold where this came from.

'I hope we shall meet again, captain,' said Hornblower. 'As of course
you understand, out here at sea we are always glad to have news of what
is happening on land.'

The two Bretons went over the side with their two empty buckets, leaving
Bush ruefully contemplating the mess left on the deck.

'That can be swabbed up, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower. 'It will be a good
ending to a good day.'




                               CHAPTER V


The cabin was quite dark when Hornblower awoke; there was not even the
glimmering of light through the two stern windows. He lay curled on his
side only half conscious, and then a single sharp note from the ship's
bell recalled him to the world, and he turned over on his back and
stretched himself, half fretfully and half luxuriously trying to put his
thoughts into order. That must be one bell in the morning watch, because
one bell in the middle watch had sounded as he was getting back into bed
after being roused when the ship was put about at midnight. He had had
six hours of sleep, even after making allowance for that break; there
were great advantages about being in command of a ship; the watch which
had retired to bed at that time had been up on deck again for half an
hour already.

The cot on which he lay was swaying easily and slowly. _Hotspur_ must be
under very easy sail indeed, and, as far as he could judge, with a
moderate wind on the starboard beam. That was as it should be. He would
soon have to get up--he turned on to his other side and went to sleep
again.

'Two bells, sir,' said Grimes, entering the cabin with a lighted lamp.
'Two bells, sir. Bit of haze, and Mr Prowse says he'd like to go about
on the other tack.' Grimes was a weedy young seaman who affirmed that he
had acted as captain's steward in a West India packet.

'Get me my coat,' said Hornblower.

It was cold in the misty dawn, with only a greatcoat on over his
nightshirt. Hornblower found Maria's gloves in a pocket and pulled them
on gratefully.

'Twelve fathoms, sir,' reported Prowse as the ship steadied on her new
course with the lead going in the forechains.

'Very well.'

There was time to dress, there was time to have breakfast. There was
time for--Hornblower felt a wave of temptation breaking round him. He
wanted a cup of coffee. He wanted two or three cups of coffee, strong
and scalding hot. Yet he had on board no more than two pounds of coffee.
At seventeen shillings a pound that was all he had been able to afford
to buy. The miraculous forty-five pounds had melted away which he had
won at whist the night before the appearance of the King's message
regarding the fleet. There had been his sea-going clothing and his sword
to get out of pawn, his cabin furniture to buy, and he had had to leave
seventeen pounds with Maria for her support until she could draw his
allotment of pay. So there had been little enough left over for
'captain's stores.' He had not bought a sheep or a pig; not a single
chicken. Mrs Mason had bought six dozen eggs for him--they were packed
in shavings in a tub lashed to the deck in the chart-room--and six
pounds of heavily salted butter. There was a loaf of sugar and some pots
of jam, and then the money had run out. He had no bacon, no potted meat.
He had dined yesterday on pilchards--the fact that they had been bought
with secret service money was some kind of sauce for them, but pilchards
were unattractive fish. And of course there was the absurd prejudice of
seamen regarding fish, creatures from their own element. They hated
having their eternal round of salt beef and pork interrupted by a meal
of fish--allowance must be made, of course, for the fact that the
cooking of fish left behind a lingering scent, hard to eradicate from
utensils sketchily washed in seawater. At this very moment, in the
growing dawn, one of the lambs netted down in the boat chocked in the
waist emitted a lingering baa-aaa as it woke. The ward-room officers had
invested in four of the creatures while the _Hotspur_ was commissioning,
and any day now they would be dining on roast lamb--Hornblower
determined to get himself invited to dinner in the ward-room that day.
The thought reminded him that he was hungry; but that was quite minor
compared with his yearning for coffee.

'Where's my servant?' he suddenly roared. 'Grimes! Grimes!'

'Sir?'

Grimes put his head round the chart-room door.

'I'm going to dress, and I'll want my breakfast. I'll have coffee.'

'Coffee, sir?'

'Yes.' Hornblower bit off the 'damn you' he nearly added. To swear at a
man who could not swear back and whose only offence lay in being
unoffending was not to his taste, just as some men could not shoot
foxes. 'You don't know anything about coffee?'

'No, sir.'

'Get the oak box and bring it in to me.'

Hornblower explained about coffee to Grimes while working up a lather
with a quarter of a pint of freshwater.

'Count out twenty of those beans. Put them in an open jar--get that from
the cook. Then you toast 'em over the galley fire. And be careful with
'em. Keep shaking 'em. They've got to be brown, not black. Toasted, not
burnt. Understand?'

'Well, yes, sir.'

'Then you take 'em to the surgeon, with my compliments.'

'The surgeon? Yes, sir.' Grimes, seeing Hornblower's brows come together
like thunderclouds, had the sense to suppress in the nick of time his
astonishment at the entry of the surgeon's name into this conversation.

'He has a pestle and mortar to pound his jalap with. You pound those
beans in that mortar. You break 'em up small. Small, mark you, but you
don't make dust of 'em. Like large grain gunpowder, not mealed
gunpowder. Understand?'

'Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.'

'Next you--oh go and get that done and then report to me again.'

Grimes was clearly not a man to do things quickly. Hornblower had shaved
and dressed and was pacing the quarter-deck, raging for his breakfast,
before Grimes appeared again with a panful of dubious powder. Hornblower
gave him brief instructions on how to make coffee with it, and Grimes
listened doubtfully.

'Go and get it done. Oh, and Grimes!'

'Sir?'

'I'll have two eggs. Fried. Can you fry eggs?'

'Er--yes, sir.'

'Fry 'em so the yolk's nearly hard but not quite. And get out a crock of
butter and a crock of jam.'

Hornblower was throwing discretion to the winds; he was determined on a
good breakfast. And those winds to which he had thrown discretion
suddenly asserted themselves. With hardly a warning puff there was a
sudden gust which almost took _Hotspur_ aback, and with it, while
_Hotspur_ paid off and recovered herself, there came driving rain, an
April shower, icy cold. Hornblower shook off Grimes the first time he
appeared to report that breakfast was ready, and only went off with him
on his second appearance, after _Hotspur_ was steady on her course
again. With the weather clearing and daylight growing there was little
time he could spare.

'I'll be on deck again in ten minutes, Mr Young,' he said.

The chart-room was a minute compartment beside his cabin--cabin,
chart-room, and the captain's pantry and head occupied the whole space
of the _Hotspur's_ tiny poop. Hornblower squeezed himself into the chair
at the little table.

'Sir,' said Grimes. 'You didn't come when breakfast was ready.'

Here were the eggs. The rim of the whites was black; the yolks were
obviously hard.

'Very well,' growled Hornblower. He could not blame Grimes for that.

'Coffee, sir?' said Grimes. With the chart-room door shut he was wedged
against it hardly able to move. He poured from a jug into a cup, and
Hornblower sipped. It was only just hot enough to drink, which meant
that it was not hot enough, and it was muddy.

'See that it's hotter than this another time,' said Hornblower. 'And
you'll have to strain it better than this.'

'Yes, sir.' Grimes voice seemed to come from a great distance. The man
could hardly whisper. 'Sir--'

Hornblower looked up at him; Grimes was cold with fright.

'What is it?'

'I kept these to show you, sir.' Grimes produced a pan containing a
bloody and stinking mess. 'The first two eggs was bad, sir. I didn't
want you to think--'

'Very well.' Grimes was afraid in case he should be accused of stealing
them. 'Take the damned things away.'

Now was it not exactly like Mrs Mason to buy eggs for him of which half
were bad? Hornblower ate his unpleasant eggs--even these two, although
not exactly bad, were flavoured--while reconciling himself with the
prospect of making up for it all with the jam. He spread a biscuit with
the precious butter, and here was the jam. Blackcurrant! Of all the
misguided purchases! Grimes, squeezing back into the chart-room,
positively jumped as Hornblower let out the oath that had been seeking
an outlet for several minutes.

'Sir?'

'I'm not speaking to you, damn you,' said Hornblower, his restraint at
an end.

Hornblower was fond of jam, but of all the possible varieties he liked
blackcurrant least. It was a poor last best. Well, it would have to do;
he bit at the iron-hard biscuit.

'Don't knock at the door when you're serving a meal,' he said to Grimes.

'No, sir. I won't sir. Not any more, sir.'

Grimes's hand holding the coffeepot was shaking, and when Hornblower
looked up he could see that his lips were trembling too. He was about to
ask sharply what was the matter, but he suppressed the question as the
answer became apparent to him. It was physical fear that was affecting
Grimes. A word from Hornblower could have Grimes bound to a grating at
the gangway, there to have the flesh flogged from the bones of his
writhing body. There were captains in the navy who would give just that
order when served with such a breakfast. There would never be a time
when more things went wrong than this.

There was a knocking at the door.

'Come in!'

Grimes shrank against the bulkhead to avoid falling out through the door
as it opened.

'Message from Mr Young, sir,' said Orrock. 'Wind's veering again.'

'I'll come,' said Hornblower.

Grimes cowered against the bulkhead as he pushed his way out; Hornblower
emerged on to the quarter-deck. Six dozen eggs, and half of them bad.
Two pounds of coffee--far less than a month's supply if he drank coffee
every day. Blackcurrant jam, and not much even of that. Those were the
thoughts coursing through his mind as he walked past the sentry, and
then they were expunged by the blessed air from the sea, and the instant
approach of professional problems.

Prowse was peering out to port through his telescope; it was almost full
daylight, and the haze had dissipated with the rain.

'Black Stones broad on the port-beam, sir,' reported Prowse. 'You can
see the breakers sometimes.'

'Excellent,' said Hornblower. At least his breakfast troubles had kept
him from fretting during these final minutes before entering on to a
decisive day. In fact he had actually to pause for several seconds to
collect his thoughts before issuing the orders that would develop the
plans already matured in his fevered mind.

'Do you have good eyesight, Mr Orrock?'

'Well, sir--'

'Have you or haven't you?'

'Well, yes, sir.'

'Then take a glass and get aloft. See what you can see of the shipping
as we pass the entrance to the roadstead. Consult with the look-out.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Good morning, Mr Bush. Call the hands.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Not for the first time Hornblower was reminded of the centurion in the
New Testament who illustrated his authority by saying: 'I say to one,
come, and he cometh, and to another, go, and he goeth.' The Royal Navy
and the Roman Army were identical in discipline.

'Now, Mr Prowse. How far is the horizon now?'

'Two miles, sir. Perhaps three miles,' answered Prowse, looking round
and collecting his thoughts after being taken by surprise by the
question.

'Four miles, I should think,' said Hornblower.

'Maybe, sir,' admitted Prowse.

'Sun's rising. Air's clearing. It'll be ten miles soon. Wind's north of
west. We'll go down to the Parquette.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Mr Bush, get the topgallants in, if you please. And the courses.
Tops'ls and jib's all we need.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

That way they would attract less notice; also they would, by moving more
slowly, have longer for observation as they crossed the passage that led
into Brest.

'Sunset on a clear day,' said Hornblower to Prowse. 'Would be a better
moment. Then we could look in with the sun behind us.'

'Yes, sir. You're right, sir,' answered Prowse. There was a gleam of
appreciation in his melancholy face as he said this; he knew, of course,
that the Goulet lay almost east and west, but he had not made any
deductions or plans on that basis.

'But we're here. We have this chance. Wind and weather serve us now. It
may be days before we have another opportunity.'

'Yes, sir,' said Prowse.

'Course east by south, Mr Prowse.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur_ crept along. The day was cloudy but clear, and the horizon was
extending every minute. There was the mainland of France, Pointe St
Mathieu--Point Matthew--in plain view. From there the land trended away
out of sight again.

'Land on the lee bow!' yelled Orrock from the fore-topmasthead.

'That'll be the other headland, sir,' said Prowse.

'Toulinguet,' agreed Hornblower and then he corrected his pronunciation
of 'Toolingwette.' For months or years to come he might be beating about
this coast, and he wanted no chance of misunderstanding with any of his
officers when he gave orders.

Between those two headlands the Atlantic broke in through the wild
Breton coast and reached deep inland to form the roadstead of Brest.

'Can you make out the channel yet, Mr Orrock?' yelled Hornblower.

'Not yet, sir. At least, not very well.'

A ship of war--a King's ship--approaching a foreign coast was under a
handicap on this sort of mission in peacetime. She could not enter into
foreign territorial waters (except under stress of weather) without
permission previously asked and obtained; she certainly could not
trespass within the limits of a foreign naval base without occasioning a
series of angry notes between the respective governments.

'We must keep out of long cannon-shot of the shore,' said Hornblower.

'Yes, sir. Oh yes, of course, sir,' agreed Prowse.

The second more hearty agreement was called forth when Prowse realised
the implications of what Hornblower was saying. Nations asserted
sovereignty over all the waters that could be dominated by their
artillery, even if there was no cannon mounted at any particular point.
In fact international law was hardening into a convention fixing an
arbitrary limit of three miles.

'Deck!' yelled Orrock. 'I can see masts now. Can just see 'em.'

'Count all you can see, very carefully, Mr Orrock.'

Orrock went on with his report. He had an experienced sailor beside him
at the masthead, but Hornblower, listening, had no intention of trusting
entirely to their observation, and Bush was fuming with impatience.

'Mr Bush,' said Hornblower. 'I'll be wearing ship in fifteen minutes.
Would you be so kind as to take a glass to the mizzen-topmast-head?
You'll have a good chance of seeing all that Orrock's seeing. Please
take notes.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Bush.

He was at the mizzen shrouds in a moment. Soon he was running up the
ratlines at a speed that would have been a credit to any young seaman.

'That makes twelve of the line, sir,' yelled Orrock. 'No topmasts
hoisted. No yards crossed.'

The seaman beside him interrupted his report.

'Breakers on the lee bow!'

'That's the Parquette,' said Hornblower.

The Black Stones on the one side, the Parquette on the other, and,
farther up, the Little Girls in the middle, marked off the passage into
Brest. On a clear day like this, with a gentle wind, they were no
menace, but lives by the hundred had been lost on them during storms.
Prowse was pacing restlessly back and forward to the binnacle taking
bearings. Hornblower was carefully gauging the direction of the wind. If
the French squadron had no ship of the line ready for sea there was no
need to take risks. A shift in the wind might soon find _Hotspur_
embayed on a lee shore. He swept his glass round the wild coast that had
grown up round his horizon.

'Very well, Mr Prowse. We'll wear ship now, while we can still weather
the Parquette.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Prowse's relief was obvious. His business was to keep the ship out of
danger, and he clearly preferred a wide margin of safety. Hornblower
looked round at the officer of the watch.

'Mr Poole! Wear the ship, if you please.'

The pipes shrilled and the orders were passed. Hands went to the braces
as the helm was put up while Hornblower scanned the shore warily.

'Steady as you go!'

_Hotspur_ settled sweetly on her new course. Hornblower was growing
intimate with her ways, like a bridegroom learning about his bride. No,
that was an unlucky simile, to be discarded instantly. He hoped that he
and _Hotspur_ were better suited to each other than he and Maria. And he
must think about something else.

'Mr Bush! Mr Orrock! You will please come down when you are sure you
will see nothing more useful.'

The ship was alive with a new atmosphere; Hornblower was sensitively
aware of it as the hands went about their duties. Everyone on board was
conscious that they were bearding Boney in his den, that they were
boldly looking into the principal naval base of France, proclaiming the
fact that England was ready to meet any challenge at sea. High adventure
was looming up in the near future. Hornblower had the gratifying feeling
that during these past days he had tempered a weapon ready for his hand,
ship and ship's company ready for any exploit, like a swordsman knowing
well the weight and balance of his sword before entering upon a duel.

Orrock appeared, touching his hat, and Hornblower listened to his
report. It was fortunate that Bush in the mizzen-top still had a view up
the Goulet and had not descended; reports should be made independently,
each officer out of the hearing of the other, but it would have been
tactless to ask Bush to stand aside. Bush did not descend for several
more minutes; he had methodically taken notes with paper and pencil, but
Orrock could hardly be blamed for not having done so. The thirteen or
fourteen ships of the line at anchor in the Roads were none of them
ready for sea and three of them were missing at least one mast each.
There were six frigates, three with their topmasts sent up and one with
her yards crossed and sails furled.

'That will be the _Loire_,' commented Hornblower to Bush.

'You know about her, sir?' asked Bush.

'I know she's there,' answered Hornblower. He would gladly have
explained further, but Bush was going on with his report, and Hornblower
was content to have something more added to his reputation for
omniscience.

On the other hand, there was considerable activity in the roadstead.
Bush had seen lighters and tenders moving about, and believed he had
identified a sheer hulk, a vessel rigged solely for the purpose of
putting new masts into large ships.

'Thank you, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower. 'That is excellent. We must look
in like this every day if possible.'

'Yes, sir.'

Constant observation would increase their information in geometrical
progression--ships changing anchorage, ships sending up topmasts, ships
setting up their rigging. The changes would be more significant than
anything that could be deduced from a single inspection.

'Now let's find some more fishing-boats,' went on Hornblower.

'Yes, sir.'

Bush trained his glass out towards the Parquette, whose sullen black
rocks, crowned by a navigation beacon, seemed to rise and fall as the
Atlantic swell surged round them.

'There's one in the lee of the reef there, sir,' said Bush.

'What's he doing there?'

'Lobster pots, sir,' reported Bush. 'Getting in his catch, I should say,
sir.'

'Indeed?'

Twice in his life Hornblower had eaten lobster, both occasions being
during those bleak bitter days when under the compulsion of hunger and
cold he had acted as a professional gambler in the Long Rooms. Wealthy
men there had called for supper, and had tossed him an invitation. It
was a shock to realise that it was only a fortnight ago that that
horrible period in his life had ended.

'I think,' said Hornblower, slowly, 'I should like lobster for my supper
tonight. Mr Poole! Let her edge down a little towards the reef. Mr Bush,
I would be obliged if you would clear away the quarter-boat ready for
launching.'

The contrast between these days and those was quite fantastic. These
were golden April days; a strange limbo between peace and war. They were
busy days, during which Hornblower had friendly chats with
fishing-boats' captains and dispensed gold pieces in exchange for a
small portion of their catch. He could drill his crew and he could take
advantage of those exercises to learn all he could about the behaviour
of the _Hotspur_. He could peep up the Goulet and measure the
preparation of the French fleet for sea. He could study this Gulf of
Iroise--the approaches to Brest, in other words--with its tides and its
currents. By observing the traffic there he could obtain an insight into
the difficulties of the French naval authorities in Brest.

Brittany was a poor province, neither productive nor well-populated, at
the extremity of France, and by land the communications between Brest
and the rest of the country were most inferior. There were no navigable
rivers, no canals. The enormously ponderous materials to equip a fleet
could never be brought to Brest by road. The artillery for a first-rate
weighed two hundred tons; guns and anchors and shot could only be
brought by sea from the foundries in Belgium round to the ships in
Brest. The mainmast of a first-rate was a hundred feet long and three
feet thick; only ships could transport those, in fact only ships
specially equipped.

To man the fleet that lay idle in Brest would call for twenty thousand
men. The seamen--what seamen there were--would have to march hundreds of
miles from the merchant ports of Le Havre and Marseille if they were not
sent round by sea. Twenty thousand men needed food and clothing, and
highly specialised food and clothing moreover. The flour to make
biscuit, the cattle and pigs and the salt to salt them down, and the
barrel-staves in which to store them--where were they to come from? And
provisioning was no day-to-day, hand-to-mouth operation, either. Before
going to sea the ships would need rations for a hundred days--two
million rations to be accumulated over and above daily consumption.
Coasting vessels by the hundred were needed--Hornblower observed a
constant trickle of them heading into Brest, rounding Ushant from the
north and the Pointe du Raz from the south. If war should come--when war
should come--it would be the business of the Royal Navy to cut off this
traffic. More particularly it would be the business of the light craft
to do this--it would be _Hotspur's_ business. The more he knew about all
these conditions the better.

These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower's mind as _Hotspur_
stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The
wind was south-easterly this afternoon, and _Hotspur_ was running
free--creeping along under topsails--with her look-outs posted at her
mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzen-mast
came two successive hails.

'Deck! There's a ship coming down the channel!'

'She's a frigate, sir!' That was Bush supplementing Cheeseman's report.

'Very well,' hailed Hornblower in return. Maybe the appearance of the
frigate had nothing to do with his own evolutions in the Iroise, but the
contrary was much more likely. He glanced round the ship; the hands were
engaged in the routine of holystoning the decks, but he could effect a
transformation in five minutes. He could clear for action or he could
set all sail at a moment's notice.

'Steady as you go,' he growled at the quartermaster. 'Mr Cargill, we'll
hoist our colours, if you please.'

'There she is, sir,' said Prowse. The glass showed a frigate's
topgallant sails; she was reaching down the Goulet with a fair wind, on
a course that would intersect _Hotspur's_ some miles ahead.

'Mr Bush! I'd like you on deck, if you please, as soon as you have
completed your observations.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur_ stole quietly along; there was no purpose in hurriedly setting
additional sail and pretending to be innocent--the French fleet must
have heard from a dozen sources about her continued presence in the
approaches.

'You're not going to trust 'em, sir?' This was from Bush, back on the
quarter-deck and in a state of some anxiety; the anxiety was not
displayed by any change in Bush's imperturbable manner, but by the very
fact that he volunteered advice in this positive form.

Hornblower did not want to run away. He had the weather gauge, and in a
moment he could set all sail and come to the wind and stand out to sea,
but he did not want to. He could be quite sure that if he were to do so
the frigate would follow his example and chase him, ignominiously, out
into the Atlantic with his tail between his legs. A bold move would
stimulate his crew, would impress the French and--this was the
point--would subdue his own doubts about himself. This was a test. His
instinct was to be cautious; but he told himself that his caution was
probably an excuse for cowardice. His judgement told him that there was
no need for caution; his fears told him that the French frigate was
planning to lure him within range of her guns and then overwhelm him. He
must act according to his judgement and he must abhor the counsel of his
fears, but he wished his heart would not beat so feverishly, he wished
his palms would not sweat nor his legs experience these pins-and-needles
feelings. He wished Bush were not crowding him at the hammock netting,
so that he might take a few paces up and down the quarter-deck; and then
he told himself that he could not possibly at this moment pace up and
down and reveal to the world that he was in a state of indecision.

Today coasters had been swarming out of Brest, taking advantage of the
fair wind; if war had been declared they would have been doing nothing
of the sort. He had spoken to three different fishing-boats, and from
none of them had he received a hint of war--they might all have been
taking part in a conspiracy to lull him into a sense of security, but
that was most unlikely. If news of war had reached Brest only an hour
ago the frigate could never have prepared herself for sea and come down
the Goulet in this time. And to support his judgement from the other
direction was the thought that the French naval authorities, even if war
was not declared, would act in just this way. Hearing of the audacious
British sloop cruising outside they would find men enough for the
frigate by stripping other ships of their skeleton crews and would send
her out to scare the British ship away. He must not be scared away; this
wind could easily persist for days, and if he once ran down to leeward
it would be a long time before he could beat back and resume his
observation of Brest.

The frigate was hull-up now; through his glass he could see her down to
the waterline. She was big; there were her painted ports, twenty of them
a side besides the guns on quarter-deck and forecastle. Eighteen
pounders, probably; she had not merely twice as many guns as _Hotspur_
but would discharge a weight of broadside four times as great. But her
guns were not run out, and then Hornblower raised his glass to study her
yards. He strained his eyes; this time he must not only trust his
judgement but his eyesight. He was sure of what he saw. Fore-yard and
fore-topsail-yard, main-yard and maintopsail-yard; they were not
supported by chain slings. If the frigate were ready for action they
would never have omitted that precaution. She could not be planning to
fight; this could not be an ambush.

'Any orders, sir?' asked Bush.

Bush would have liked to clear for action, to open the ports and run out
the guns. If anything could precipitate hostilities it would be that,
and Hornblower remembered how his orders from Cornwallis, both written
and oral, had stressed the necessity to do nothing that would bring on
England the odium of starting a war.

'Yes,' said Hornblower in reply to Bush's question, but the relief that
showed instantly in Bush's expression changed back into concern as he
noted the gleam in Hornblower's eyes.

'We must render passing honours, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower. There was
something madly stimulating in forcing himself to be coldly formal when
internally he was boiling with excitement. That must be what went on
inside one of Mr Watt's steam engines when the safety valve did not
function.

'Aye aye, sir,' said Bush; the disciplined answer, the only answer when
a superior officer spoke.

'Do you remember the procedure, Mr Bush?'

Never in his life had Hornblower rendered honours to a French ship of
war; through his whole professional career until now sighting had meant
fighting.

'Yes, sir.'

'Then be so good as to give the orders.'

'Aye aye, sir. All hands! All hands! Man the side! Mr Wise! See that the
men keep order. Sergeant of marines! Parade your men on the
quarter-deck! Smartly now. Drummer on the right. Bos'n's mates! Stand by
to pipe on the beat of the drum.' Bush turned to Hornblower. 'We've no
music, sir, except the drum and the pipes.'

'They won't expect more,' said Hornblower, his eye still at his glass.
One sergeant, one corporal, twelve privates and a drummer were all the
marines allotted to a sloop of war, but Hornblower was not devoting any
further thought to the marines. His whole attention was concentrated on
the French frigate. No doubt on the Frenchman's deck a dozen glasses
were being trained on the _Hotspur_. As the bustle began on the
_Hotspur's_ deck he could see a corresponding bustle on the Frenchman's.
They were manning the side, an enormous crowd of them. Carried by the
water came the noise as four hundred excited Frenchmen took up their
stations.

'Silence!' ordered Bush at that very moment. There was a certain
strangeness about his voice as he continued, because he did not want his
words to be overheard in the Frenchman, and so he was endeavouring to
bellow _sotto voce_. 'Show the Frogs how a British crew behaves. Heads
up, there, and keep still.'

Blue coats and white breeches; these were French soldiers forming up on
the frigate's quarter-deck; Hornblower's glass detected the flash of
steel as bayonets were fixed, and the gleam of brass from the musical
instruments. The ships were closing steadily on their converging
courses, with the frigate under her greater canvas drawing ahead of the
sloop. Nearer and nearer. _Hotspur_ was the visiting ship. Hornblower
put away his telescope.

'Now,' he said.

'Drum!' ordered Bush.

The drummer beat a long roll.

'Present-arr-ums!' ordered the sergeant of marines, and in a much lower
voice, 'One. Two. Three!'

The muskets of the marines and the half-pike of the sergeant came to the
present in the beautiful movements of the prescribed drill. The pipes of
the bos'n's mates twittered, long and agonisingly. Hornblower took off
his hat and held it before his chest; the offhand salute with hand to
the brim was not for this occasion. He could see the French captain on
his quarter-deck now, a bulky man, holding his hat over his head in the
French fashion. On his breast gleamed a star, which must be this
new-fangled Legion of Honour which Boney had instituted. Hornblower came
back to reality; he had been the first to render the honours, and he
must be the first to terminate them. He growled a word to Bush.

'Drum!' ordered Bush, and the long roll ended. With that the twittering
of the pipes died away, a little more raggedly than Hornblower liked. On
the French quarter-deck someone--the drum major, perhaps--raised a long
staff hung with brass bells into the air and brought it down again with
a thump. Instantly the drums rolled, half a dozen of them, a martial,
thrilling sound, and then over the water came the sound of music, that
incomprehensible blend of noises which Hornblower could never
appreciate; the drum major's staff rose and fell rhythmically. At last
the music stopped, with a final roll of the drums. Hornblower put on his
hat, and the French captain did the same.

'Sl-o-o-ope ar-rums,' yelled the sergeant of marines.

'All hands! Dismiss!' yelled Bush, and then, reverting to his softer
tone, 'Quietly, there! Silence!'

The hands were excited and prone to chatter with the order to
dismiss--never in any of their lives, either, had they passed a French
ship of war so close without guns firing. But Bush was determined to
make the Frenchman believe that _Hotspur_ was manned entirely by stoics.
Wise with his rattan enforced the order, and the crew dispersed in an
orderly mob, the good order only disturbed by a single quickly
suppressed yelp as the rattan struck home on some rash posterior.

'She's the _Loire_, surely enough, sir,' said Bush. They could see the
name entwined in gilded letters amid the scrollwork of the frigate's
stern; Hornblower remembered that Bush still was in ignorance of his
source of information. It was amusing to be thought omniscient, even
without justification.

'And you were right, sir, not to run away from them,' went on Bush. Why
was it so intolerable in this case to note the gleam of admiration in
Bush's eyes? Bush did not know of the quickening heartbeats and the
sweaty palms.

'It's given our fellows a close look at a Frenchman,' said Hornblower,
uneasily.

'It certainly did that, sir,' agreed Bush. 'I never expected in all my
life to hear that tune from a French frigate!'

'What tune?' asked Hornblower unguardedly, and was instantly furious
with himself for this revelation of his weakness.

'God Save The King, sir,' answered Bush, simply. Luckily it never
occurred to him that anyone could possibly fail to recognise the
national anthem. 'If we'd had any music on board we'd have had to play
their Marseillaise.'

'So we would,' said Hornblower; it was desperately necessary to change
the subject. 'Look! He's getting in his topgallants. Quick! Time him!
We'll see what sort of seamen they are.'




                               CHAPTER VI


Now it was blowing a gale, a two-reef gale from the westward. The
unbelievably fine weather of the past week had come to an end, and now
the Atlantic was asserting itself in its usual fashion. Under her
close-reefed topsails _Hotspur_ was battling against it, close-hauled on
the port tack. She was presenting her port bow to the huge rollers that
were advancing upon her, unimpeded in their passage over three thousand
miles of water, from Canada to France. She would roll, lift, pitch, and
then roll again. The tremendous pressure of the wind on her topsails
steadied her to the extent that she hardly leaned over at all to
windward; she would heel over to starboard, hang for a moment, and then
come back to the vertical. But even with her roll restricted in this
fashion, she was pitching extravagantly, and she was rising and falling
bodily as each wave passed under her bottom, so that a man standing on
her deck would feel the pressure of his feet on her planking increasing
and diminishing as she ascended and dropped away again. The wind was
shrieking in the rigging, and her fabric groaned as the varying strains
worked on her, bending her lengthwise, upward in the centre first and
then upward at the ends next. But that groaning was a reassuring sound;
there were no sharp cracks or disorderly noises, and what could be heard
was merely an indication that _Hotspur_ was being flexible and sensible
instead of being rigid and brittle.

Hornblower came out on to the quarter-deck. He was pallid with
sea-sickness because the change of motion had found him out, but the
attack had not been as severe as he had experienced during the run
down-channel. He was muffled in his coat, and he had to support himself
against the roll, for his sea-legs had not yet learned this advanced
lesson. Bush appeared from the waist, followed by the boatswain; he
touched his hat and then turned, with Wise beside him, to survey the
ship in searching fashion.

'It's not until the first gale that you know what can carry away, sir,'
said Bush.

Gear that seemed perfectly well secured would begin to show alarming
tendencies to come adrift when submitted to the unpredictable strains of
continued heavy weather, and Bush and Wise had just completed a long
tour of inspection.

'Anything amiss?' asked Hornblower.

'Only trifles, sir, except for the stream anchor. That's secure again
now.'

Bush had a grin on his face and his eyes were dancing; obviously he
enjoyed this change of climate, this bustling of the wind, and the
activity it called for. He rubbed his hands and breathed deep of the
gale. Hornblower could console himself with the memory that there had
been times when he had enjoyed dirty weather, and even the hope that
there would be more, but as he felt at present, he bitterly told
himself, it was a hollow memory and an empty hope.

Hornblower took his glass and looked about him. Momentarily the weather
was fairly clear and the horizon at some distance. Far away on the
starboard quarter the telescope picked up a flash of white; steadying
himself as best he could he managed to catch it in the field again. That
was the surf on Ar Men--curious Breton name, that--the most southerly
and the most seaward of the rocks and reefs that littered the approaches
to Brest. As he watched a fresh roller came in to catch the rock fully
exposed. The surf burst upon it in a towering pillar of white water,
reaching up as high as a first-rate's maintopsails, before the wind
hurled it into nothingness again. Then a fresh squall hurtled down upon
the ship, bringing with it driving rain, so that the horizon closed in
around them, and _Hotspur_ became the centre of a tiny area of tossing
grey sea, with the lowering clouds hardly clear of the mastheads.

She was as close in to that lee shore as Hornblower dared risk. A timid
man would have gone out farther to sea at the first sign of bad weather,
but then a timid man would be likely next to find himself with a shift
of wind far away to leeward of the post he was supposed to be watching.
Then whole days might pass before he could be back at his post--days
when that wind would be fair for the French to do whatever they wanted,
unobserved. It was as if there were a line drawn on the chart along with
the parallels of longitude--rashness on the one side, boldness on the
other, and Hornblower keeping to the very boundary of rashness. Now
there was nothing further to do except--as always in the navy--to watch
and wait. To battle with the gale with a wary eye noting every shift in
the wind, to struggle northward on one tack and then to go about and
struggle southward on the other, beating up and down outside Brest until
he had a chance to risk a closer view again. So he had done all day
yesterday, and so he would do for countless days to come should the
threatening war break out. He went back into his cabin to conceal
another flurry of sea-sickness.

Some time after the misery had in part subsided he was summoned by a
thundering at the door.

'What is it?'

'Lookout's hailing from the masthead, sir. Mr Bush is calling him down.'

'I'll come.'

Hornblower emerged just in time to see the look-out transfer himself to
the backstay and come sliding all the way down the deck.

'Mr Cargill,' said Bush. 'Send another hand aloft to take his place.'

Bush turned to Hornblower.

'I couldn't hear what this man was saying, sir, thanks to the wind, so I
called him down. Well, what d'you have to say?'

The look-out stood cap in hand, a little abashed at confronting the
officers.

'Don't rightly know if it's important, sir, but during that last clear
spell I caught a glimpse of the French frigate.'

'Where away?' demanded Hornblower; at the last moment before he spoke he
had managed to modify his originally intended brusqueness. There was
nothing to be gained and something to be lost by bullying this man.

'Two points on the lee bow, sir. She was hull-down but I could see her
tops'ls, sir. I know 'em.'

Since the incident of the passing honours _Hotspur_ had frequently
sighted the _Loire_ at various points in the Iroise channel--it had been
a little like a game of hide-and-seek.

'What was her course?'

'She was close-hauled, sir, under double-reefed tops'ls, on the
starboard tack, sir.'

'You were quite right to report her. Get back to your post now. Keep
that other man aloft with you.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The man turned away and Hornblower gazed out to sea. Thick weather had
closed round them again, and the horizon was close in. Was there
anything odd about the _Loire's_ coming out and braving the gale? She
might well wish to drill her men in heavy weather. No; he had to be
honest in his thinking, and that was a rather un-French notion. There
was a very marked tendency in the French navy to conserve material in a
miserly fashion.

Hornblower became aware that Bush was standing beside him waiting for
him to speak.

'What do you think, Mr Bush?'

'I expect she anchored last night in Berthon Bay, sir.'

'I wouldn't be surprised.'

Bush was referring to Bertheaume Bay, just on the seaward side of the
Goulet, where it was just possible to ride to a long cable with the wind
anywhere to the north of west. And if she lay there she would be in
touch with the shore. She could receive news and orders sent overland
from Brest, ten miles away. She might have heard of a declaration of
war. She might be hoping to take _Hotspur_ by surprise, and he must act
on that assumption. In that case the safest thing to do would be to put
the ship about. Heading south on the starboard tack he would have plenty
of sea room, would be in no danger from a lee shore, and would be so far
ahead of the _Loire_ as to be able to laugh at pursuit. But--this was
like Hamlet's soliloquy, at the point where Hamlet says 'There's the
rub'--he would be far from his post when Cornwallis should arrive,
absent perhaps for days. No, this was a case where he must risk his
ship. _Hotspur_ was only a trifle in the clash of two enormous navies.
She was important to him personally, but the information she had gleaned
was a hundred times more important than her fabric to Cornwallis.

'We'll hold our course, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower.

'She was two points on our lee bow, sir,' said Bush. 'We ought to be
well to windward of her when we meet.'

Hornblower had already made that calculation; if the result had been
different he would have put _Hotspur_ about five minutes ago and would
have been racing for safety.

'Clearing again a little, sir,' commented Bush, looking about him, and
at that very moment the masthead yelled again.

'There she is, sir! One point before the starboard beam!'

'Very well!'

With the moderation of the squall it was just possible to carry on a
conversation with the masthead from the deck.

'She's there all right, sir,' said Bush, training his glass.

As _Hotspur_ lifted to a wave Hornblower saw her topsails, not very
plainly. They were braced sharp round, presenting only their edge to his
telescope. _Hotspur_ was at least four miles to windward of her.

'Look! She's going about, sir!'

The topsails were broadening into oblongs; they wavered for a moment,
and then settled down; they were braced round now parallel to the
_Hotspur's_ topsails; the two ships were now on the same tack.

'She went about the moment she was sure who we were, sir. She's still
playing hide-and-seek with us.'

'Hide-and-seek? Mr Bush, I believe we are at war.'

It was hard to make that momentous statement in the quiet conversational
tone that a man of iron nerve would employ; Hornblower did his best.
Bush had no such inhibitions. He stared at Hornblower and whistled. But
he could follow now the same lines of thought as Hornblower had already
traced.

'I think you're right, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush.' Hornblower said that spitefully, to his instant
regret. It was not fair to make Bush pay for the tensions his captain
had been experiencing; nor was it in accord with Hornblower's ideal of
imperturbability to reveal that such tensions had existed. It was well
that the next order to be given would most certainly distract Bush from
any hurt he might feel.

'I think you had better send the hands to quarters, Mr Bush. Clear for
action, but don't run out the guns.'

'Aye aye, sir!'

Bush's grin revealed his instant excitement. Now he was bellowing his
orders. The pipes were twittering through the ship. The marine drummer
came scrambling up from below. He was a child of no more than twelve,
and his equipment was all higgledy-piggledy. He made not only a
slap-dash gesture of coming to attention on the quarter-deck, he quite
omitted the formal drill of raising the drumsticks high before he began
to beat the long roll, so anxious was he to begin.

Prowse approached; as acting-master his station in battle was on the
quarter-deck beside his captain.

'She's broad on the starboard beam now, sir,' he said, looking over at
the _Loire_. 'She took a long time to go about. That's what you'd
expect.'

One of the factors that had entered into Hornblower's calculations was
the fact that _Hotspur_ would be quicker in stays than the _Loire_. Bush
came up, touching his hat.

'Ship cleared for action, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush.'

Now here was navy life epitomised in these few minutes. A moment of
decision, of bustle, and excitement, and then--settle down to a long
wait again. The two ships were thrashing along close-hauled, four miles
apart. _Hotspur_ almost dead to windward of the _Loire_. Those four
miles, that direction of the wind, conferred immunity upon _Hotspur_. As
long as she could preserve that distance she was safe. If she could
not--if some accident occurred--then the _Loire's_ forty
eighteen-pounders would make short work of her. She could fight for
honour, but with no hope of victory. Clearing for action was hardly more
than a gesture; men would die, men would be horribly mutilated, but the
result would be the same as if _Hotspur_ had tamely surrendered.

'Who's at the wheel?' asked Prowse of nobody in particular, and he
walked over to supervise the steering--perhaps his thoughts were running
along those same lines.

The boatswain came rolling aft; as the warrant officer charged with the
general supervision of sails and rigging he had no particular station in
action, and was justified in moving about. But he was being very formal
at the moment. He took off his hat to Bush, instead of merely touching
it, and stood holding it, his pigtail thumping his shoulders in the
gale. He must be asking permission to speak.

'Sir,' said Bush. 'Mr Wise is asking on behalf of the hands, sir. Are we
at war?'

Yes? Or no?

'The Frogs know, and we don't--yet, Mr Wise.' There was no harm in a
captain admitting ignorance when the reason for it should be perfectly
clear as soon as the hands had time to consider the matter, as they
would have. This might be the time to make a resplendent speech, but
second thoughts assured Hornblower it was not. Yet Hornblower's instinct
told him that the situation demanded something more than his last bald
sentence.

'Any man in this ship who thinks there's a different way of doing his
duty in peacetime is likely to have his back scratched, Mr Wise. Say
that to the hands.'

That was sufficient for the occasion; Prowse was back again, squinting
up at the rigging and gauging the behaviour of the ship.

'Do you think she could carry the main-topmast stays'l, sir?'

That was a question with many implications, but there was only one
answer.

'No,' said Hornblower.

That staysail might probably give _Hotspur_ a little more speed through
the water. But it would lay her over very considerably, which along the
additional area exposed to the wind would increase her leeway by an
appreciable proportion. Hornblower had seen _Hotspur_ in dry dock, knew
the lines of the turn of her bilge, and could estimate the maximum angle
at which she could retain her grip on the water. Those two factors would
balance out, and there was a third one to turn the scale--any increase
in the amount of canvas exposed would increase the chances of something
carrying away. A disaster, petty or great, from the parting of a line to
the loss of a topmast, would thrust _Hotspur_ helplessly within range of
the enemy's guns.

'If the wind moderates that's the first extra canvas I'll set,' went on
Hornblower to modify the brusqueness of his refusal, and he added, 'Take
note of how that ship bears from us.'

'I've done that, sir,' answered Prowse; a good mark to Prowse.

'Mr Bush! You may dismiss the watch below.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

This chase--this race--might continue for hours, even for days, and
there was no purpose in fatiguing all hands prematurely. The gale
developed a new gust within itself, hurling rain and spray across the
deck; the _Loire_ faded from sight again as he looked at her, while the
_Hotspur_ plunged and tossed like a toy boat as she battled against wind
and wave.

'I wonder how many hands are sea-sick over there?' said Hornblower. He
uttered that distasteful word in the same way that a man might tease a
sore tooth.

'A good few, I dare say, sir,' answered Bush in a completely neutral
tone.

'Call me when she's in sight again,' said Hornblower. 'Call me in any
case of need, of course.'

He said these words with enormous dignity. Then it was an exhausting
physical exercise to struggle aft again back into his cabin; his
dizziness exaggerated the leaping of the deck under his feet, and the
swing of his cot as he sank groaning across it. It was Bush himself who
roused him later on.

'Weather's clearing, sir,' came Bush's voice through the cabin door,
over the clamour of the storm.

'Very well. I'll come.'

A shadowy shape was already visible to starboard when he came out, and
soon the _Loire_ was revealed sharply as the air cleared. There she was,
lying steeply over, yards braced up, her gun-ports plain enough to be
counted when she rose level again, spray bursting in clouds over her
weather-bow, and then, as she lay over again, a momentary glimpse,
pinky-brown, of her copper bottom. Hornblower's eye told him something
that Prowse and Bush put simultaneously into words.

'She's head reaching on us!' said Bush.

'She's a full point for'rard of the beam now,' said Prowse.

The _Loire_ was going faster through the water than _Hotspur_, gaining
in the race to that extent. Everyone knew that French ship designers
were cleverer than English ones; French ships were usually faster. But
in this particular case it might mean tragedy. But there was worse news
than this.

'I think, sir,' said Bush, slowly, as if each word caused him pain,
'she's weathering on us, too.'

Bush meant that the _Loire_ was not yielding to the same extent as the
_Hotspur_ to the thrust of the wind down to leeward; relatively
_Hotspur_ was drifting down upon the _Loire_, closer to her guns.
Hornblower, with a twinge of apprehension, knew that he was right. It
would only be a question of time, if the present weather conditions
persisted, before the _Loire_ could open her ports and commence fire. So
the simplest way of keeping out of trouble was denied him. If _Hotspur_
had been the faster and the more weatherly of the two he could have
maintained any distance he chose. His first line of defence was broken
through.

'It's not to be wondered at,' he said. He tried to speak coldly, or
nonchalantly, determined to maintain his dignity as captain. 'She's
twice our size.'

Size was important when clawing to windward. The same waves battered
against small ships as against big ones, but they would push the small
ships farther to leeward; moreover the keels of big ships reached down
farther below the surface, farther below the turbulence, and maintained
a better hold in the more tranquil water.

The three telescopes, as of one mind, trained out towards the _Loire_.

'She's luffing up a little,' said Bush.

Hornblower could see the _Loire's_ topsails shiver momentarily. She was
sacrificing some of her headway to gain a few yards to windward; having
superior speed through the water she could afford to do so.

'Yes. We've drawn level with her again,' said Prowse.

That French captain knew his business. Mathematically, the best course
to take when trying to close on a ship to windward was to keep the ship
being chased right in the wind's eye, and that was where the _Hotspur_
now found herself again, relative to the _Loire_, while the latter,
resuming her former course, close-hauled, was twenty or thirty yards
nearer to her in the direction of the wind. A gain of twenty or thirty
yards, repeated often enough, and added to the steady gain resulting
from being the more weatherly ship, would eventually close the gap.

The three telescopes came down from the three eyes, and Hornblower met
the gaze of his two subordinates. They were looking to him to make the
next move in this crisis.

'Call all hands, if you please, Mr Bush. I shall put the ship about.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Here was a moment of danger. If _Hotspur_ were mishandled she was lost.
If she missed stays--as she once had done with Cargill handling her--she
would lie dead in the water for minutes, sagging down to leeward with
the _Loire_ coming up fast upon her, while in this gale the sails might
thrash themselves to ribbons leaving her more helpless still, even if
nothing more vital carried away. The operation must be carried out to
perfection. Cargill by coincidence was officer of the watch. He could be
given the task. So might Bush, or Prowse. But Hornblower knew perfectly
well that he could not tolerate the thought of anyone other than himself
bearing the responsibility, whether in his own eyes or in those of the
ship's company.

'I'm going to put the ship about, Mr Cargill,' he said, and that fixed
the responsibility irrevocably.

He walked over the wheel, and stared round him. He felt the tension, he
felt the beating of his heart, and noticed with momentary astonishment
that this was pleasurable, that he was enjoying this moment of danger.
Then he forced himself to forget everything except the handling of the
ship. The hands were at their stations; every eye was on him. The gale
shrieked past his ears as he planted his feet firmly and watched the
approaching seas. This was the moment.

'Handsomely, now,' he growled to the hands at the wheel. 'Put your wheel
down.'

There was a brief interval before _Hotspur_ answered. Now her bow was
turning.

'Helm's alee!' shouted Hornblower.

Headsail sheets and bowlines were handled, with Hornblower watching the
behaviour of the ship like a tiger stalking its prey.

'Tacks and sheets!' and then turning back to the wheel. 'Now! Hard
over!'

She was coming rapidly into the wind.

'Mains'l haul!' The hands were keyed up with the excitement of the
moment. Bowlines and braces were cast off and the yards came ponderously
round at the exact moment that _Hotspur_ was pointing directly into the
wind.

'Now! Meet her! Hard over!' snapped Hornblower to the wheel. _Hotspur_
was turning fast, and still carrying so much way that the rudder could
bite effectively, checking the swing before she could turn too far.

'Haul off all!'

The thing was done; _Hotspur_ had gone from one tack to the other
without the unnecessary loss of a second or a yard, thrashing along now
with her starboard bow butting into the waves. But there was no time to
feel relief or pleasure; Hornblower hurried to the port quarter to train
his glass on the _Loire_. She was tacking naturally; the mathematics of
the theory of the pursuit to windward demanded that the pursuer should
tack at the same moment as the pursued. But she was bound to be a little
late; her first inkling that _Hotspur_ was about to tack would be when
she saw her fore-topsail shiver, and even if _Loire_ had all hands at
their stations for going about the _Hotspur_ would have two minutes'
grace. And she was far slower in stays. Even now, when _Hotspur_ was
settled on the new tack with every inch of sail drawing, the _Loire's_
fore-topsail was still shivering, her bows were still turning. The
longer she took to go about the more distance she would lose in the race
to windward.

'We've weathered on her, sir,' said Prowse, watching through his glass.
'Now we're head reaching on her.'

_Hotspur_ had won back some of her precious lead, and Hornblower's
second line of defence was proving at least stronger than his first.

'Take the bearing again,' ordered Hornblower.

Once settled on the new tack the _Loire's_ natural advantages asserted
themselves once more. She showed her extra speed and extra
weatherliness; she drew up again from _Hotspur_'s quarter to her beam;
then she could luff up briefly and gain a little more to windward on the
_Hotspur_. The minutes passed like seconds, an hour like a minute, as
the _Hotspur_ plunged along, with every man braced on the heeling deck
and the wind shrieking.

'Time to go about again, sir?' asked Bush, tentatively and greatly
daring, but the theoretically correct moment was passing.

'We'll wait a little longer,' said Hornblower. 'We'll wait for that
squall.'

It was hurtling down wind upon them, and as it reached them the world
was blotted out with driving rain. Hornblower turned from the hammock
netting over which he was peering and climbed up the steep deck to the
wheel. He took the speaking-trumpet.

'Stand by to go about.'

In the gusts that were blowing the crew could hardly hear what he said,
but every eye was on him, everyone was alert, and, drilled as they were,
they could not mistake his orders. It was a tricky business to tack
while the squall prevailed, because the gusts were liable to veer a
point or two, unpredictably. But the _Hotspur_ was so handy--as long as
the manoeuvre was well-timed--that she had a good deal to spare for
emergencies. The slight change in the wind's direction which threatened
to take her aback was defeated because she still had sufficient steerage
way and command to keep her swinging. The gust died away and the
blinding chilly rain ceased while the hands were trimming all sharp, and
the last of the squall drove off to leeward, still hiding the _Loire_
from view.

'That's done him!' said Bush with satisfaction. He was revelling in the
mental picture of the _Loire_ still thrashing along on the one tack
while the _Hotspur_ was comfortably on the other and the gap between the
two ships widening rapidly.

They watched the squall travelling over the foam-flecked grey water,
shrieking towards France. Then in the thickness they saw a more solid
nucleus take shape: they saw it grow sharper in outline.

'God--' exclaimed Bush; he was too disconcerted, too dumb-founded, to
finish the oath. For there was _Loire_ emerging from the squall,
comfortably on the same tack as _Hotspur_, plunging along in her
relentless pursuit with the distance in no way diminished.

'That's a trick we won't try a second time,' said Hornblower. He was
forcing a smile, tight-lipped.

The French captain was no fool, evidently. He had observed the _Hotspur_
delaying past the best moment for tacking, he had seen the squall
engulfing her, and had anticipated her action. He must have tacked at
the very same moment. In consequence he had lost little while tacking,
and that little had been regained by the time the two ships were in
sight of each other once more. Certainly he was a dangerous enemy. He
must be one of the more able captains that the French navy possessed.
There were several who had distinguished themselves in the last war;
true, in consequence of the overpowering British naval strength, most of
them had ended the war as prisoners, but the Peace of Amiens had set
them free.

Hornblower turned away from Bush and Prowse and tried to pace the
heeling deck, to think out all the implications. This was a dangerous
situation, as dangerous as the worst he had envisaged. Inexorably wind
and wave were forcing _Hotspur_ closer to the _Loire_. Even as he tried
to pace the deck he felt her shudder and lurch, out of the rhythm of her
usual pitch and roll. That was the 'rogue wave,' generated by some
unusual combination of wind and water, thumping against _Hotspur's_
weather side like a battering ram. Every few seconds rogue waves made
themselves felt, checking _Hotspur's_ way and pushing her bodily to
leeward; _Loire_ was encountering exactly similar rogue waves, but with
her greater size she was not so susceptible to their influence. They
played their part along with the other forces of nature in closing the
gap between the two ships.

Supposing he were compelled to fight a close action? No, he had gone
through that before. He had a good ship and well-trained crew, but on
this tossing sea that advantage would be largely discounted by the fact
that the _Loire_ provided a steadier gun platform. Odds of four to one
in weight of metal were greater than it was advisable to risk.
Momentarily Hornblower saw himself appearing in the written history of
the future. He might have the distinction of being the first British
captain in the present war to fall a victim to the French navy. What a
distinction! Then even in the cold gale blowing round him he could feel
the blood hot under his skin as he pictured the action. Horrors
presented themselves in endless succession to the crack of doom like the
kings in _Macbeth_. He thought of death. He thought of mutilation, of
agony under the surgeon's knife, and of being wheeled about legless
through a blank future. He thought of being a prisoner of war; he had
experienced that already in Spain and only by a miracle he had achieved
release. The last war had gone on for ten years; this one might do the
same. Ten years in prison! Ten years during which his brother officers
would be gaining fame, distinguishing themselves, making fortunes in
prize money while he would fret himself to pieces in prison, emerging at
the end a cranky eccentric, forgotten by all his world--forgotten even
by Maria, he fancied. He would rather die, just as he would rather die
than be mutilated; or so he thought (he told himself brutally) until the
choice should be more imminently presented to him. Then he might well
flinch, for he did not want to die. He tried to tell himself that he was
not afraid of death, that he merely regretted the prospect of missing
all the interesting and amusing things that life held in store for him,
and then he found himself sneering at himself for not facing the horrid
truth that he was afraid.

Then he shook himself out of this black mood. He was in danger, and this
was no time for morbid introspection. It was resolution and ingenuity
that he demanded of himself. He tried to make his face a mask to hide
his recent feelings as he met the gaze of Bush and Prowse.

'Mr Prowse,' he said. 'Bring your journal. Let's look at the chart.'

The rough log recorded every change of course, every hourly measurement
of speed, and by its aid they could calculate--or guess at--the present
position of the ship starting from her last point of departure at Ar
Men.

'We're making fully two points of leeway,' said Prowse despondently. His
long face seemed to grow longer and longer as he looked down at
Hornblower seated at the chart-table. Hornblower shook his head.

'Not more than a point and a half. And the tide's been making in our
favour for the last two hours.'

'I hope you're right, sir,' said Prowse.

'If I'm not,' said Hornblower, working the parallel rulers, 'we'll have
to make fresh plans.'

Despondency for the sake of despondency irritated Hornblower when
displayed by other people; he knew too much about it.

'In another two hours,' said Prowse 'The Frenchman'll have us under his
guns.'

Hornblower looked fixedly at Prowse, and under that unwavering gaze
Prowse was at length reminded of his omission, which he hastily remedied
by belatedly adding the word 'sir.' Hornblower was not going to allow
any deviation from discipline, not in any crisis whatever--he knew well
enough how these things might develop in the future. Even if there might
be no future. Having made his point there was no need to labour it.

'You can see we'll weather Ushant,' he said, looking down at the line he
had pencilled on the chart.

'Maybe, sir,' said Prowse.

'Comfortably,' went on Hornblower.

'I wouldn't say exactly comfortably, sir,' demurred Prowse.

'The closer the better,' said Hornblower. 'But we can't dictate that. We
daren't make an inch more of leeway.'

He had thought more than once about that possibility, of weathering
Ushant so close that _Loire_ would not be able to hold her course. Then
_Hotspur_ would free herself from pursuit like a whale scraping off a
barnacle against a rock; an amusing and ingenious idea, but not
practicable as long as the wind stayed steady.

'But even if we weather Ushant, sir,' persisted Prowse, 'I don't see how
it will help us. We'll be within range by then, sir.'

Hornblower put down his pencil. He had been about to say 'Perhaps you'd
advise saving trouble by hauling down our colours this minute, Mr
Prowse,' but he remembered in time that such a mention of the
possibility of surrender, even with a sarcastic intention, was contrary
to the Articles of War. Instead he would penalise Prowse by revealing
nothing of the plan he had in mind; and that would be just as well, in
case the plan should fail and he should have to fall back on yet another
line of defence.

'We'll see when the time comes,' he said, curtly, and rose from his
chair. 'We're wanted on deck. By now it'll be time to go about again.'

On deck there was the wind blowing as hard as ever; there was the spray
flying; there was the _Loire_, dead to leeward and luffing up to narrow
the gap by a further important trifle. The hands were at work on the
pumps; in these weather conditions the pumps had to be employed for half
an hour every two hours to free the ship from the seawater which made
its way on board through the straining seams.

'We'll tack the ship, Mr Poole, as soon as the pumps suck.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Some way ahead lay Ushant and his plan to shake off the _Loire_, but
before that he had to tack twice more at least, each time with its
possibilities of making a mistake, of handing _Hotspur_ and himself over
to the enemy. He must not stumble over an obstacle at his feet through
keeping his eyes on the horizon. He made himself perform the manoeuvre
as neatly as ever, and made himself ignore any feelings of relief when
it was completed.

'We gained a full cable's length on him that time, sir,' said Bush,
after watching _Loire_ steady herself on the starboard tack on
_Hotspur's_ beam.

'We may not always be so lucky,' said Hornblower. 'But we'll make this
leg a short one and see.'

On the starboard tack he was heading away from his objective; when they
went about on the port tack again he must hold on for a considerably
longer time, but he must make it appear as though by inadvertence. If he
could deceive Bush it would be an indication that he was deceiving the
French captain.

The hands seemed to be actually enjoying this sailing contest. They were
lighthearted, revelling in the business of cheating the wind and getting
every inch of way out of the _Hotspur_. It must be quite obvious to them
that _Loire_ was gaining in the race, but they did not care; they were
laughing and joking as they looked across at her. They had no conception
of the danger of the situation, or, rather, they made light of it. The
luck of the British navy would save them, or the unhandiness of the
French. Or the skill of their captain--without faith in him they would
be far more frightened.

Time to go about again and beat towards Ushant. He resumed charge of the
ship and turned her about. It was only after the turn was completed that
he noted, with satisfaction, that he had forgotten his nervousness in
the interest he was taking in the situation.

'We're closing fast, sir,' said Prowse, gloomy as ever. He had his
sextant in his hand and had just finished measuring the angle subtended
between the _Loire's_ masthead and her waterline.

'I can see that for myself, thank you, Mr Prowse,' snapped Hornblower.
For that matter the eye was as trustworthy as any instrumental
observation on that heaving sea.

'My duty, sir,' said Prowse.

'I'm glad to see you executing your duty, Mr Prowse,' said Hornblower.
The tone he used was the equivalent of saying, 'Damn your duty,' which
would have also been contrary to the Articles of War.

Northward the _Hotspur_ held her steady course. A squall engulfed her,
blinding her, while the quartermasters juggled desperately at the wheel,
allowing her, perforce, to pay off in the worst of the gusts, and
putting down the wheel to keep her to the wind when the wind backed a
point. The final gust went by, flapping Hornblower's coat-tails. It
whipped the trouser-legs of the quartermasters at the wheel so that a
momentary glance would make a stranger believe that, with their swaying
arms and wavering legs, they were dancing some strange ritual dance. As
ever, when the squall passed on, all eyes not dedicated to present duty
turned to leeward to look for the _Loire_.

'Look at that!' yelled Bush. 'Look at that, sir! We've fooled him
properly!'

_Loire_ had gone about. There she was, just settling down on the
starboard tack. The French captain had been too clever. He had decided
that _Hotspur_ would go about when concealed by the squall, and had
moved to anticipate her. Hornblower watched the _Loire_. That French
captain must be boiling with rage at having his too-great-cleverness
revealed to his ship's company in this fashion. That might cloud his
judgement later. It might make him over-anxious. Even so, he showed
little sign of it from here. He had been about to haul his bowlines, but
he reached a rapid and sensible decision. To tack again would
necessitate standing on for some time on his present course while his
ship regained speed and manoeuvrability, so that instead he made use of
the turning momentum she still possessed, put up his helm and completed
the circle, wearing his ship round so that she momentarily presented her
stern to the wind before arriving at last on her original tack again. It
was a cool-headed piece of work, making the best of a bad job, but the
_Loire_ had lost a good deal of ground.

'Two full points abaft the beam,' said Prowse.

'And he's farther down to looard, too,' supplemented Bush.

The greatest gain, Hornblower decided, watching her, was that it made
possible, and plausible, the long leg to the northward that his plan
demanded. He could make a long beat on the port tack without the French
captain seeing anything unusual in that.

'Keep her going, there!' he shouted to the wheel. 'Let her fall off a
little! Steady as you go!'

The race was resumed, both ships plunging along, battling with the
unremitting gale. Hornblower could see the wide angle from the vertical
described by the _Loire's_ masts as she rolled; he could see her yards
dipping towards the sea, and he could be sure that _Hotspur_ was acting
in the same way, rolling even a trifle more deeply, perhaps. So this
very deck on which he stood was over at that fantastic angle too; he was
proud of the fact that he was regaining his sea-legs so rapidly. He
could stand balanced, one knee straight and rigid, the other
considerably bent, while he leaned over against the heel, and then he
could straighten with the roll almost as steadily as Bush could. And his
sea-sickness was better as well--no; a pity he had let that subject
return to his mind, for he had to struggle with a qualm the moment it
did so.

'Making a long leg like this gives him a chance, sir,' grumbled Prowse,
juggling with telescope and sextant. 'He's drawing up on us fast.'

'We're doing our best,' answered Hornblower.

His glass could reveal many details of the _Loire_ now, as he
concentrated upon her to distract himself from his sea-sickness. Then,
as he was about to lower the glass to ease his eye he saw something new.
The gun-ports along her weather side seemed to change their shape, and
as he continued to look he saw, first from one gun-port and then from
another and finally from the whole line, the muzzles of her guns come
nosing their way out, as the invisible crews strained at the tackles to
drag the ponderous weights up against the slope of the deck.

'She's running out her guns, sir,' said Bush, a little unnecessarily.

'Yes.'

There was no purpose in imitating her example yet. It would be the lee
side guns that _Hotspur_ would have to run out. They would increase her
heel and render her by that much less weatherly. Lying over as she was
she would probably take in water over the port-sills at the low point of
her roll. Lastly, even at extreme elevation, they would nearly all the
time be depressed by the heel below the horizontal, and would be
useless, even with good timing on the part of the gun-captains, against
a target at any distance.

The look-outs at the fore-topmasthead were yelling something, and then
one of them launched himself into the rigging and came running aft to
the quarter-deck.

'Why don't you use the backstay like a seaman?' demanded Bush, but
Hornblower checked him.

'What is it?'

'Land, sir,' spluttered the seaman. He was wet to the skin with water
streaming from every angle, whisked away by the wind as it dripped.

'Where away?'

'On the lee bow, sir.'

'How many points?'

He thought for a moment.

'A good four, sir.'

Hornblower looked across at Prowse.

'That'll be Ushant, sir. We ought to weather it with plenty to spare.'

'I want to be sure of that. You'd better go aloft, Mr Prowse. Make the
best estimate you can.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

It would not do Prowse any harm to make the tiring and exacting journey
to the masthead.

'He'll be opening fire soon, sir,' said Bush, referring to the Frenchman
and not to Prowse's departing figure. 'Not much chance of replying as
yet. On the other tack, maybe, sir.'

Bush was ready for a fight against any odds, and he was unaware that
Hornblower had no intention of tacking again.

'We'll see when the time comes,' said Hornblower.

'He's opening fire now, sir.'

Hornblower whipped round, just in time to see a puff of smoke vanishing
in the gale, and then others, all down the _Loire's_ side, enduring
hardly for a second before the wind overcame the force of the powder
that impelled them. That was all. No sound of the broadside reached them
against the wind, and there was not a sight of the fall of shot.

'Long range, sir,' said Bush.

'A chance for him to exercise his guns' crews,' said Hornblower.

His glass showed him the _Loire's_ gun-muzzles disappearing back into
the ship as the guns were run in again for reloading. There was a
strange unreality about all this, about the silence of that broadside,
about the fact that _Hotspur_ was under fire, about the fact that he
himself might be dead at any moment now as the result of a lucky hit.

'He's hoping for a lucky hit, I suppose, sir,' said Bush, echoing the
very words of Hornblower's thoughts in a manner that made the situation
all the more uncanny and unreal.

'Naturally.' Hornblower forced himself to say that word, and in this
strange mood his voice, pitched against the gale, seemed to come from
very far away.

If the Frenchman had no objection to a prodigious waste of powder and
shot he might as well open fire at this range, at extreme cannon-shot,
in the hope of inflicting enough damage on _Hotspur's_ rigging to slow
her down. Hornblower could think clearly enough, but it was as if he was
looking on at someone else's adventure.

Now Prowse was returning to the quarter-deck.

'We'll weather the land by a good four miles, sir,' he said; the spray
tossed up by the weather-bow had wetted him just as thoroughly as the
seamen. He looked over at the _Loire_. 'Not a chance of our paying off,
I suppose, sir.'

'Of course not,' said Hornblower. Long before such a plan could bear
fruit he would be engaged in close action were he to drop down to
leeward, in the hope of forcing the _Loire_ to go about to avoid running
ashore. 'How long before we're up to the land?'

'Less than an hour, sir. Maybe half. It ought to be in sight from the
deck any minute.'

'Yes!' said Bush. 'There it is, sir!'

Over the lee bow Hornblower could see the black bold shore-line of
Ushant. Now the three points of the triangle, Ushant, _Hotspur_ and
_Loire_, were all plain to him, and he could time his next move. He
would have to hold on to his present course for some considerable time;
he would have to brave further broadsides, whether he liked it or
not--insane words those last, for no one could like being under fire. He
trained his glass on the land, watching his ship's movement relative to
it, and then as he looked away he saw something momentarily out of the
corner of his eye. It took him a couple of seconds to deduce what it was
he had seen; two splashes, separated by a hundred feet in space and by a
tenth of a second in time. A cannon-ball had skipped from the top of one
wave crest and plunged into the next.

'They're firing very deliberately, sir,' said Bush.

Hornblower's attention was directed to the _Loire_ in time to see the
next brier puff of smoke from her side; they saw nothing of the ball.
Then came the next puff.

'I expect they have some marksman on board moving along from gun to
gun,' said Hornblower.

If that were the case the marksman must wait each time for the right
conditions of roll--a slow rate of firing, but, allowing for the length
of time to reload and run up, not impossibly slower than firing
broadsides.

'You can hear the guns now, sir. The sound's carried by the water.'

It was an ugly, flat, brief clap, following just after each puff of
smoke.

'Mr Bush,' said Hornblower speaking slowly as he felt the excitement of
the approaching crisis boiling up within him. 'You know your watch--and
quarter-bills off by heart, I'm sure.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Bush, simply.

'I want--' Hornblower checked the position of _Loire_ again. 'I want
sufficient hands at the braces and bowlines to handle the ship properly.
But I want crews sufficient for the guns of one side too.'

'Not very easy, sir.'

'Impossible?'

'Nearly, sir. I can do it, though.'

'Then I want you to arrange it. Station crews at the port side guns, if
you please.'

'Aye aye, sir. Port side.'

The repetition was in the usual navy style to ensure against
misunderstanding; there was only the faintest questioning note in Bush's
voice, for the port side was that turned away from the enemy.

'I want--' went on Hornblower, still slowly. 'I want the port side guns
run out when we go about, Mr Bush. I'll give the order. Then I want them
run in again like lightning and the ports closed. I'll give the order
for that, too.'

'Aye aye, sir. Run 'em in again.'

'Then they're to cross to the starboard side and run those guns out
ready to open fire. You understand, Mr Bush?'

'Y-yes, sir.'

Hornblower looked round at the _Loire_ and at Ushant again.

'Very well, Mr Bush. Mr Cargill will need four hands for a special duty,
but you can start stationing the rest.'

Now he was committed. If his calculations were incorrect he would appear
a fool in the eyes of the whole ship's company. He would also be dead or
a prisoner. But now he was keyed up, the fighting spirit boiling within
him as it had done once when he boarded _Renown_ to effect her
recapture. There was a sudden shriek overhead, so startling that even
Bush stopped short as he was moving forward. A line mysteriously parted
in mid-air, the upper end blowing out horizontal in the wind, the lower
end flying out to trail overside. A luckier shot than any so far had
passed over the _Hotspur_ twenty feet above her deck.

'Mr Wise!' yelled Hornblower into the speaking-trumpet. 'Get that
halliard re-rove.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The spirit of mischief asserted itself in Hornblower's mind along with
his excitement, and he raised the trumpet again.

'And Mr Wise! If you think proper you can tell the hands we're at war!'

That raised the laugh that Hornblower anticipated, all over the ship,
but there was no more time for frivolity.

'Pass the word for Mr Cargill.'

Cargill presented himself with a faint look of anxiety on his round
face.

'You're not in trouble, Mr Cargill. I've selected you for a responsible
duty.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Arrange with Mr Bush to give you four steady hands and take your
station on the fo'c'sle at the jib halliard and jib sheet. I shall be
going about very shortly, and then I shall change my mind and come back
on my original tack. So now you can see what you have to do. The moment
you get my signal run the jib up the stay and then flat it out to port.
I want to be quite sure you understand?'

Several seconds went by while Cargill digested the plan before he
answered 'Yes, sir.'

'I'm relying on you to keep us from being laid flat a-back, Mr Cargill.
You'll have to use your own judgement after that. The moment the ship's
turning and under command again run the jib down. You can do that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well, carry on.'

Prowse was standing close by, straining to hear all this. His long face
was longer than ever, it seemed.

'Is it the gale that's making your ears flap, Mr Prowse?' snapped
Hornblower, in no mood to spare anyone; he regretted the words as soon
as they were said, but now there was no time to compensate for them.

_Loire_ was dead to leeward, and beyond her was Ushant. They had opened
up the Bay of Lampoul on Ushant's seaward side, and now were beginning
to close it again. The moment had come; no, better to wait another
minute. The scream of a cannon-ball and a simultaneous crash. There was
a gaping hole in the weather side bulwark; the shot had crossed the
heeling deck and smashed its way through from within outwards. A seaman
at the gun there was looking stupidly at his left arm where the blood
was beginning to flow from a splinter wound.

'Stand by to go about!' yelled Hornblower.

Now for it. He had to fool the French captain, who had already proved he
was no fool.

'Keep your glass on the Frenchman, Mr Prowse. Tell me just what he's
doing. Quartermaster, a little lee helm. Just a little. Handsomely.
Helm's alee!'

The fore-topsail shivered. Now every moment was precious, and yet he
must delay so as to induce the Frenchman to commit himself.

'His helm's alee, sir! He's coming round.'

This would be the moment--actually it was just past the moment--when the
Frenchman would expect him to tack to avoid the gunfire, and the
Frenchman would try to tack as nearly simultaneously as possible.

'Now, quartermaster. Hard down. Tacks and sheets!'

_Hotspur_ was coming to the wind. Despite the brief delay she was still
well under command.

'Mr Bush!'

On the weather side they opened the gun-ports, and the straining gun
crews dragged the guns up the slope. A rogue wave slapping against the
side came in through the ports and flooded the deck knee deep in water;
but the Frenchman must see those gun muzzles run out on the port side.

'He's coming about, sir!' reported Prowse. 'He's casting off the
braces!'

He must make quite sure.

'Mainsail haul!'

This was the danger point.

'He's past the wind's eye, sir. His foretops'ls coming round.'

'Ava-a-ast!'

The surprised crew stopped dead as Hornblower screamed into the
speaking-trumpet.

'Brace all back again! Jump to it! Quartermaster! Hard-a-port! Mr
Cargill!'

Hornblower waved his hand, and the jib rushed up the stay. With its
tremendous leverage on the bowsprit the jib, given a chance, would turn
the ship back irresistibly. Cargill and his men were hauling it out to
port by main force. There was just enough of an angle for the wind to
act upon it in the right direction. Was there? Yes! _Hotspur_ was
swinging back again, gallantly ignoring her apparent mistreatment and
the wave that she met bows-on which burst over her forecastle. She was
swinging, more and more rapidly, Cargill and his men hauling down the
jib that had played so great a part in the operation.

'Braces, there! She's coming before the wind. Stand by! Quartermaster,
meet her as she swings. Mr Bush!'

The guns' crews flung themselves on the tackles and ran the guns in
again. It was a pleasure to see Bush restraining their excitement and
making certain that they were secure. The ports slammed shut and the
crews raced over to the starboard side. He could see the _Loire_ now
that _Hotspur_ had completed her turn, but Prowse was still reporting,
as his order dictated.

'She's in irons, sir. She's all a-back.'

That was the very thing Hornblower had hoped for. He had believed it
likely that he would be able to effect his escape to leeward, perhaps
after an exchange of broadsides; this present situation had appeared
possible but too good to materialise. The _Loire_ was hanging helpless
in the wind. Her captain had noted _Hotspur's_ manoeuvre just too late.
Instead of going round on the other tack, getting his ship under
command, and then tacking once more in pursuit, he had tried to follow
_Hotspur's_ example and revert to his previous course. But with an
unskilled crew and without a carefully prepared plan the improvisation
had failed disastrously. While Hornblower watched he saw _Loire_ yaw off
the wind and then swing back again, refusing obstinately, like a
frightened horse, to do the sensible thing. And _Hotspur_, dead before
the wind, was rushing down upon her. Hornblower measured the dwindling
gap with a calculating eye all the keener for his excited condition.

'We'll render passing honours, Mr Bush!' he yelled--no trumpet needed
with the wind behind him. 'You gunners! Hold your fire until her
mainmast comes into your sights. Quartermaster! Starboard a little.
We'll pass her close.'

'Pistol shot' was the ideal range for firing a broadside according to
old tradition, or even 'half pistol shot,' twenty yards or ten yards.
_Hotspur_ was passing _Loire_ starboard side to starboard side, but on
the starboard side _Hotspur_ had her guns run out, manned, and ready,
while _Loire_ presented to his gaze a line of blank ports--no wonder,
with the ship in her present state of confusion.

They were level with her. No. 1 gun went off with a crash; Bush was
standing beside it and gave the word, and apparently he intended to walk
along the battery firing each gun in turn, but _Hotspur_ with the wind
behind her was going far too fast for him. The other guns went off in a
straggling roll. Hornblower saw the splinters fly from the Frenchman's
side, saw the holes battered in it. With the wind behind her _Hotspur_
was hardly rolling at all; she was pitching, but any cool-headed gun
captain could make sure of hitting his mark at fifteen yards. Hornblower
saw a single gun-port open in _Loire's_ side--they were trying to man
the guns, minutes too late. Then he was level with the _Loire's_
quarter-deck. He could see the bustling crowd there; for a moment he
thought he distinguished the figure of the French captain, but at that
moment the carronade beside him went off with a crash that took him by
surprise so that he almost leaped from the deck.

'Canister on top of the round-shot, sir,' said the gun captain turning
to him with a grin. 'That'll learn 'em.'

A hundred and fifty musket bullets in a round of canister would sweep
the _Loire's_ quarter-deck like a broom. The marines posted on the deck
were all biting fresh cartridges and plying their ramrods--they must
have been firing too, without Hornblower perceiving it. Bush was back
beside him.

'Every shot told!' he spluttered. 'Every single shot, sir!'

It was amazing and interesting to see Bush so excited, but there was
still no time for trifles. Hornblower looked back at the _Loire_; she
was still in irons--that broadside must have thrown her crew into
complete disorder again. And over there was Ushant, grim and black.

'Port two points,' he said to the men at the wheel. A sensible man would
conserve all the sea room available.

'Shall we come to the wind and finish her off, sir?' asked Bush.

'No.'

That was the sensible decision, reached in spite of his fighting
madness. Despite the advantage gained by firing an unanswered broadside
_Hotspur_ was far too weak to enter voluntarily into a duel with
_Loire_. If _Loire_ had lost a mast, if she had been disabled, he would
have tried it. The ships were already a mile apart; in the time
necessary to beat back to his enemy she would recover and be ready to
receive him. There she was; now she had swung, she had come under
control again. It simply would not do.

The crew were chattering like monkeys, and like monkeys they were
dancing about the deck in their excitement. Hornblower took the
speaking-trumpet to magnify his order.

'Silence!'

At his bellow the ship instantly fell silent, with every eye turned
towards him. He was impervious to that, strangely. He paced across the
quarter-deck and back again, judging the distance of Ushant, now
receding over the starboard quarter, and of the _Loire_, now before the
wind. He waited, almost reached his decision, and then waited again,
before he gave his orders.

'Helm a-weather! Mr Prowse, back the maintops'l, if you please.'

They were in the very mouth of the English Channel now, with _Loire_ to
windward and with an infinite avenue of escape available to leeward. If
_Loire_ came down upon him he would lure her up channel. In a stern
chase and with night coming on he would be in little enough danger, and
the _Loire_ would be cutting herself off from safety with every prospect
of encountering powerful units of the British Navy. So he waited,
hove-to, on the faint chance that the Frenchman might not resist
temptation. Then he saw her yards swing, saw her come about, on to the
starboard tack. She was heading for home, heading to keep Brest under
her lee. She was acting conservatively and sensibly. But to the world,
to everyone in _Hotspur_--and to everyone in the _Loire_, for that
matter--_Hotspur_ was challenging her to action and she was running for
safety with her tail between her legs. At the sight of her in flight the
_Hotspur's_ crew raised an undisciplined cheer; Hornblower took the
speaking-trumpet again.

'Silence!'

The rasp in his voice came from fatigue and strain, for reaction was
closing in upon him in the moment of victory. He had to stop and think,
he had to prod his mind into activity before he could give his next
orders. He hung the speaking-trumpet on its becket and turned to Bush;
the two unplanned gestures took on a highly dramatic quality in the eyes
of the ship's company, who were standing watching him and expecting some
further speech.

'Mr Bush! You can dismiss the watch below, if you would be so kind.'
Those last words were the result of a considerable effort.

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Secure the guns, and dismiss the men from quarters.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Mr Prowse!' Hornblower gauged by a glance at Ushant the precious
distance they had lost to leeward. 'Put the ship on the port tack
close-hauled, if you please.'

'Close-hauled on the port tack. Aye aye, sir.'

Strictly speaking, that was the last order he need give at this moment.
He could abandon himself to his fatigue now, this very second. But a few
words of explanation were at least desirable, if not quite necessary.

'We shall have to beat back. Call me when the watch is changed.' As he
said those words he could form a mental picture of what they implied. He
would be able to fall across his cot, take the weight off his weary
legs, let the tensions drain out of him, abandon himself to his fatigue,
close his aching eyes, revel in the thought that no further decisions
would be demanded of him for an hour or two. Then he recalled himself in
momentary surprise. Despite those visions he was still on the
quarter-deck with all eyes on him. He knew what he had to say; he knew
what was necessary--he had to make an exit, like some wretched actor
leaving the stage as the curtain fell. On these simple seamen it would
have an effect that would compensate them for their fatigue, that would
be remembered and quoted months later, and would--this was the only
reason for saying it--help to reconcile them to the endless discomforts
of the blockade of Brest. He set his tired legs in motion towards his
cabin, and paused at the spot where the greatest number of people could
hear his words to repeat them later.

'We are going back to watch Brest again.' The melodramatic pause.
'_Loire_ or no _Loire_.'




                              CHAPTER VII


Hornblower was seated in the cramped chart-room eating his dinner.
This salt beef must have come from the new cask, for there was an
entirely different tang about it, not unpleasant. Presumably it had been
pickled at some other victualling yard, with a different quality of
salt. He dipped the tip of his knife into the mustard pot; that mustard
was borrowed--begged--from the ward-room, and he felt guilty about it.
The ward-room stores must be running short by now--but on the other hand
he himself had sailed with no mustard at all, thanks to the distractions
of getting married while commissioning his ship.

'Come in!' he growled in response to a knock.

It was Cummings, one of the 'young gentlemen,' First Class Volunteers,
King's Letter Boys, with whom the ship was plagued in place of
experienced midshipmen, thanks again to the haste with which she had
been commissioned.

'Mr Poole sent me, sir. There's a new ship joining the Inshore
Squadron.'

'Very well. I'll come.'

It was a lovely summer day. A few cumulus clouds supplied relief to the
blue sky. _Hotspur_ was hardly rocking at all as she lay hove-to, her
mizzen-topsail to the mast, for she was so far up in the approaches to
Brest that the moderate easterly wind had little opportunity, since
leaving the land, to raise a lop on the water. Hornblower swept his eye
round as he emerged on the quarter-deck, landward at first, naturally.
They lay right in the mouth of the Goulet, with a view straight up into
the Outer Roads. On one side, was the Capuchins, on the other the Petit
Minou, with _Hotspur_ carefully stationed--as in the days of peace but
for a more forceful reason--so that she was just out of cannon-shot of
the batteries on those two points. Up the Goulet lay the reefs of the
Little Girls, with their outlier, Pollux Reef, and beyond the Little
Girls, in the outer roadstead, lay the French navy at anchor, forced to
tolerate this constant invigilation because of the superior might of the
Channel Fleet waiting outside, just over the horizon.

Hornblower naturally turned his gaze in that direction next. The main
body was out of sight, so as to conceal its strength; even Hornblower
did not know its present numbers correctly--some twelve ships of the
line or so. But well in sight, only three miles out to sea, lay the
Inshore Squadron, burly two-deckers lying placidly hove-to, ready at any
minute to support _Hotspur_ and the two frigates, _Doris_ and _Naiad_,
should the French decide to come out and drive off these insolent
sentries. There had been three of these ships of the line; now, as
Hornblower looked, a fourth was creeping in close-hauled to join them.
Automatically Hornblower looked over again at the Petit Minou. As he
expected, the semaphore arms of the telegraph on the cliffs at the point
there were swinging jerkily, from vertical to horizontal and back again.
The watchers there were signalling to the French fleet the news of the
arrival of this fourth ship to join the inshore squadron; even the
smallest activity was noted and reported, so that in clear weather the
French admiral was informed within minutes. It was an intolerable
nuisance--it helped to smooth the path of the coasters perennially
trying to sneak into Brest through the passage of the Raz. Some action
should be taken about that semaphore station.

Bush was rating Foreman, whom he was patiently--impatiently--training to
be the signal officer of the _Hotspur_.

'Can't you get that number yet?' he demanded.

Foreman was training his telescope; he had not acquired the trick of
keeping the other eye open, yet idle. In any case it was not easy to
read the flags, with the wind blowing almost directly from one ship to
the other.

'Seventy-nine, sir,' said Foreman at length.

'You've read it right for once,' marvelled Bush. 'Now let's see what you
do next.'

Foreman snapped his fingers as he recalled his duties, and hastened to
the signal book on the binnacle. The telescope slipped with a crash to
the deck from under his arm as he tried to turn the pages, but he picked
it up and managed to find the reference. He turned back to Bush, but a
jerk of Bush's thumb diverted him to Hornblower.

'_Tonnant_, sir,' he said.

'Now, Mr Foreman, you know better than that. Make your report in proper
form and as fully as you can.'

'_Tonnant_, sir. Eighty-four guns. Captain Pellew.' Hornblower's stony
face and steady silence spurred Foreman into remembering the rest of
what he should say. 'Joining the Inshore Squadron.'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman,' said Hornblower with the utmost formality, but
Bush was already addressing Foreman again, his voice pitched as loudly
as if Foreman were on the forecastle instead of three yards away.

'Mr Foreman! The _Tonnant's_ signalling! Hurry up, now.'

Foreman scuttled back and raised his telescope.

'That's our number!' he said.

'So I saw five minutes ago. Read the signal.'

Foreman peered through the telescope, referring to the book, and checked
his reference before looking up at the raging Bush.

'"Send boat," it says, sir.'

'Of course it does. You ought to know all routine signals by heart, Mr
Foreman. You've had long enough. Sir, _Tonnant_ signals us to send a
boat.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush. Acknowledge, and clear away the quarter boat.'

'Aye aye, sir. Acknowledge!' A second later Bush was blaring again. 'Not
that halliard, you careless--you careless young gentleman. _Tonnant_
can't see the signal through the mizzen-tops'l. Send it up to the
maintops'l yardarm.'

Bush looked over at Hornblower and spread his hands in resignation.
Partly he was indicating that he was resigned to this duty of training
ignorant young subordinates, but partly the dumb show conveyed some of
the feelings aroused by having, in view of Hornblower's known
preferences, to call Foreman a 'young gentleman' instead of using some
much more forcible expression. Then he turned away to supervise Cummings
as he hoisted out the quarter boat. There was everything to be said in
favour of these young men being harassed and bullied as they went about
their duties, although Hornblower did not subscribe to the popular
notion that young men were actually the better for harassment and
bullying. They would learn their duties all the quicker; and one of
these days Foreman might easily find himself having to read and transmit
signals amid the smoke and confusion and slaughter of a fleet action,
while Cummings might be launching and manning a boat in desperate haste
for a cutting-out expedition.

Hornblower remembered his unfinished dinner.

'Call me when the boat returns, if you please, Mr Bush.'

This was the last of the blackcurrant jam; Hornblower, ruefully
contemplating the sinking level in the final pot, admitted to himself
that compulsorily he had actually acquired a taste for blackcurrant. The
butter was all gone, the eggs used up, after forty days at sea. For the
next seventy-one days, until the ship's provisions were all consumed he
was likely to be living on seamen's fare, unrelieved salt beef and pork,
dried peas, biscuit. Cheese twice a week and suet pudding on Sundays.

At any rate there was time for a nap before the boat returned. He could
go to sleep peacefully--a precaution in case the exigencies of the
service disturbed his night--thanks to the naval might of Britain,
although five miles away there were twenty thousand enemies any one of
whom would kill him on sight.

'Boat coming alongside, sir.'

'Very well,' answered Hornblower sleepily.

The boat was deeply laden, right down to her gunwales. The hands must
have had a long stiff pull back to the _Hotspur_; it was the purest bad
luck on them that they could run under sail to the _Tonnant_ when
lightly laden and then have to row all the way back deeply laden in the
teeth of the gentle wind. From the boat as she approached there came a
strange roaring noise, a kind of bellow.

'What the devil's that?' asked Bush of himself as he stood beside
Hornblower on the gangway.

The boat was heaped high with sacks.

'There's fresh food, anyway,' said Hornblower.

'Reeve a whip at the main-yardarm!' bellowed Bush--odd how his bellow
was echoed from the boat.

Foreman came up the side to report.

'Cabbages, potatoes, cheese, sir. And a bullock.'

'Fresh meat, by God!' said Bush.

With half a dozen hands tailing on to the whip at the yardarm the sacks
came rapidly up to the deck; as the boat was cleared there lay revealed
in the bottom a formless mass of rope netting; still bellowing. Slings
were passed beneath it and soon it lay on deck; a miserable undersized
bullock, lowing faintly. A terrified eye rolled at them through the
netting that swathed it. Bush turned to Hornblower as Foreman completed
his report.

'_Tonnant_ brought twenty-four cattle out for the fleet from Plymouth,
sir. This one's our share. If we butcher it tomorrow, sir, and let it
hang for a day, you can have steak on Sunday, sir.'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

'We can swab the blood off the deck while it's still fresh, sir. No need
to worry about that. An' there'll be tripe, sir! Ox tongue!'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

He could still see that terrified eye. He could wish that Bush was not
so enthusiastic, because he felt quite the reverse. As his vivid
imagination pictured the butchering he felt no desire at all for meat
provided by such a process. He had to change the subject.

'Mr Foreman! Were there no messages from the fleet?'

Foreman started guiltily and plunged his hand into his side pocket to
produce a bulky packet. He blanched as he saw the fury on Hornblower's
face.

'Don't you ever do that again, Mr Foreman! Despatches before everything!
You need a lesson and this is the time for it.'

'Shall I pass the word for Mr Wise, sir?' asked Bush.

The boatswain's rattan could make vigorous play over Foreman's recumbent
form bent over the breech of a gun. Hornblower saw the sick fright in
Foreman's face. The boy was as terrified as the bullock; he must have
the horror of corporal punishment that occasionally was evident in the
navy. It was a horror that Hornblower himself shared. He looked into the
pleading desperate eyes for five long seconds to let the lesson sink in.

'No,' he said, at length. 'Mr Foreman would only remember that for a
day. I'll see he gets reminded every day for a week. No spirits for Mr
Foreman for seven days. And anyone in the midshipman's berth who tries
to help him out will lose his ration for fourteen days. See to that, if
you please, Mr Bush.'

Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower snatched the packet from Foreman's lifeless hand, and turned
away with contempt in the gesture. No child of fifteen would be any the
worse for being deprived of ardent spirits.

In the cabin he had to use his penknife to open the tarred canvas
packet. The first thing to tumble out was a grape-shot; the navy had
developed through the centuries a routine in these matters--the tarred
canvas preserved the contents from salt water if it had to be
transported by boat in stormy weather, and the grape-shot would sink it
if there were danger of its falling into the hands of the enemy. There
were three official letters and a mass of private ones; Hornblower
opened the official ones in haste. The first was signed 'Wm. Cornwallis,
Vice Ad.' It was in the usual form, beginning with the statement of the
new situation. Captain Sir Edward Pellew, K.B., in the _Tonnant_, had,
as senior officer, received the command of the Inshore Squadron. 'You
are therefore requested and required' to obey the orders of the said
Captain Sir Edward Pellew, and to pay him the strictest attention, as
issued with the authority of the Commander in Chief. The next was signed
'Ed. Pellew, Capt,' and was drily official in three lines, confirming
the fact that Pellew now considered Hornblower and _Hotspur_ as under
his command. The third abandoned the formal 'Sir' which began the
others.

    'My dear Hornblower,

    It is with the greatest of pleasure that I hear that you are
    serving under me, and what I have been told of your actions
    already in the present war confirms the opinion I formed when
    you were my best midshipman in the old _Indefatigable_. Please
    consider yourself at liberty to make any suggestions that may
    occur to you for the confounding of the French and the confusion
    of Bonaparte.

                                          Your sincere friend,
                                                Edward Pellew.'

Now that was a really flattering letter, warming and comforting.
Warming, indeed; as Hornblower sat with the letter in his hand he could
feel the blood running faster through his veins. For that matter he
could almost feel a stirring within his skull as the ideas began to
form, as he thought about the signal station on Petit Minou, as the
germs of plans began to sprout. They were taking shape; they were
growing fast in the hot-house atmosphere of his mind. Quite
unconsciously he began to rise from his chair; only by pacing briskly up
and down the quarter-deck could he bring those plans to fruition and
create an outlet for the pressure building up inside him. But he
remembered the other letters in the packet; he must not fall into the
same fault as Foreman. There were letters for him--one, two, six letters
all in the same handwriting. It dawned upon him that they must be from
Maria--odd that he did not recognise his own wife's handwriting. He was
about to open them when he checked himself again. Not one of the other
letters was addressed to him, but people in the ship were probably
anxiously waiting for them.

'Pass the word for Mr Bush,' he bellowed; Bush, when he arrived, was
handed the other letters without a word, nor did he stay for one, seeing
that his captain was so deeply engaged in reading that he did not even
look up.

Hornblower read, several times, that he was Maria's Dearest Husband. The
first two letters told him how much she missed her Angel, how happy she
had been during their two days of marriage, and how anxious she was that
her Hero was not running into danger, and how necessary it was to change
his socks if they should get wet. The third letter was dated from
Plymouth. Maria had ascertained that the Channel Fleet was based there,
and she had decided to move so as to be on the spot should the
necessities of the Service send _Hotspur_ back into port; also, as she
admitted sentimentally, she would be nearer her Beloved. She had made
the journey in the coasting hoy, committing herself (with many thoughts
of her Precious) to the Briny Deep for the first time, and as she gazed
at the distant land she had reached a better understanding of the
feelings of her Valient Sailor Husband. Now she was comfortably
established in lodgings kept by a most respectable woman, widow of a
boatswain.

The fourth letter began precipitately with the most delightful, the most
momentous news for her Darling. Maria hardly knew how to express this to
her most Loved, her most Adored Idol. Their marriage, already so
Blissful, was now to be further Blessed, or at least she fancied so.
Hornblower opened the fifth letter in haste, passing over the hurried
postscript which said that Maria had just learned the news of her
Intrepid Warrior adding to his Laurels by engaging with the _Loire_, and
that she hoped he had not exposed himself more than was necessary to his
Glory. He found the news confirmed. Maria was more sure than ever that
she was destined to be so vastly fortunate in the future as to be the
Mother of the Child of her Ideal. And the sixth letter repeated the
confirmation. There might be a Christmas Baby, or a New Year's Child;
Hornblower noted wryly that much more space in these later letters was
devoted to the Blessed Increase than to her Longed-for but Distant
Jewel. In any case Maria was consumed with hope that the Little Cherub,
if a Boy, would be the Image of his Famous Father, or, if a Girl, that
she should display his Sweetness of Disposition.

So that was the news. Hornblower sat with the six letters littered
before him, his mind in just as much disorder. Perhaps to postpone
realisation he dwelt at first on the thought of the two letters he had
written--addressed to Southsea they would be a long time before they
caught up with Maria--and their comparatively formal and perhaps
chilling content. He would have to remedy that. He would have to write a
letter full of affection and full of delight at the news, whether he
were delighted or not--and at that point he could reach no decision.
Plunged as he was into professional problems the episode of his marriage
was suffused in his memory with unreal quality. The affair was so brief,
and even at the time it had been so overlain by the business of getting
to sea, that it had seemed strange to him that it should involve the
lasting effects of marriage; and this news was an indication of more
lasting and permanent effects still. He was going to be a father. For
the life of him he could not tell if he were pleased or not. Certainly
he was sorry for the child if he--or she--were destined to inherit his
accursed unhappy temperament. The more the child should prove to be like
him, whether in looks or in morals, the sorrier he would be. Yet was
that quite true? Was there not something flattering, something
gratifying, in the thought that his own characteristics might be
perpetuated? It was hard to be honest with himself.

He could remember, with his mind now diverted from his present life,
more clearly the details of his honeymoon. He could conjure up more
exactly his memories of Maria's doting affection, of the wholehearted
way in which she gave herself to believe, that she could not give so
much love without its being as hotly reciprocated. He must never let her
guess at the quality of his feelings for her, because that would be a
cruelty that he could not contemplate. He reached for pen and paper,
returning to the commonplace world with his routine annoyance at having
a left wing pen. Pens from the left wing of the goose were cheaper than
right wing ones, because when held in position for writing they pointed
towards the writer's eye and not conveniently out over his elbow as
right wing ones did. But at least he had cut a good point and the ink
had not yet grown muddy. Grimly he applied himself to his task. Partly
it was a literary exercise, an Essay on Unbounded Affection, and
yet--and yet--he found himself smiling as he wrote; he felt tenderness
within him, welling out perhaps along his arm and down his pen. He was
even on the verge of admitting to himself that he was not entirely the
cold-hearted and unscrupulous individual he believed himself to be.

Towards the close of the letter, as he searched for synonyms for 'wife'
and 'child,' his glance strayed back to the letters from Pellew, and he
actually caught his breath, his thoughts reverting to his duty, to his
plans for slaughter, to the harsh realities of the world he was living
in. _Hotspur_ was riding easily over the placid sea, but the very fact
that she was lying hove-to meant that there was a fair wind out of Brest
and that at any moment a shout from the topmast-head would announce that
the French Navy was on its way out to contest in thunder and smoke the
mastery of the sea. And he had plans; even as he re-read the latest
lines of his letter to Maria his vision was blurred by the insistence on
his attention of his visualisation of the chart of the entrance to
Brest. He had to take tight hold of himself to compel himself to finish
the letter to Maria in the same strain as he had begun it. He made
himself finish it, he made himself re-read it, he made himself fold it;
a shout to the sentry brought in Grimes with a lighted dip with which to
seal it, and when he had completed the tiresome process it was with
eager relief that he laid the letter aside and reached for a fresh sheet
of paper.

    'H.M. Sloop _Hotspur_, at sea, the Petit Minou bearing north one
    league.

    May 14th, 1803.

    Sir--'

This was an end of mellifluous phrasing, of blundering attempts
to deal with a totally unfamiliar situation; no longer was he
addressing (as if in a dream) the Dear Companion of our Lives
Together in Happy Years to Come. Now he was applying himself to
a task that he felt competent and eager to do, and for phrasing
he had only to draw upon the harsh and unrelieved wording of a
myriad official letters before this one. He wrote rapidly and
with little pause for consideration, because fantastically his
plans had reached complete maturity during his preoccupation
with Maria. The sheet was covered, turned and half covered
again, and the plan was sketched out in full detail. He wrote
the conclusion:

    'Respectfully submitted by

    Your ob'd't servant

    Horatio Hornblower.'

He wrote the address:

    'Captain Sir E. Pellew, K.B.

    H.M.S. _Tonnant_.'

When the second letter was sealed he held the two of them in his hand;
new life in the one, and death and misery in the other. That was a
fanciful thought--of far more importance was the question as to whether
Pellew would approve of his suggestions.




                              CHAPTER VIII


Hornblower lay stretched out on his cot waiting for the time to pass.
He would have preferred to be asleep, but during the afternoon sleep had
refused to come to him. It was better to go on lying here in any case,
for he would need all his strength during the night to come, and if he
followed his inclinations and went on deck he would not only tire
himself but he would reveal his anxieties and tensions to his
subordinates. So he lay as relaxed as he could manage, flat on his back
with his hands behind his head; the sounds that he heard on deck told
him of the progress of the ship's routine. Just over his head the
tell-tale compass which he had had fitted to the deck-beams was
literally carrying out its functions and telling the tale of _Hotspur's_
small alterations of heading as she lay hove-to, and these could be
correlated with the play of the beams of sunshine that came in through
the stern windows. Those were now curtained, and the sunbeams came in
around the curtains as they swayed gently with the ship's motion. Most
captains curtained--and furnished--their cabins with gay chintz, or
even, if wealthy, with damask, but these curtains were of canvas. They
were of the finest, No. 8, sailcloth to be found in the ship and had
only hung there for the last two days. Hornblower thought about this
pleasantly, for they had been a present to him from the ward-room; Bush
and Prowse, and the surgeon, Wallis, and the purser, Huffnell, had made
the presentation after a mysterious request from Bush that they should
be allowed to enter his cabin for a moment in his absence. Hornblower
had returned to the cabin to find the deputation there and the cabin
transformed. There were curtains and cushions--stuffed with oakum--and a
coverlet, all gay with red and blue roses and green leaves painted on
with ship's paint by some unknown artist in the ship's company.
Hornblower had looked round in astonishment that made it impossible to
conceal his pleasure. There was no time to glower or look stern, as nine
captains out of ten would have done at such an unwarrantable liberty on
the part of the ward-room. He could do no more than thank them in
halting phrases; and the greatest pleasure only came after later
consideration, when he faced the situation realistically. They had not
done this as a joke, or in a silly attempt to win his favour. He had to
believe the unbelievable, and accept the fact that they had done it
because they liked him. That showed their poor judgement; gratification
warred with guilt in his mind, yet the fact that they had dared to do
such a thing was a strange but undeniable confirmation that the
_Hotspur_ was welding herself into a fighting entity.

Grimes knocked at the door and entered.

'They're calling the watch, sir,' he said.

'Thank you. I'll come.' The squeals of the pipes and the bellowings of
the petty officers echoing through the ship made Grimes' words a little
superfluous, but Hornblower had to act the part of a newly awakened man.
He retied his neckcloth and pulled on his coat, slipped on his shoes and
walked out on deck. Bush was there with paper and pencil in his hand.

'The semaphore's been signalling, sir,' he reported. 'Two long messages
at fifteen minutes past four and four-thirty. Two short ones at--there
they go again, sir.'

The long gaunt arms of the semaphore were jerkily swinging out and up
and back again.

'Thank you, Mr Bush.' It was sufficient to know that the semaphore had
been busy. Hornblower took the glass and trained it out to seaward. The
Inshore Squadron was sharply silhouetted against the clear sky; the sun,
just down on the horizon, was still so bright that he could not look
towards it at all, but the squadron was well to the northward of it.

'_Tonnant's_ signalling again, sir, but it's a ninety one signal,'
reported Foreman.

'Thank you.'

It had been agreed that all flag-signals from _Tonnant_ preceded by the
numerals ninety-one should be disregarded; _Tonnant_ was only making
them to deceive the French on Petit Minou into thinking some violent
action was being planned by the inshore squadron.

'There goes _Naiad_, sir,' said Bush.

Under easy sail the frigate was creeping northward from her station to
the south where she had been watching over Camaret Bay, heading to join
the big ships and the _Doris_. The sun was now touching the sea; small
variations in the water content of the nearly clear air were causing
strange freaks of refraction, so that the reddening disc was slightly
out of shape as it sank.

'They're heaving the long boat up out of its chocks, sir,' commented
Bush.

'Yes.'

The sun was half-way down in the sea, the remaining half pulled by
refraction into twice its normal length. There was still plenty of light
for an observer with a good glass on Petit Minou--and undoubtedly there
was one--to pick out the preparations going on on the _Doris's_ deck and
in the big ships. The sun had gone. Above where it had sunk a small
sliver of cloud shone brilliantly gold and then turned to pink as he
looked. Twilight was closing in on them.

'Send the hands to the braces, if you please, Mr Bush. Fill the
maintops'l and lay her on the starboard tack.'

'Starboard tack. Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur_ crept northward through the growing night, following after
_Doris_, heading towards the big ships and Point Matthew.

'There goes the semaphore again, sir.'

'Thank you.'

There was just light enough in the darkening sky to see the telegraphic
arms silhouetted against it, as they spun round, signalling the latest
move on the part of the British, this concentration towards the
north--this relaxing of the hold of the British navy on the passages of
the south.

'Only just keep her going,' said Hornblower to the quartermasters at the
helm. 'Don't let the Frogs see what we're up to.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower was feeling nervous; he did not want to leave the Toulinguet
Passage too far behind him. He turned his glass towards the inshore
squadron. Now there was a strip of red sky along the horizon behind
it--the last light of day--and against it the sails of the ships of the
line stood out in startling black. The red was fading rapidly, and above
it Venus could be seen; Pellew over there was holding on to the last
possible moment. Pellew was not only a man of iron nerve; he was a man
who never underestimated his enemy. At last; the rectangles of the
silhouetted topsails shortened, hesitated, and lengthened again.

'Inshore Squadron's hauled its wind, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Already the topsails were out of sight with the complete fading of the
sky. Pellew had timed the move perfectly. A Frenchman on Petit Minou
could not help but think that Pellew, looking towards the night-covered
east, had thought that his ships were now invisible, and had come to the
wind without realising that the move could still be seen by an observer
looking towards the west. Hornblower stared round him. His eyes were
aching, so that with his hands on the hammock netting he closed his eyes
to rest them. Never had a minute seemed so long as that one. Then he
opened them again. The light was all gone. Venus was shining where once
the sun had shone. The figures about him were almost invisible. Now one
or two of the brighter stars could be seen, and _Hotspur_ must be lost
to sight, to that unknown observer on Petit Minou. He gulped, braced
himself, and plunged into action.

Take in the tops'ls and topgallants!'

Hands rushed aloft. In the gentle night the vibration of the shrouds as
fifty men ran up the ratlines could be distinctly heard.

'Now, Mr Bush, wear the ship, if you please. Course sou' by west.'

'Sou' by west, sir.'

Soon it was time for the next order.

'Send the topgallant masts down!'

This was the time when drill and practice revealed their value. In the
dark night what had once been a mere toilsome exercise was performed
without a hitch.

'Set the fore- and main-topmast stays'ls. Get the fores'l in.'

Hornblower walked over to the binnacle.

'How does she handle under this sail?'

There was a pause while the almost invisible figure at the wheel spun it
tentatively this way and that. 'Well enough, sir.'

'Very well.'

Hornblower had altered the silhouette of the _Hotspur_ as entirely as he
could. With only her fore and aft sails and her main course set, and her
topgallant masts sent down, even an experienced seaman on this dark
night would have to look twice or thrice to recognise what he saw.
Hornblower peered at the chart in the faint light of the binnacle. He
concentrated on it, to find the effort unnecessary. For two days now he
had been studying it and memorising this particular section; it was
fixed in his mind and it seemed as if he would be able to visualise it
to his dying day--which might be today. He looked up, to find, as he
expected, that exposure to that faint light had temporarily made his
eyes quite blind in the darkness. He would not do it again.

'Mr Prowse! You can keep your eye on the chart from now on when you
think it necessary. Mr Bush! Choose the best two hands you know with the
lead and send them aft to me.' When the two dark figures reported
Hornblower gave them curt orders. 'Get into the mainchains on each side.
I don't want you to make a sound more than you can help. Don't make a
cast unless I order it. Haul your lines in and then let 'em out to four
fathoms. We're making three knots through the water, and when the flood
starts we'll be making next to nothing over the ground. Keep your
fingers on your lines and pass the word quietly about what you feel.
I'll station hands to pass the word. Understand?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Four bells struck to mark the end of the second dog watch.

'Mr Bush, that's the last time I want the bell to strike. Now you may
clear for action. No, wait a moment, if you please. I want the guns
loaded with two rounds of shot each and run out. Have the coigns in and
the guns at extreme depression. And as soon as the men are at their
quarters I don't want to hear another sound. Not a word, not a whisper.
The man who drops a hand-spike on the deck will get two dozen. Not the
slightest sound.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Bush. Carry on.'

There was a roar and a rattle as the hands went to their quarters, as
the gun-ports opened and the guns were run out. Then silence closed in
upon the ship. Everything was ready, from the gunner down in the
magazine to the look-out in the foretop, as the _Hotspur_ reached
silently down to the southward with the wind one point abaft the beam.

'One bell in the first watch, sir,' whispered Prowse, turning the
sand-glass by the binnacle. An hour ago the flood tide had started to
make. In another half-hour the clustered coasters to the southward,
huddled under the shelter of the batteries at Camaret, would be casting
off; no, they would be doing that at this moment, for there should be
just enough water for them. They would be sweeping and kedging out, to
run with the flood up the dangerous Toulinguet Passage, round the point
and up the Goulet. They would hope to reach the Little Girls and safety,
as the tide carried them into Brest Roads where the provisions and the
cordage and the canvas with which they were laden were so eagerly
awaited by the French fleet. To the north, back at the Petit Minou,
Hornblower could imagine the bustle and the excitement. The movements of
the Inshore Squadron must have been noted. Sharp eyes on the French
shore had told anxious minds of the insufficiently concealed
preparations for a concentration of force and a heavy blow. Four ships
of the line and two big frigates could muster a landing force--even
without drawing on the main fleet--of a thousand men or more. There were
probably twice as many French infantry and artillery-men along the coast
there, but, spread out along five miles, they were vulnerable to a sharp
attack launched at an unexpected point on a dark night. There was a
large accumulation of coasting vessels there as well, sheltering under
the batteries on the far side of Cape Matthew. They had crept from
battery to battery for hundreds of miles--spending weeks in doing
so--and now were huddled in the little creeks and bays waiting for a
chance to complete the last and most dangerous run into Brest. The
menacing approach of the inshore squadron would make them nervous in
case the British meditated some new attack, a cutting-out expedition, or
fireships, or bomb-vessels, or even these new-fangled rockets. But at
least this concentration of the British strength to the north left the
south unwatched, as the signal station of Petit Minou would report. The
coasters round Camaret--chasse-marees, tide-chasers--would be able to
take advantage of the tide run through the horribly dangerous Toulinguet
Passage up into the Goulet. Hornblower was hoping, in fact he was
confident, that _Hotspur_ had not been seen to turn back to stop this
bolt hole. She drew six feet of water less than any frigate, hardly more
than the big chasse-marees, and were she boldly handled her arrival
among the rocks and shoals of Toulinguet would be totally unexpected.

'Two bells, sir,' whispered Prowse. This was the moment when the tide
would be running at its fastest, a four knot tide, rising a full thirty
feet, racing up through Toulinguet Passage and round the Council Rocks
into the Goulet. The hands were behaving well; only twice had restless
individuals started skylarking in the darkness, to be instantly
suppressed by stern mutterings from the petty officers.

'Touching bottom to starboard, sir,' came a whisper from the gangway,
and instantly afterwards, 'Touching bottom to port.'

The hands at the leads had twenty-four feet of line out between the
leads and the surface of the water, but with the ship moving gently in
this fashion even the heavy leads trailed behind to some extent. There
must be some sixteen feet only--five feet to spare.

'Pass the word. What bottom do you feel?'

In ten seconds the answer came back. 'Sandy bottom, sir.'

'That must be well off Council Rocks, sir,' whispered Prowse.

'Yes. Quartermaster, one point to starboard.'

Hornblower stared through the night-glass. There was the shadowy
shore-line just visible. Yes, and there was a gleam of white, the
gentlest of surfs breaking on Council Rocks. A whisper from the gangway.

'Rocky bottom now, sir, shoaling a little.'

'Very well.'

On the starboard bow he could see faint whiteness too. That was the surf
on all the wild tangle of rocks and shoals outside the Passage--Corbin,
Trepieds, and so on. The tiny night breeze was still holding steady.

'Pass the word. What bottom?'

The question awaited an answer for some time, as the chain of
communication broke down and the answer had to be repeated. At last it
came.

'Rocky bottom, sir. But we're hardly moving over the ground.'

So _Hotspur_ was now stemming the rising tide, hanging suspended in the
darkness, less than a yard of water under her keel, the tide rushing
past her, the wind thrusting her into it. Hornblower worked out problems
in his head.

'Quartermaster, two points to port.'

It called for nice calculation, for now _Hotspur_ was braced sharp
up--twice the staysails had flapped in warning--and there was leeway to
be allowed for as _Hotspur_ crept crabwise across the tide.

'Mr Bush, go for'rard to the port side mainchains and come back to
report.'

What a lovely night it was, with this balmy air sighing through the
rigging, the stars shining and the gentle sound of the surf.

'We're moving over the ground, sir,' whispered Bush. 'Rocky bottom, and
the port side lead's under the ship.'

_Hotspur's_ crabwise motion would produce that effect.

'Three bells, sir,' reported Prowse.

There would be water enough now for the coasters to negotiate the shoals
off Rougaste and to have entered into the channel. It could not be long
now, for the tide flowed for no more than four and a half hours and the
coasters could not afford to waste time--or so he had calculated when he
had made his suggestion to Pellew, for this moonless night with the tide
making at this particular moment. But it might of course all end in a
ridiculous fiasco, even if _Hotspur_ did not touch on one of the
menacing rocks that beset her course.

'Look, sir! Look!' whispered Bush urgently. 'One point before the beam!'

Yes. A shadowy shape, a darker nucleus on the dark surface. More than
that; the splash of a sweep at work. More than that; other dark shapes
beyond. There had been fifty coasters, by the last intelligence, at
Camaret, and the chances were they would try the run all together.

'Get down to the starboard battery, Mr Bush. Warn the guns' crews. Wait
for my order, and then make every shot tell.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Despite the precautions he had taken, _Hotspur_ would be far more
visible than the coasters; she should have been observed from them by
now; except that the Frenchmen would be preoccupied with their problems
of navigation. Ah! There was a yell from the nearest coaster, a whole
series of hails and shouts and warnings.

'Open fire, Mr Bush!'

A red glare in the darkness, an ear-splitting bang, the smell of powder
smoke. Another glare, another bang. Hornblower fumbled for the
speaking-trumpet, ready to make himself heard through the firing. But
Bush was behaving admirably, and the gunners were keeping their heads,
with the guns going off singly as the captains made sure of their
targets. With the guns depressed the two round-shot hurtling from each
would sweep the smooth surface of the sea. Hornblower thought he could
hear shrieks from the stricken coasters, but the guns were firing at
only the briefest intervals. The gentle wind swept the smoke along the
ship, clouds of it billowing in dark waves round Hornblower. He leaned
out to keep clear of it. The din was continuous now, as guns fired, as
the carriage-trucks rumbled over the deck, as gun-captains bellowed
orders. The flash of a gun illuminated something close overside--a
sinking coaster, deck level with the water. Her frail side must have
been beaten in by half a dozen round-shot. A yell from the mainchains
cut through the din.

'Here's one of 'em coming aboard!'

Some desperate swimmer had reached the _Hotspur_; Hornblower could leave
Bush to deal with prisoners of that sort. There were more dark shapes to
starboard, more targets presenting themselves. The mass of the coasters
was being hurried along by the three-knot tide which _Hotspur_ was
stemming by the aid of the wind. Tug at their sweeps as they might, the
French crews could not possibly counter the tide. They could not turn
back; to turn aside was possible--but on one side were the Council
Rocks, on the other were Corbin and Trepieds and the whole tangle of
reefs round-about them. _Hotspur_ was having experiences like those of
Gulliver; she was a giant compared with these Lilliputian coasters after
having been a dwarf in her encounter with the Brobdingnagian _Loire_.

Fine on the port bow Hornblower caught sight of half a dozen pin-points
of fire. That would be the battery on Toulinguet, two thousand yards
away. At that range they were welcome to try their luck, firing at
_Hotspur's_ gun flashes. _Hotspur_, still travelling slowly over the
ground, was a moving target, and the French would be disturbed in their
aim through fear of hitting the coasters. Night-firing in those
conditions was a waste of powder and shot. Foreman was yelling, wild
with excitement, to the crew of the quarter-deck carronade.

'She's aground! Drop it--dead 'un!'

Hornblower swung round to look; the coaster there was undoubtedly on the
rocks and consequently not worth firing at. He mentally gave a mark of
approval to Foreman, who despite his youth and his excitement was
keeping his head, even though he made use of the vocabulary of the
rat-killing pit.

'Four bells, sir,' reported Prowse amid the wild din. That was an abrupt
reminder to Hornblower that he must keep his head, too. It was hard to
think and to calculate, harder still to recall his visualisation of the
chart, and yet he had to do so. He realised that _Hotspur_ could have
nothing to spare over on the landward side.

'Wear the ship--Mr Prowse,' he said; he remembered just too late to use
the formal address completely naturally. 'Get her over on the port
tack.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Prowse seized the speaking-trumpet and somewhere in the darkness
disciplined men hurried to sheets and braces. As _Hotspur_ swung about
another dark shape came down at her from the channel.

'_Je me rends! Je me rends!_' a voice was shouting from it.

Someone in that coaster was trying to surrender before _Hotspur's_
broadside could blow her out of the water. She actually bumped against
the side as the current took her round, and then she was free--her
surrender had been premature, for now she was past _Hotspur_ and
vanishing in the farther darkness.

'Main chains, there,' yelled Hornblower. 'Take a cast of the lead.'

'Two fathoms!' came the answering cry. There was only six inches under
_Hotspur's_ keel, but now she was drawing away from the perils on one
side and approaching those on the other.

'Man the port side guns! Keep the lead going on the starboard!'

_Hotspur_ was steady on her new course as another unhappy coaster loomed
up. In the momentary stillness Hornblower could hear Bush's voice as he
called the port side guns' crews to attention, and then came the crash
of the firing. The smoke billowed round, and through the clouds came the
cry of the leadsman.

'By the mark three!'

The smoke and the lead told conflicting stories.

'And a half three!'

'Wind must be backing, Mr Prowse. Keep your eye on the binnacle.'

'Aye aye, sir. And it's five bells, sir.'

The tide was almost at its height; another factor to be remembered. At
the port side quarter-deck carronade the crew were slewing their weapon
round to the limit of its arc, and Hornblower, looking over the quarter,
could see a coaster escaping past _Hotspur's_ stern. Two flashes from
the dark shape, and a simultaneous crash under Hornblower's feet. That
coaster had guns mounted, and was firing her pop-gun broadside, and at
least one shot had told. A pop-gun broadside perhaps, but even a
four-pounder could smash a hole in _Hotspur's_ frail side. The carronade
roared out in reply.

'Luff a little,' said Hornblower to the quartermasters; his mind was
simultaneously recording the cries of the men at the leads. 'Mr Bush!
Stand by with the port side guns as we luff.'

_Hotspur_ came to the wind; on the main-deck there were creakings and
groanings as the guns' crews laboured with hand-spike and crowbar to
train their weapons round.

'Take your aim!' shouted Bush, and after some pregnant seconds, 'Fire!'

The guns went off almost together, and Hornblower thought--although he
was sure he was wrong--that he could hear instantly afterwards the crash
of the shot upon the coasters' hulls. Certainly after that he heard
shouts and cries from that direction while the smoke blinded him, but he
had no time to spare for that. There was only half an hour of flood tide
left. No more coasters could be coming along the channel, for if they
did they would not be able to round the Council Rocks before the ebb set
in. And it was full time to extricate _Hotspur_ from the reefs and
shoals that surrounded her. She needed what was left of the flood to
carry her out, and even at half-tide she was likely to touch bottom and
be left ignominiously stranded, helpless in daylight under the fire of
the Toulinguet battery.

'Time to say good-bye,' he said to Prowse. He realised with a shock that
he was on the edge of being lightheaded with strain and excitement, for
otherwise he would not have said such a ridiculous thing. He must keep
himself under control for a long while to come. It would be far more
dangerous to touch bottom on a falling tide than on a rising one. He
gulped and steadied himself, regaining his self-command at the cost of
one more fierce effort.

'I'll handle the ship, Mr Prowse.' He raised the trumpet.

'Hands to the braces! Hands wear ship.'

A further order to the wheel brought the ship round on the other tack,
with Prowse at the binnacle calling her heading. Now he had to thread
his way out through the perils that encompassed her. The hands,
completely carefree, were inclined to show their elation by noisy
skylarking, but one single savage reproof from Bush silenced them, and
_Hotspur_ fell as quiet as a church as she crept out.

'Wind's backed three points since sunset, sir,' reported Prowse.

'Thank you.'

With the wind just abaft the beam _Hotspur_ handled easily, but by this
time instinct had to take the place of calculation. Hornblower had come
in to the very limit of safety at high water over shallows hardly
covered at high tide. He had to feel his way out, by the aid of the
lead, by what could be seen of the shore and the shoals. The wheel spun
over and back again as the ship nosed her way out. For a few perilous
seconds she was sailing by the lee, but Hornblower was able to order the
helm over again in the nick of time.

'Slack water now, sir,' reported Prowse.

'Thank you.'

Slack water, if any of the incalculable factors had not intervened. The
wind had been slight but steady for several days from the southeastward.
He had to bear that in mind along with all the other factors.

'By the mark five!' called the leadsman.

'Thank God!' muttered Prowse.

For the first time _Hotspur_ had nearly twenty feet of water under her
keel, but there were still some outlying pinnacles of rock to menace
her.

'Starboard a point,' ordered Hornblower.

'Deep six!'

'Mr Bush!' Hornblower must stay steady and calm. He must betray no
relief, no human feelings, although within him the desire to laugh like
an idiot welled up in combat with the frightful exhaustion he felt.
'Kindly secure the guns. Then you may dismiss the hands from general
quarters.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'I must thank you, Mr Prowse, for your very able assistance.'

'Me, sir?' Prowse went on in incoherent self-depreciation. Hornblower
could imagine the lantern-jaws working in surprise, and he ignored the
mumblings.

'You may heave the ship to, Mr Prowse. We don't want dawn to find us
under the guns of Petit Minou.'

'No, sir, of course not, sir.'

All was well. _Hotspur_ had gone in and come out again. The coasters
from the south had received a lesson they would not forget for a long
time. And now it was apparent that the night was not so dark; it was not
a question of eyes becoming habituated to the darkness, but something
more definite than that. Faces were now a blur of white, visible across
the deck. Looking aft Hornblower could see the low hills of Quelern
standing out in dark relief against a lighter sky, and while he watched
a grain of silver became visible over their summits. He had actually
forgotten until this moment that the moon was due to rise now; that had
been one of the factors he had pointed out in his letter to Pellew. The
gibbous moon rose above the hilltops and shone serenely down upon the
Gulf. The topgallant masts were being sent up, topsails were being set,
staysails got in.

'What's that noise?' asked Hornblower, referring to a dull thumping
somewhere forward.

'Carpenter plugging a shot hole, sir,' explained Bush. 'That last
coaster holed us just above the waterline on the starboard side right
for'rard.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'No, sir.'

'Very well.'

His questions and his formal termination of the conversation were the
result of one more effort of will.

'I can trust you not to lose your way now, Mr Bush,' he said. He could
not help being jocular, although he knew it sounded a false note. The
hands at the braces were backing the maintopsail, and _Hotspur_ could
lie hove-to in peace and quiet. 'You may set the ordinary watches, Mr
Bush. And see that I am called at eight bells in the middle watch.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

There were four and a half hours of peace and quiet ahead of him. He
yearned with all his weary mind and body for rest--for oblivion, rather
than rest. An hour after dawn, at the latest, Pellew could expect him to
send in his report on the events of the evening, and it would take an
hour to compose it. And he must take the opportunity to write to Maria
so that the letter could be sent to _Tonnant_ along with the report and
so have a chance to reach the outside world. It would take him longer to
write to Maria than to Pellew. That reminded him of something else. He
had to make one more effort.

'Oh, Mr Bush!'

'Sir?'

'I'll be sending a boat to _Tonnant_ during the morning watch. If any
officer--or if any of the men--wish to send letters that will be their
opportunity.'

'Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.'

In his cabin he faced one further effort to pull off his shoes, but the
arrival of Grimes saved him the trouble. Grimes took off his shoes,
eased him out of his coat, unfastened his neckcloth. Hornblower allowed
him to do it; he was too weary even to be self-conscious. For one moment
he luxuriated in allowing his weary feet free play in his stockings, but
then he fell spreadeagled on to his cot, half-prone, half on his side,
his head on his arms, and Grimes covered him up and left him.

That was not the most sensible attitude to adopt, as he discovered when
Grimes shook him awake. He ached in every joint, it seemed, while to
dash cold seawater on his face did little enough to clear his head. He
had to struggle out of the after-effects of a long period of strain as
other men had to struggle out of the after effects of a drinking bout.
But he had recovered sufficiently to move his left-handed pen when he
sat down and began his report.

    'Sir,

    In obedience to your instructions, dated the 16th instant, I
    proceeded on the afternoon of the 18th...'

He had to leave the last paragraph until the coming of daylight should
reveal what he should write in it, and he laid the letter aside and took
another sheet. He had to bite the end of his pen before he could even
write the salutation in this second letter, and when he had written 'My
dear Wife' he had to bite it again before he could continue. It was
something of a relief to have Grimes enter at last.

'Mr Bush's compliments, sir, and it's not far off daylight.'

That made it possible to conclude the letter.

    'And now, my dearest--' Hornblower glanced at Maria's letter to
    select an endearment--'Angel, my duty calls me once more on
    deck, so that I must end this letter with--' another
    reference--'fondest love to my dear Wife, the loved Mother of
    the Child to be.

                                     Your affectionate Husband,
                                                        Horatio.'

Daylight was coming up fast when he arrived on deck.

'Brace the maintops'l round, if you please, Mr Young. We'll stand to the
s'uth'ard a little. Good morning, Mr Bush.'

'Good morning, sir.'

Bush was already trying to see to the southward through his telescope.
Increasing light and diminishing distance brought rapid results.

'There they are, sir! God, sir--one, two, three--and there are two
others over on the Council Rocks. And that looks like a wreck right in
the fairway--that's one we sunk, I'll wager, sir.'

In the glittering dawn the half-tide revealed wrecks littering the
shoals and the shore, black against the crystal light, the coasters
which had paid the penalty of trying to run the blockade.

'They're all holed and waterlogged, sir,' said Bush. 'Not a hope of
salvage.'

Hornblower was already composing in his mind the final paragraph of his
report.

'I have reason to believe that not less than ten sail of coasters
were sunk or forced to run aground during this encounter. This
happy result...'

'That's a fortune lost, sir,' grumbled Bush. 'That's a tidy sum in prize
money over on those rocks.'

No doubt, but in those decisive moments last night there could have been
no question of capture. _Hotspur's_ duty had been to destroy everything
possible, and not to fill her captain's empty purse by sending boats to
take possession, at the cost of allowing half the quarry to escape.
Hornblower's reply was cut off short, as the smooth water on the
starboard beam suddenly erupted in three successive jets of water. A
cannon-ball had come skipping towards them over the surface, to make its
final plunge a cable's length away. The sound of gunfire reached their
ears at the same moment, and their instantly elevated telescopes
revealed a cloud of smoke engulfing the Toulinguet battery.

'Fire away, Monseer le Frog,' said Bush. 'The damage is done.'

'We may as well make sure we're out of range,' said Hornblower. 'Put the
ship about, if you please.'

He was trying as best he could to reproduce Bush's complete indifference
under fire. He told himself that he was only being sensible, and not
cowardly, in making certain that there was no chance of _Hotspur's_
being hit by a salvo of twenty-four-pounders, but he was inclined to
sneer at himself, all the same.

Yet there was one source of self-congratulation. He had held his tongue
when the subject of prize money had come up in the conversation. He had
been about to burst out condemning the whole system as pernicious, but
he had managed to refrain. Bush thought him a queer character in any
case, and if he had divulged his opinion of prize money--of the system
by which it was earned and paid--Bush would have thought him more than
merely eccentric. Bush would think him actually insane, and
liberal-minded, revolutionary, subversive and dangerous as well.




                               CHAPTER IX


Hornblower stood ready to go down the side into the waiting boat. He
made the formal, legal speech.

'Mr Bush, you will take command.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower remembered to look about him as he prepared to make the
descent. He glowered round at the sideboys in the white gloves that Bush
had had made for this ceremonial purpose out of white twine by some
seaman adept with a hook--'crochet' was the French name for this
process. He ran his eyes up and down the bos'n's mates as they piped his
departing salute. Then he went over the side. The piping stopped at the
same moment as his foot reached for the thwart--that was a measure of
the height of _Hotspur's_ free-board, for by the rules of ceremonial the
honours ceased the moment the departing officer's head was at the level
of the deck. Hornblower scrambled into the stern sheets, embarrassed by
hat and gloves and sword and boat cloak, and he barked an order to
Hewitt. The boat-hook released its hold and there was a moment of
apparent disorder as the boat left the ship's side and four brawny arms
at the halliards sent the balance-lug up the mast. There was a decided
strangeness at sitting here on a level with the water, with the green
waves close at hand; it was over eight weeks since Hornblower had last
set foot outside the ship.

The boat settled on her course, running free because the wind had backed
southerly several points, and Hornblower looked back at _Hotspur_ lying
hove-to. He ran a professional eye over her lines, noting, as an
observer from the outside again, the relative heights of her masts, the
distances at which they were stepped, the rake of the bowsprit. He knew
a great deal now about the behaviour of the ship under sail, but there
was always more to learn. Not at this moment, though, for a stronger
puff of wind laid the boat over and Hornblower felt suddenly uncertain
both of his surroundings and himself. The little waves of which
_Hotspur_ took no notice were monstrous when encountered in a small
boat, which, besides lying over, was now rising and swooping in a most
unpleasant fashion. After the reassuring solidity of _Hotspur's_
deck--after painfully accustoming himself to her motion--these new
surroundings and these new antics were most unsettling, especially as
Hornblower was excited and tense at the prospect before him. He
swallowed hard, battling against the sea-sickness which had leaped out
of ambush for him; to divert his mind he concentrated his attention upon
the _Tonnant_, growing slowly nearer--much too slowly.

At her main topgallant masthead she sported the coveted broad pendant in
place of the narrow one worn by other ships in commission. It was the
sign of a captain with executive powers over other ships besides his
own. Pellew was not only high up in the captains' list but clearly
destined for important command as soon as he reached flag rank; there
must be rear admirals in the Channel Fleet bitterly jealous of Pellew's
tenure of the Inshore Command. A boat came along her starboard side,
painted white picked out with red, and of a design unlike that of the
workaday boats supplied by the Navy Office. Hornblower could see the
matching red and white uniforms of the boat's crew; this must be some
very dandy captain at least, paying a call--or more likely a
flag-officer. Hornblower saw a ribboned and epauletted figure go up the
side, and across the water came the sound of the squealing of the pipes
and the boomp-bump noise that to his ears indicated a band playing. Next
moment the White Ensign broke out at the fore-topmasthead. A
vice-admiral of the White! That could be no other than Cornwallis
himself.

Hornblower realised that this meeting to which he had been summoned by
the curt signal 'All captains,' was something more than a sociable
gathering. He looked down in distress at his shabby clothing, reminded
as he did so to open his boat cloak and reveal the epaulette on his left
shoulder--a shabby brassy thing, dating back to the time of his earlier,
disallowed appointment as commander, two years ago. Hornblower
distinctly saw the officer of the watch, in attendance at the gangway,
turn from his telescope and give an order which sent four of the eight
white-gloved sideboys there scurrying out of sight, so that a mere
commander should not share the honours given a vice admiral. The
admiral's barge had sheered off and the _Hotspur's_ boat took its place,
with Hornblower not too sea-sick and nervous to worry about the way it
was handled, in case it did not reflect credit on his ship. The worry,
however, was instantly overlaid by the necessity for concentration on
the process of going up the side. This was a lofty two-decker, and
although the considerable 'tumble-home' was of help it was a tricky
business for the gangling Hornblower to mount with dignity encumbered as
he was. Somehow he reached the deck, and somehow, despite his shyness
and embarrassment, he remembered to touch his hat in salute to the guard
that presented arms to him.

'Captain Hornblower?' enquired the officer of the watch. He knew him by
the single epaulette on his left shoulder, the only commander in the
Inshore Squadron, perhaps the only one in the Channel Fleet. 'This young
gentleman will act as your guide.'

The deck of the _Tonnant_ seemed incredibly spacious after the cramped
deck of the _Hotspur_, for the _Tonnant_ was no mere seventy-four. She
was an eighty-four, with dimensions and scantlings worthy of a
three-decker. She was a reminder of the era when the French built big
ships in the hope of overpowering the British seventy-fours by brute
force instead of by skill and discipline. How the venture had turned out
was proved by the fact that _Tonnant_ now flew the flag of England.

The great poop-cabins had been thrown into a single suite for Pellew, in
the absence of a flag-officer permanently on board. It was incredibly
luxurious. Once past the sentry the decks were actually carpeted--Wilton
carpets in which the foot sank noiselessly. There was an anteroom with a
steward in dazzling white ducks to take Hornblower's hat and gloves and
cloak.

'Captain Hornblower, sir,' announced the young gentleman, throwing open
the door.

The deck-beams above were six feet clear, over the carpet, and Pellew
had grown so used to this that he advanced to shake hands with no stoop
at all, in contrast with Hornblower, who instinctively crouched with his
five-foot-eleven.

'Delighted to see you, Hornblower,' said Pellew. 'Genuinely delighted.
There is much to say to you, for letters are always inadequate. But I
must make the introductions. The Admiral has already made your
acquaintance, I think?'

Hornblower shook hands with Cornwallis, mumbling the same politenesses
as he had already addressed to Pellew. Other introductions followed,
names known to everyone who had read in the _Gazette_ the accounts of
naval victories; Grindall of the _Prince_, Marsfield of the _Minotaur_,
Lord Henry Paulet of the _Terrible_, and half a dozen others. Hornblower
felt dazzled, although he had just come in from the bright outer world.
In all this array there was one other officer with a single epaulette,
but he wore it on his right shoulder, proof that he, too, had attained
the glorious rank of post captain, and had only to go on living to mount
a second epaulette on attaining three years' seniority, and--if long
life was granted him--eventually to attain the unspeakable heights of
flag rank. He was far higher above a commander than a commander was
above a lowly lieutenant.

Hornblower sat in the chair offered him, instinctively edging it
backward so as to make himself, the most junior, the infinitely junior
officer, as inconspicuous as possible. The cabin was finished in some
rich material--damask, Hornblower guessed--with a colour scheme of
nutmeg and blue unobtrusive and yet incredibly satisfying to the eye.
Daylight poured in through a vast stern window, to glint upon the
swaying silver lamps. There was a shelf of books, some in good leather
bindings, but Hornblower's sharp eye detected tattered copies of the
_Mariners' Guide_ and the Admiralty publications for the coasts of
France. On the far side were two large masses so draped as to be shapely
and in keeping so that no uninitiated person could guess that inside
were two eighteen-pounder carronades.

'This must take you a full five minutes to clear for action, Sir
Edward,' said Cornwallis.

'Four minutes and ten seconds by stop-watch, sir,' answered Pellew, 'to
strike everything below, including the bulkheads.'

Another steward, also in dazzling white ducks, entered at this moment
and spoke a few words in a low tone to Pellew, like a well-trained
butler in a ducal house, and Pellew rose to his feet.

'Dinner, gentlemen,' he announced. 'Permit me to lead the way.'

A door, thrown open in the midships bulkhead, revealed a dining-room, an
oblong table with white damask, glittering silver, sparkling glasses,
while more stewards in white ducks were ranged against the bulkhead.
There could be little doubt about precedence, when every captain in the
Royal Navy had, naturally, studied his place in the captains' list ever
since his promotion; Hornblower and the single-epauletted captain were
headed for the foot of the table when Pellew halted the general
sorting-out.

'At the Admiral's suggestion,' he announced, 'We are dispensing with
precedence today. You will find your names on cards at your places.'

So now every one began a feverish hunt for their names; Hornblower found
himself seated between Lord Henry Paulet and Hosier of the _Fame_, and
opposite him was Cornwallis himself.

'I made the suggestion to Sir Edward,' Cornwallis was saying as he
leisurely took his seat, 'because otherwise we always find ourselves
sitting next to our neighbours in the captains' list. In blockade
service especially, variety is much to be sought after.'

He lowered himself into his chair, and when he had done so his juniors
followed his example. Hornblower, cautiously on guard about his manners,
still could not restrain his mischievous inner self from mentally adding
a passage to the rules of naval ceremonial, to the lines of the rule
about the officer's head reaching the level of the main-deck--'when the
Admiral's backside shall touch the seat of his chair--'

'Pellew provides good dinners,' said Lord Henry, eagerly, scanning the
dishes with which the stewards were now crowding the table. The largest
dish was placed in front of him, and when the immense silver dish cover
was whipped away a magnificent pie was revealed. The pastry top was
built up into a castle, from the turret of which flew a paper Union
Jack.

'Prodigious!' exclaimed Cornwallis. 'Sir Edward, what lies below the
dungeons here?'

Pellew shook his head sadly. 'Only beef and kidneys, sir. Beef stewed to
rags. Our ship's bullock this time, as ever, was too tough for ordinary
mortals, and only stewing would reduce his steaks to digestibility. So I
called in the aid of his kidneys for a beefsteak and kidney pie.'

'But what about the flour?'

'The Victualling Officer sent me a sack, sir. Unfortunately it had
rested in bilge water, as could only be expected, but there was just
enough at the top unspoiled for the pie-crust.'

Pellew's gesture, indicating the silver bread barges filled with ship's
biscuit, hinted that in more fortunate circumstances they might have
been filled with fresh rolls.

'I'm sure it's delicious,' said Cornwallis. 'Lord Henry, might I trouble
you to serve me, if you can find it in your heart to destroy those
magnificent battlements?'

Paulet set to work with carving knife and fork on the pie, while
Hornblower pondered the phenomenon of the son of a Marquis helping the
son of an Earl to a steak and kidney pie made from a ration bullock and
spoiled flour.

'That's a ragout of pork beside you, Captain Hosier,' said Pellew. 'Or
so my chef would call it. You may find it even saltier than usual,
because of the bitter tears he shed into it. Captain Durham has the only
live pig left in the Channel Fleet, and no gold of mine would coax it
from him, so that my poor fellow had to make do with the contents of the
brine tub.'

'He has succeeded perfectly with the pie, at least,' commented
Cornwallis. 'He must be an artist.'

'I engaged him during the Peace,' said Pellew, 'and brought him with me
on the outbreak of war. At quarters he points a gun on the starboard
side lower-deck.'

'If his aim is as good as his cooking,' said Cornwallis, reaching for
his glass which a steward had filled, 'then--confusion to the French!'

The toast was drunk with murmured acclaim.

'Fresh vegetables!' said Lord Henry ecstatically. 'Cauliflower!'

'Your quota is on the way to your ship at this moment, Hornblower,' said
Cornwallis. 'We try not to forget you.'

'_Hotspur's_ like Uriah the Hittite,' said a saturnine captain at the
end of the table whose name appeared to be Collins. 'In the forefront of
the battle.'

Hornblower was grateful to Collins for that speech, because it brought
home to him a truth, like a bright light, that he had not realised
before; he would rather be on short commons in the forefront of the
battle than back in the main body with plenty of vegetables.

'Young carrots!' went on Lord Henry, peering into each vegetable dish in
turn. 'And what's this? I can't believe it!'

'Spring greens, Lord Henry,' said Pellew. 'We still have to wait for
peas and beans.'

'Wonderful!'

'How do you get these chickens so fat, Sir Edward?' asked Grindall.

'A matter of feeding, merely. Another secret of my chef.'

'In the public interest you should disclose it,' said Cornwallis. 'The
life of a sea-sick chicken rarely conduces to putting on flesh.'

'Well, sir, since you ask. This ship has a complement of six hundred and
fifty men. Every day thirteen fifty-pound bread bags are emptied. The
secret lies in the treatment of those bags.'

'But how?' asked several voices.

'Tap them, shake them, before emptying. Not enough to make wasteful
crumbs, but sharply enough. Then take out the biscuits quickly, and
behold! At the bottom of each bag is a mass of weevils and maggots,
scared out of their natural habitat and with no time allowed to seek
shelter again. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing that fattens a
chicken so well as a diet of rich biscuit-fed weevils. Hornblower, your
plate's still empty. Help yourself, man.'

Hornblower had thought of helping himself to chicken, but somehow--and
he grinned at himself internally--this last speech diverted him from
doing so. The beefsteak pie was in great demand and had almost
disappeared, and as a junior officer he knew better than to anticipate
his seniors' second helpings. The ragout of pork, rich in onions, was at
the far end of the table.

'I'll make a start on this, sir,' he said, indicating an untouched dish
before him.

'Hornblower has a judgement that puts us all to shame,' said Pellew.
'That's a kickshaw in which my chef takes particular pride. To go with
it you'll need these pure potatoes, Hornblower.'

It was a dish of brawn, from which Hornblower cut himself moderately
generous slices, and it had dark flakes in it. There was no doubt that
it was utterly delicious; Hornblower diving down into his general
knowledge, came up with the conclusion that the black flakes must be
truffle, of which he had heard but which he had never tasted. The pure
potatoes, which he would have called mashed, were like no mashed
potatoes he had ever sampled either on shipboard or in a sixpenny
ordinary in England. They were seasoned subtly and yet to perfection--if
angels ever ate mashed potatoes they would call on Pellew's chef to
prepare them. With spring greens and carrots--for both of which he
hungered inexpressibly--they made a plateful, along with the brawn, of
sheer delight. He found himself eating like a wolf and pulled himself up
short, but the glance that he stole round the table reassured him, for
the others were eating like wolves too, to the detriment of
conversation, with only a few murmured words to mingle with the clash of
cutlery.

'Wine with you, sir.' 'Your health, Admiral.' 'Would you give the onions
a fair wind, Grindall?' and so on.

'Won't you try the galantine, Lord Henry?' asked Pellew. 'Steward, a
fresh plate for Lord Henry.'

That was how Hornblower learned the real name of the brawn he was
eating. The ragout of pork drifted his way and he helped himself
generously; the steward behind him changed his plate in the nick of
time. He savoured the exquisite boiled onions that wallowed in the
beatific sauce. Then like magic the table was cleared and fresh dishes
made their appearance, a pudding rich with raisins and currants, jellies
of two colours; much labour must have gone into boiling down the
bullock's feet and into subsequent straining to make that brilliant
gelatine.

'No flour for that duff,' said Pellew apologetically. 'The galley staff
has done its best with biscuit crumbs.'

That best was as near perfection as mind could conceive; there was a
sweet sauce with it, hinting of ginger, that made the most of the
richness of the fruit. Hornblower found himself thinking that if ever he
became a post captain, wealthy with prize money, he would have to devote
endless thought to the organisation of his cabin stores. And Maria would
not be of much help, he thought ruefully. He was still drifting along
with thoughts of Maria when the table was swept clear again.

'Caerphilly, sir?' murmured a steward in his ear. 'Wensleydale? Red
Cheshire?'

These were cheeses that were being offered him. He helped himself at
random--one name meant no more to him than another--and went on to make
an epoch-making discovery, that Wensleydale cheese and vintage port were
a pair of heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux riding triumphantly as the
climax of a glorious procession. Full of food and with two glasses of
wine inside him--all he allowed himself--he felt vastly pleased with the
discovery, rivalling those of Columbus and Cook. Almost simultaneously
he made another discovery which amused him. The chased silver
fingerbowls which were put on the table were very elegant; the last time
he had seen anything like them was as a midshipman at a dinner at
Government House in Gibraltar. In each floated a fragment of lemon peel,
but the water in which the peel floated--as Hornblower discovered by a
furtive taste as he dabbed his lips--was plain sea water. There was
something comforting in that fact.

Cornwallis's blue eyes were fixed on him.

'Mr Vice, the King,' said Cornwallis.

Hornblower came back from pink hazes of beatitude. He had to take a grip
of himself, as when he had tacked _Hotspur_ with the _Loire_ in pursuit;
he had to await the right moment for the attention of the company. Then
he rose to his feet and lifted his glass, carrying out the ages old
ritual of the junior officer present.

'Gentlemen, the King,' he said.

'The King!' echoed everyone present, and some added phrases like 'God
Bless him' and 'Long may he reign' before they sat down again.

'His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence,' said Lord Henry in
conversational tone, 'told me that during his time at sea he had knocked
his head--he's a tall man, as you know--so often on so many deck-beams
while drinking his father's health that he seriously was considering
requesting His Majesty's permission, as a special privilege, for the
Royal Navy to drink the royal health while sitting down.'

At the other corner of the table Andrews, captain of the _Flora_, was
going on with an interrupted conversation.

'Fifteen pounds a man,' he was saying, 'That's what my Jacks were paid
on account of prize money, and we were in Cawsand Bay ready to sail. The
women had left the ship, not a bumboat within call, and so my men--the
ordinary seamen, mind you--still have fifteen pounds apiece in their
pockets.'

'All the better when they get a chance to spend it,' said Marsfield.

Hornblower was making a rapid calculation. The _Flora_ would have a crew
of some three hundred men, who divided a quarter of the prize money
between them. The captain had one quarter to himself, so that Andrews
would have been paid--on account, not necessarily in full--some four
thousand five hundred pounds as a result of some lucky cruise, probably
without risk, probably without a life being lost, money for seizing
French merchant ships intercepted at sea. Hornblower thought ruefully
about Maria's latest letter, and about the uses to which he could put
four thousand five hundred pounds.

'There'll be lively times in Plymouth when the Channel Fleet comes in,'
said Andrews.

'That is something which I wish to explain to you gentlemen,' said
Cornwallis, breaking in on the conversation. There was something flat
and expressionless about his voice, and there was a kind of mask-like
expression on his good-tempered face, so that all eyes turned on him.

'The Channel Fleet will not be coming in to Plymouth,' said Cornwallis.
'This is the time to make that plain.'

A silence ensued, during which Cornwallis was clearly waiting for a cue.
The saturnine Collins supplied it.

'What about water, sir? Provisions?'

'They are going to be sent out to us.'

'Water, sir?'

'Yes. I have had four water-hoys constructed. They will bring us water.
Victualling ships will bring us our food. Each new ship which joins us
will bring us fresh food, vegetables and live cattle, all they can carry
on deck. That will help against scurvy. I'm sending no ship back to
replenish.'

'So we'll have to wait for the winter gales before we see Plymouth
again, sir?'

'Not even then,' said Cornwallis. 'No ship, no captain, is to enter
Plymouth without my express orders. Do I have to explain why, to
experienced officers like you?'

The reasons were as obvious to Hornblower as to the others. The Channel
Fleet might well have to run for shelter when south westerly gales blew,
and with a gale at southwest the French fleet could not escape from
Brest. But Plymouth Sound was difficult; a wind from the eastward would
delay the British fleet's exit, prolong it over several days, perhaps,
during which time the wind would be fair for the French fleet to escape.
There were plenty of other reasons, too. There was disease; every
captain knew that ships grew healthier the longer they were at sea.
There was desertion. There was the fact that discipline could be badly
shaken by debauches on shore.

'But in a gale, sir?' asked someone. 'We could get blown right
up-Channel.'

'No,' answered Cornwallis decisively. 'If we're blown off this station
our rendezvous is Tor Bay. There we anchor.'

Confused murmurings showed how this information was being digested. Tor
Bay was an exposed uncomfortable anchorage, barely sheltered from the
west, but it had the obvious advantage that at the first shift of wind
the fleet could put to sea, could be off Ushant again before the
unwieldy French fleet could file out down the Goulet.

So none of us will set foot on English soil again until the end of the
war, sir?' said Collins.

Cornwallis's face was transfigured by a smile. 'We need never say that.
All of you, any one of you, can go ashore...' the smile broadened as
he paused, 'the moment I set foot ashore myself.'

That caused a laugh, perhaps a grudging laugh, but with an admiring
echo. Hornblower, watching the scene keenly, suddenly came to a fresh
realisation. Collins's questions and remarks had been very apt, very
much to the point. Hornblower suspected that he had been listening to a
prepared piece of dialogue, and his suspicions were strengthened by the
recollection that Collins was First Captain under Cornwallis, somebody
whom the French would call a Chief of Staff. Hornblower looked about him
again. He could not help feeling admiration for Cornwallis, whose
guileless behaviour concealed such unsuspected depths of subtlety. And
it was a matter for self-congratulation that he had guessed the secret,
he, the junior officer present, surrounded by all these captains of vast
seniority, of distinguished records and of noble descent. He felt
positively smug, a most unusual and gratifying feeling.

Smugness and vintage port combined to dull his awareness of all the
implications at first, and then suddenly everything changed. The new
thought sent him sliding down an Avernus of depression. It brought about
an actual physical sensation in the pit of his stomach, like the one he
felt when _Hotspur_, close-hauled, topped a wave and went slithering and
rolling down the farther side. Maria! He had written so cheerfully
saying he would be seeing her soon. There were only fifty days'
provisions and water left in _Hotspur_; fresh food would eke out the
provisions, but little enough could be done (he had thought) regarding
water. He had been confident that _Hotspur_ would be making periodic
calls at Plymouth for food and water and firewood. Now Maria would never
have the comfort of his presence during her pregnancy. Nor would he
himself (and the violence of this reaction surprised him) have the
pleasure of seeing her during her pregnancy. And one more thing; he
would have to write to her and tell her that he would not be keeping his
promises, that there was no chance of their meeting. He would be causing
her terrible pain, not only because her idol would be revealed to her as
a man who could not, or perhaps even would not, keep his word.

He was recalled suddenly from these thoughts, from these mental pictures
of Maria, by hearing his name spoken during the conversation round the
table. Nearly every one present was looking at him, and he had to ferret
hurriedly through his unconscious memory to recapture what had been
said. Someone--it must have been Cornwallis himself--had said that the
information he had gathered from the French coast had been satisfactory
and illuminating. But for the life of him Hornblower could not recall
what had next been said, and now here he was, with every eye on him,
gazing round the table with a bewilderment that he tried to conceal
behind an impassive countenance.

'We are all interested in your sources of information, Hornblower,'
prompted Cornwallis, apparently repeating something already said.

Hornblower shook his head in decisive negation; that was his instant
reaction, before he could analyse the situation, and before he could
wrap up a blunt refusal in pretty words.

'No,' he said, to back up the shaking of his head.

There were all these people present; nothing would remain a secret if
known to so large a group. The pilchard fishermen and lobster-pot men
with whom he had been having furtive dealings and on whom he had been
lavishing British gold--French gold, to be exact--would meet with short
shrift if their activities became known to the French authorities. Not
only would they die, but they would never be able to supply him with any
further news. He was passionately anxious for his secrets to remain
secrets, yet he was surrounded by all these senior officers any one of
whom might have an influence on his career. Luckily he was already
committed by the curt negative that had been surprised out of
him--nothing could commit him more deeply than that, and that was thanks
to Maria. He must not think about Maria, yet he must find some way of
softening his abrupt refusal.

'It's more important than a formula for fattening chickens, sir,' he
said, and then, with a bright further inspiration he shifted the
responsibility. 'I would not like to disclose my operations without a
direct order.'

His sensibilities, keyed to the highest pitch, detected sympathy in
Cornwallis's reaction.

'I'm sure there's no need, Hornblower,' said Cornwallis, turning back to
the others. Now, before he turned, was it true that the eyelid of his
left eye, nearest to Hornblower, flickered a trifle? Was it? Hornblower
could not be sure.

As the conversation reverted to a discussion of future operations
Hornblower's sense, almost telepathic, became aware of something else in
the past atmosphere which called up hot resentment in his mind. These
fighting officers, these captains of ships of the line, were content to
leave the dirty details of the gathering of intelligence to a junior, to
someone hardly worthy of their lofty notice. They would not sully their
aristocratic white hands; if the insignificant Commander of an
insignificant sloop chose to do the work they would leave it to him in
tolerant contempt.

Now the contempt was in no way one-sided. Fighting captains had their
place in the scheme of things, but only an insignificant place, and
anyone could be a fighting captain, even if he had to learn to swallow
down the heart from his mouth and master the tensions that set his limbs
a-tremble. Hornblower was experiencing symptoms not unlike these at this
moment, when he was in no danger at all. Vintage port and a good dinner,
thoughts of Maria and resentment against the captains, combined within
him in a witches' brew that threatened to boil over. Luckily the
bubbling mixture happened to distil off a succession of ideas, first one
and then another. They linked themselves in a logical chain. Hornblower,
along with his agitation, could feel the flush of blood under his skin
that foretold the development of a plan, in the same way that the witch
in Macbeth could tell the approach of something wicked by the pricking
in her thumbs. Soon the plan was mature, complete, and Hornblower was
left calm and clear-headed after his spiritual convulsion; it was like
the clearness of head that follows the crisis of an attack of
fever--possibly that was exactly what it was.

The plan called for a dark night, and for half-flood an hour before
dawn; nature would supply those sooner or later, following her immutable
laws. It called for some good fortune, and it would call for resolution
and promptitude of action, but those were accessory ingredients in every
plan. It included possibilities of disaster, but was there ever a plan
that did not? It also called for the services of a man who spoke perfect
French, and Hornblower, measuring his abilities with a cold eye, knew
that he was not that man. The penniless noble French refugee who in
Hornblower's boyhood had instructed him, with fair success, in French
and Deportment (and, totally unsuccessfully, in Music and Dancing), had
never managed to confer a good accent upon his tone-deaf pupil. His
grammar and his construction were excellent, but no one would ever
mistake him for a Frenchman.

Hornblower had reached every necessary decision by the time the party
began to break up, and he made it his business to take his stand,
casually, beside Collins at the moment the Admiral's barge was called.

'Is there anyone in the Channel Fleet who speaks perfect French, sir?'
he asked.

'You speak French yourself,' replied Collins.

'Not well enough for what I have in mind, sir,' said Hornblower, more
struck by the extent of Collins' knowledge than flattered. 'I might find
a use for a man who speaks French exactly like a Frenchman.'

'There's Ctard,' said Collins, meditatively rubbing his chin.
'Lieutenant in the Marlborough. He's a Guernsey-man. Speaks French like
a native--always spoke it as a child, I believe. What do you want him to
do?'

'Admiral's barge coming alongside, sir,' reported a breathless messenger
to Pellew.

'Hardly time to tell you now, sir,' said Hornblower. 'I can submit a
plan to Sir Edward. But it'll be no use without someone speaking perfect
French.'

The assembled company was now filing to the gangway; Collins, in
accordance with naval etiquette, would have to go down the side into the
barge ahead of Cornwallis.

'I'll detail Ctard from his ship on special service,' said Andrews
hastily. 'I'll send him over to you and you can look him over.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Cornwallis was now thanking his host and saying good-bye to the other
captains; Collins unobtrusively yet with remarkable rapidity contrived
to do the same, and disappeared over the side. Cornwallis followed, with
all the time-honoured ceremonial of guard of honour and band and
sideboys, while his flag was hauled down from the fore-topmast head.
After his departure barge after barge came alongside, each gaudy with
new paint, with every crew tricked out in neat clothing paid for out of
their captains' pockets, and captain after captain went down into them,
in order of seniority, and shoved off to their respective ships.

Lastly came _Hotspur's_ drab little quarter-boat, its crew dressed in
the clothes issued to them in the slop-ship the day they were sent on
board.

'Good-bye, sir,' said Hornblower, holding out his hand to Pellew.

Pellew had shaken so many hands, and had said so many goodbyes, that
Hornblower was anxious to cut this farewell as short as possible.

'Good-bye, Hornblower,' said Pellew, and Hornblower quickly stepped
back, touching his hat. The pipes squealed until his head was below the
level of the main-deck, and then he dropped perilously into the boat,
hat, gloves, sword and all, all of them shabby.




                               CHAPTER X


'I'll take this opportunity, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower, 'Of repeating
what I said before. I'm sorry you're not being given your chance.'

'It can't be helped, sir. It's the way of the Service,' replied the
shadowy figure confronting Hornblower on the dark quarter-deck. The
words were philosophical, but the tone was bitter. It was all part of
the general logical madness of war, that Bush should feel bitter at not
being allowed to risk his life, and that Hornblower, about to be doing
so, should commiserate with Bush, speaking in flat formal tones as if he
were not in the least excited--as if he were feeling no apprehension at
all.

Hornblower knew himself well enough to be sure that if some miracle were
to happen, if orders were to arrive forbidding him to take personal part
in the coming raid, he would feel a wave of relief; delight as well as
relief. But it was quite impossible, for the orders had definitely
stated that 'the landing party will be under the command of Captain
Horatio Hornblower of the _Hotspur_.' That sentence had been explained
in advance in the preceding one... 'because Lieut Ctard is senior to
Lieut Bush.' Ctard could not possibly have been transferred from one
ship and given command of a landing party largely provided by another;
nor could he be expected to serve under an officer junior to him, and
the only way round the difficulty had been that Hornblower should
command. Pellew, writing out those orders in the quiet of his
magnificent cabin, had been like a Valkyrie in the Norse legends now
attaining a strange popularity in England--he had been a Chooser of the
Slain. Those scratches of his pen could well mean that Bush would live
and Hornblower would die.

But there was another side to the picture. Hornblower had grudgingly to
admit to himself that he would have been no more happy if Bush had been
in command. The operation planned could only be successful if carried
through with a certain verve and with an exactness of timing that Bush
possibly could not provide. Absurdly, Hornblower was glad he was to
command, and that was one demonstration in his mind of the defects of
his temperament.

'You are sure about your orders until I return, Mr Bush?' he said, 'And
in case I don't return?'

'Yes, sir.'

Hornblower had felt a cold wave up his spine while he spoke so casually
about the possibility of his death. An hour from now he might be a
disfigured stiffening corpse.

'Then I'll get myself ready,' he said, turning away with every
appearance of nonchalance.

He had hardly reached his cabin when Grimes entered.

'Sir!' said Grimes, and Hornblower swung round and looked at him. Grimes
was in his early twenties, skinny, highly strung, and excitable. Now his
face was white--his duties as steward meant that he spent little time on
deck in the sun--and his lips were working horribly.

'What's the matter?' demanded Hornblower curtly.

'Don't make me come with you, sir!' spluttered Grimes. 'You don't want
me with you, sir, do you, sir?'

It was an astonishing moment. In all his years of service Hornblower had
never met with any experience in the least similar, and he was taken
aback. This was cowardice; it might even be construed as mutiny. Grimes
had in the last five seconds made himself liable not merely to the cat
but to the noose. Hornblower could only stand and stare, wordless.

'I'll be no use, sir,' said Grimes. 'I--I might scream!'

Now that was a very definite point. Hornblower, giving his orders for
the raid, had nominated Grimes as his messenger and aide-de-camp. He had
given no thought to the selection; he had been a very casual Chooser of
the Slain. Now he was learning a lesson. A frightened man at his elbow,
a man made clumsy by fear, could imperil the whole expedition. Yet the
first words he could say echoed his earlier thoughts.

'I could hang you, by God!' he exclaimed.

'No, sir! No, sir! Please, sir--' Grimes was on the point of collapse;
in another moment he would be down on his knees.

'Oh, for God's sake--' said Hornblower. He was conscious of contempt,
not for the coward, but for the man who allowed his cowardice to show.
And then he asked himself by what right he felt this contempt. And then
he thought about the good of the Service, and then--. He had no time to
waste in these trivial analyses.

'Very well,' he snapped, 'You can stay on board. Shut your mouth, you
fool!'

Grimes was about to show gratitude, but Hornblower's words cut it off
short.

'I'll take Hewitt out of the second boat. He can come with me. Pass the
word for him.'

The minutes were fleeting by, as they always did with the final touches
to put on to a planned scheme. Hornblower passed his belt through the
loop on a cutlass-sheath, and buckled it round him. A sword hanging on
slings could be a hindrance, would strike against obstructions, and the
cutlass was a handier weapon for what he contemplated. He gave a final
thought to taking a pistol, and again rejected the idea. A pistol might
be useful in certain circumstances, but it was a bulky encumbrance. Here
was something more silent--a long sausage of stout canvas filled with
sand, with a loop for the wrist. Hornblower settled it conveniently in
his right hand pocket.

Hewitt reported, and had to be briefly told what was expected of him.
The sidelong glance he gave to Grimes revealed much of what Hewitt
thought, but there was no time for discussion; that matter would have to
be sorted out later. Hewitt was shown the contents of the bundle
originally allotted to Grimes--the flint and steel for use if the dark
lantern were extinguished, the oily rags, the slow match, the quick
match, the blue lights for instant intense combustion. Hewitt took
solemn note of each item and weighed his sandbag in his hand.

'Very well. Come along,' said Hornblower.

'Sir!' said Grimes at that moment in a pleading tone, but Hornblower
would not--indeed could not--spare time to hear any more.

On deck it was pitch dark, and Hornblower's eyes took long to adjust
themselves.

Officer after officer reported all ready.

'You're sure of what you have to say, Mr Ctard?'

'Yes, sir.'

There was no hint of the excitable Frenchman about Ctard. He was as
phlegmatic as any commanding officer could desire.

'Fifty-one rank and file present, sir,' reported the captain of marines.

Those marines, brought on board the night before, had lain huddled below
decks all day, concealed from the telescopes on Petit Minou.

'Thank you, Captain Jones. You've made sure no musket is loaded?'

'Yes, sir.'

Until the alarm was given not a shot was to be fired. The work was to be
done with the bayonet and the butt, and the sandbag--but the only way to
be certain of that was to keep the muskets unloaded.

'First landing party all down in the fishing-boat, sir,' reported Bush.

'Thank you, Mr Bush. Very well, Mr Ctard, we may as well start.'

The lobster-boat, seized earlier in the night to the surprise of its
crew, lay alongside. The crew were prisoners down below; their surprise
was due to the breach of the traditional neutrality enjoyed during the
long wars by fishing-boats. These men were all acquainted with
Hornblower, had often sold him part of their catch in exchange for gold,
yet they had hardly been reassured when they were told that their boat
would be returned to them later. Now it lay alongside, and Ctard
followed Hewitt, and Hornblower followed Ctard, down into it. Eight men
were squatting in the bottom where the lobster-pots used to lie.

'Sanderson, Hewitt, Black, Downes take the oars. The rest of you get
down below the gunnels. Mr Ctard, sit here against my knees, if you
please.'

Hornblower waited until they had settled themselves. The black
silhouette of the boat must appear no different in the dark night. Now
came the moment.

'Shove off,' said Hornblower.

The oars dragged through the water, bit more effectively at the next
stroke, pulled smoothly at the third, and they were leaving _Hotspur_
behind them. They were setting off on an adventure, and Hornblower was
only too conscious that it was his own fault. If he had not been bitten
with this idea they might all be peacefully asleep on board; tomorrow
men would be dead who but for him would still be alive.

He put the morbid thought to one side, and then immediately he had to do
the same with thoughts about Grimes. Grimes could wait perfectly well
until his return, and Hornblower would not trouble his mind about him
until then. Yet even so, as Hornblower concentrated on steering the
lobster-boat, there was a continual undercurrent of thought--like ship's
noises during a discussion of plans--regarding how the crew on board
would be treating Grimes, for Hewitt, before leaving the ship, would
have certainly told the story to his cronies.

Hornblower, with his hand on the tiller, steered a steady course
northward towards Petit Minou. A mile and a quarter to go, and it would
never do if he missed the little jetty so that the expedition would end
in a miserable fiasco. He had the faint outline of the steep hills on
the northern shore of the Goulet to guide him; he knew them well enough
now, after all these weeks of gazing at them, and the abrupt shoulder,
where a little stream came down to the sea a quarter of a mile west of
the semaphore, was his principal guide. He had to keep that notch open
as the boat advanced, but after a few minutes he could actually make out
the towering height of the semaphore itself, just visible against the
dark sky, and then it was easy.

The oars groaned in the rowlocks, the blades splashing occasionally in
the water; the gentle waves which raised them and lowered them seemed to
be made of black glass. There was no need for a silent or invisible
approach; on the contrary, the lobster-boat had to appear as if she were
approaching on her lawful occasions. At the foot of the abrupt shore was
a tiny half-tide jetty, and it was the habit of the lobster-boats to
land there and put ashore a couple of men with the pick of the catch.
Then, each with a basket on his head containing a dozen live lobsters,
they would run along the track over the hills into Brest so as to be
ready for the opening of the market, regardless of whether the boat was
delayed by wind and tide or not. Hornblower, scouting at a safe distance
in the jolly boat, had ascertained during a succession of nights such of
the routine as he had not been able to pick up in conversation with the
fishermen.

There it was. There was the jetty. Hornblower found his grip tightening
on the tiller. Now came the loud voice of the sentry at the end of the
jetty.

'Qui va la?'

Hornblower nudged Ctard with his knee, unnecessarily, for Ctard was
ready with the answer.

'Camille,' he hailed, and continued in French, 'Lobster-boat. Captain
Quillien.'

They were already alongside; the crucial moment on which everything
depended. Black, the burly Captain of the _Forecastle_, knew what he had
to do the moment opportunity offered. Ctard spoke from the depths of
the boat.

'I have the lobster for your officer.'

Hornblower, standing up and reaching for the jetty, could just see the
dark of the sentry looking down, but Black had already leaped up from
the bows like a panther, Downes and Sanderson following him. Hornblower
saw a swift movement of shadows, but there was not a sound--not a sound.

'All right, sir,' said Black.

Hornblower, with a line in his hand, managed to propel himself up the
slippery side, arriving on the top on his hands and knees. Black was
standing holding the inanimated body of the sentry in his arms. Sandbags
were silent; a vicious blow from behind at the exposed back of the neck,
a quick grab, and it was finished. The sentry had not even dropped his
musket; he and it were safe in Black's monstrous arms.

Black lowered the body--senseless or dead, it did not matter which--on
to the slimy stone flags of the jetty.

'If he makes a sound cut his throat,' said Hornblower.

This was all orderly and yet unreal, like a nightmare. Hornblower,
turning to drop a clove-hitch with his line over a bollard, found his
upper lip was still drawn up in a snarl like a wild beast's. Ctard was
already beside him; Sanderson had already made the boat fast forward.

'Come on.'

The jetty was only a few yards long; at the far end, where the paths
diverged up to the batteries, they would find the second sentry. From
the boat they passed up a couple of empty baskets, and Black and Ctard
held them on their heads and set off, Ctard in the middle, Hornblower
on the left, and Black on the right where his right arm would be free to
swing his sandbag. There was the sentry. He made no formal challenge,
greeting them in jocular fashion while Ctard spoke again about the
lobster which was the recognised though unofficial toll paid to the
officer commanding the guard for the use of the jetty. It was a
perfectly ordinary encounter until Black dropped his basket and swung
with his sandbag and they all three leaped on the sentry, Ctard with
his hands on the sentry's throat, Hornblower striking madly with his
sandbag as well, desperately anxious to make sure. It was over in an
instant, and Hornblower looked round at the dark and silent night with
the sentry's body lying at his feet. He and Black and Ctard were the
thin point of the wedge that had pierced the ring of the French
defences. It was time for the wedge to be driven home. Behind them were
the half-dozen others who had crouched in the lobster-boat, and
following them up were the seventy marines and seamen in the boats of
the _Hotspur_.

They dragged the second sentry back to the jetty and left him with the
two boat-keepers. Now Hornblower had eight men at his back as he set his
face to the steep climb up the path, the path he had only seen through a
telescope from _Hotspur's_ deck. Hewitt was behind him; the smell of hot
metal and fat in the still night air told him that the dark lantern was
still alight. The path was stony and slippery, and Hornblower had to
exert his self-control as he struggled up it. There was no need for
desperate haste, and although they were inside the ring of sentries, in
an area where civilians apparently passed fairly freely, there was no
need to scramble noisily and attract too much attention.

Now the path became less steep. Now it was level, and here it
intersected another path at right angles.

'Halt!' grunted Hornblower to Hewitt, but he took another two paces
forward while Hewitt passed the word back; a sudden stop would mean that
the people behind would be cannoning into each other.

This was indeed the summit. Owing to the levelling-off of the top this
was an area unsearched by telescopes from the _Hotspur_; even from the
main topgallant masthead, with the ship far out in the Iroise, they had
not been able to view the ground here. The towering telegraph had been
plainly in view, and at its foot just a hint of a roof, but they had not
been able to see what was at ground level here, nor had Hornblower been
able to obtain any hint in his conversations with fishermen.

'Wait!' he whispered back, and stepped cautiously forward, his hands
extended in front of him. Instantly they came into contact with a wooden
paling, quite an ordinary fence and by no means a military obstacle. And
this was a gate, an ordinary gate with a wooden latch. Obviously the
semaphore station was not closely guarded--fence and gate were only
polite warnings to unauthorised intruders--and of course there was no
reason why they should be, here among the French coastal batteries.

'Hewitt! Ctard!'

They came up to him and all three strained their eyes in the darkness.

'Do you see anything?'

'Looks like a house,' whispered Ctard.

Something in two storeys. Windows in the lower one, and above that a
sort of platform. The crew who worked the telegraph must live here.
Hornblower cautiously fumbled with the latch of the gate, and it opened
without resistance. Then a sudden noise almost in his ear tensed him
rigid, to relax again. It was a cock crowing, and he could hear a
fluttering of wings. The semaphore crew must keep chickens in coops
here, and the cock was giving premature warning of day. No reason for
further delay; Hornblower whispered his orders to his band whom he
called up to the gate. Now was the time; and this was the moment when
the parties of marines must be half-way up the climb to the battery. He
was on the point of giving the final word when he saw something else
which stopped him dead, and Ctard grabbed his shoulder at the same
moment. Two of the windows before him were showing a light, a tiny
glimmer, which nevertheless to their dilated pupils made the whole
cottage plain to their view.

'Come on!'

They dashed forward, Hornblower, Ctard, Hewitt, and the two men with
axes in one group, the other four musket men scattering to surround the
place. The path led straight to a door, again with a wooden latch, which
Hornblower feverishly tried to work. But the door resisted; it was
bolted on the inside, and at the rattling of the latch a startled cry
made itself heard inside. A woman's voice! It was harsh and loud, but a
woman's voice, undoubtedly. The axeman at Hornblower's shoulder heaved
up his axe to beat in the door, but at the same moment the other axeman
shattered a window and went leaping through followed by Ctard. The
woman's voice rose to a scream; the bolt was drawn and the door swung
open and Hornblower burst in.

A tallow dip lit the odd scene, and Hewitt opened the shutter of the
dark lantern to illuminate it further, sweeping its beam in a
semicircle. There were large baulks of timber, each set at an angle of
forty-five degrees, to act as struts for the mast. Where floor space
remained stood cottage furniture, a table and chairs, a rush mat on the
floor, a stove. Ctard stood in the centre with sword and pistol, and at
the far side stood a screaming woman. She was hugely fat, with a tangle
of black hair, and all she wore was a nightshirt that hardly came to her
knees. There was an inner door from which emerged a bearded man with
hairy legs showing below his shirt-tails. The woman still screamed, but
Ctard spoke loudly in French, waving his pistol--empty presumably--and
the noise ceased, not, perhaps, because of Ctard's threats but because
of the woman's sheer curiosity regarding these dawn intruders. She stood
goggling at them, making only the most perfunctory gestures to conceal
her nakedness.

But decisions had to be made; those screams might have given the alarm
and probably had done so. Against the thick bulk of the semaphore mast a
ladder led up to a trap door. Overhead must be the apparatus for working
the semaphore arms. The bearded man in his shirt must be the
telegraphist, a civilian perhaps, and he and his wife presumably lived
beside their work. It must have been convenient for them that the
construction of the working platform overhead made it easy to build
these cottage rooms underneath.

Hornblower had come to burn the semaphore, and burn it he would, even if
a civilian dwelling were involved. The rest of his party were crowding
into the living-room, two of the musket men appearing from the bedroom
into which they must have made their way by another window. Hornblower
had to stop and think for a perceptible space. He had expected that at
this moment he would be fighting French soldiers, but here he was
already in complete possession and with a woman on his hands. But his
wits returned to him and he was able to put his thoughts in order.

'Get out, you musket men,' he said. 'Get out to the fence and keep
watch. Ctard, up that ladder. Bring down all the signal books you can
find. Any papers there are. Quick--I'll give you two minutes. Here's the
lantern. Black, get something for this woman. The clothes from the
bed'll do, and then take these two out and guard 'em. Are you ready to
burn this place, Hewitt?'

It flashed through his mind that the Moniteur in Paris could make a
great deal of noise about ill-treatment of a woman by the licentious
British sailors, but it would do that however careful he might be. Black
hung a ragged quilt over the woman's shoulders and then hustled his
charge out of the front door. Hewitt had to stop and think. He had never
set about burning a house before, and clearly he did not adapt himself
readily to new situations.

'That's the place,' snapped Hornblower, pointing to the foot of the
telegraph mast. There were the great baulks of timber round the mast;
Hornblower joined with Hewitt in pushing the furniture under them, and
then hurried into the bedroom to do the same.

'Bring some rags here!' he called.

Ctard came scrambling down the ladder with one arm full of books.

'Now. Let's start the fire,' said Hornblower.

It was a strange thing to do, in cold blood.

'Try the stove,' suggested Ctard.

Hewitt unlatched the door of the stove, but it was too hot to touch
after that. He set his back to the wall and braced his feet against the
stove and shoved; the stove fell and rolled, scattering a few embers
over the floor. But Hornblower had snatched up a handful of blue lights
from Hewitt's bundle; the tallow dip was still burning and available to
light the fuses. The first fuse spluttered and then the firework spouted
flames. Sulphur and saltpetre with a sprinkling of gunpowder; blue
lights were ideal for this purpose. He tossed the blazing thing on to
the oily rags, lit another and threw it, lit another still.

This was like some scene in Hell. The uncanny blue gleam lit the room,
but soon the haze of smoke made everything dim, and the fumes of the
burning sulphur offended their nostrils as the fireworks hissed and
roared, while Hornblower went on lighting fuses and thrusting the blue
lights where they would be most effective in living-room and bedroom.
Hewitt in an inspired moment tore the rush mat up from the floor and
flung it over the rising flames of the rags. Already the timber was
crackling and throwing out showers of yellow sparks to compete with the
blue glare and the thickening smoke.

'That'll burn!' said Ctard.

The flames from the blazing mat were playing on one of the sloping
timbers, and engendering new flames which licked up the rough wooden
surface. They stood and watched fascinated. On this rocky summit there
could be no well, no spring, and it would be impossible to extinguish
this fire once it was thoroughly started. The laths of the partition
wall were alight in two places where Hornblower had thrust blue lights
into the crannies; he saw the flames at one point suddenly leap two feet
up the partition with a volley of loud reports and fresh showers of
sparks.

'Come on!' he said.

Outside the air was keen and clear and they blinked their dazzled eyes
and stumbled over inequalities at their feet, but there was a faint tiny
light suffusing the air, the first glimmer of daylight. Hornblower saw
the vague shape of the fat woman standing huddled in her quilt; she was
sobbing in a strange way, making a loud gulping noise regularly at
intervals of a couple of seconds or so. Somebody must have kicked over
the chicken coop, because there seemed to be clucking chickens
everywhere in the half-light. The interior of the cottage was all
ablaze, and now there was light enough in the sky for Hornblower to see
the immense mast of the telegraph against it, oddly shaped with its
semaphore arms dangling. Eight stout cables radiated out from it,
attached to pillars sunk in the rock. The cables braced the unwieldy
mast against the rude winds of the Atlantic, and the pillars served also
to support the tottering picket fence that surrounded the place. There
was a pathetic attempt at a garden on small patches of soil that might
well have been carried up by hand from the valley below; a few pansies,
a patch of lavender, and two unhappy geraniums trodden down by some
blunderer.

Yet the light was still only just apparent; the flames that were
devouring the cottage were brighter. He saw illuminated smoke pouring
from the side of the upper storey, and directly after that flames shot
out from between the warping timbers.

'The devil of a collection of ropes and blocks and levers up there,'
said Ctard. 'Not much of it left by this time.'

'No one'll put that out now. And we've heard nothing from the marines,'
said Hornblower. 'Come along, you men.'

He had been prepared to fight a delaying action with his musket men if
the enemy had appeared before the place was we alight. Now it was
unnecessary, so well had everything gone. So well, indeed, that it
called for a moment or two's delay to collect the men. These leisurely
minutes had made all haste appear unnecessary as they filed out through
the gate. There was a slight haze lying over the surface of the summer
sea; the topsails of the _Hotspur_--maintopsail aback--were far more
visible than her hull, a grey pearl in the pearly mist. The fat woman
stood at the gate, all modesty gone with the quilt that had fallen from
her shoulders, waving her arms and shrieking curses at them.

From the misty valley on their right as they faced the descent came the
notes of a musical instrument, some trumpet or bugle.

'That's their reveille,' commented Ctard, sliding down the path on
Hornblower's heels.

He had hardly spoken when the call was taken up by other bugles. A
second or two later came the sound of a musket shot, and then more
musket shots, and along with them the echoing roll of a drum, and then
more drums beating the alarm.

'That's the marines,' said Ctard'

'Yes,' snapped Hornblower. 'Come on!'

Musketry meant a bad mark against the landing party that had gone up
against the battery. Very likely there was a sentry there, and he should
have been disposed of silently. But somehow the alarm had been given.
The guard had turned out--say twenty men armed and equipped--and now the
main body was being roused. That would be the artillery unit in their
hutments below the ridge; not too effective, perhaps, fighting with
musket and bayonet, but over the other side there was a battalion of
infantry at this very moment being roused from sleep. Hornblower had
given his order and broken into a run along the right-hand path towards
the battery before these thoughts had formulated themselves quite so
clearly. He was ready with his new plan before they topped the ridge.

'Halt!'

They assembled behind him.

'Load!'

Cartridges were bitten open; pans were primed, and charges poured down
the barrels of muskets and pistols. The wadded cartridge papers were
thrust into the muzzles, the bullets were spat in on top, and then the
ramrods were plied to drive all home.

'Ctard, take the musket men out to the flank. You others, come with
me.'

There was the great battery with its four thirty-two pounders looking
through the embrasures of its curving parapet. Beyond it a skirmish line
of marines, their uniforms showing scarlet in the growing light, were
holding at bay a French force only outlined by musket flashes and puffs
of smoke. The sudden arrival of Ctard and his men, an unknown force on
their flank caused the momentary withdrawal of this French force.

In the centre of the inner face of the parapet Captain Jones in his red
coat with four other men were struggling with a door; beside him was
laid out a bundle similar to the one Hewitt carried, blue lights, reels
of slow match and quick match. Beyond him lay two dead marines, one of
them shot hideously in the face. Jones looked up as Hornblower arrived,
but Hornblower wasted no time in discussion.

'Stand aside! Axemen!'

The door was of solid wood and reinforced with iron, but it was only
intended to keep out thieving civilians; a sentry was supposed to guard
it, and under the thundering of the axes, it gave way rapidly.

'The guns are all spiked,' said Jones.

That was only the smallest part of the business. An iron spike driven
into the touch-hole of a gun would render it useless in the heat of the
moment, but an armourer working with a drill would clear it in an hour's
work. Hornblower was on the step of the parapet looking over the top;
the French were rallying for a new attack. But an axehandle was working
as a lever through a gap driven in the door. Black had hold of the edge
of a panel and with a wild effort tore it free. A dozen more blows,
another wrench, and there was a way open through the door. A crouching
man could make his way into the blackness inside.

'I'll go,' said Hornblower. He could not trust Jones or the marines. He
could trust no one but himself. He seized the reel of quick match and
squeezed through the shattered door. There were timbered steps under his
feet, but he expected that and so did not fall down them. He crouched
under the roof and felt his way down. There was a landing and a turn,
and then more steps, much darker, and then his outstretched hands
touched a hanging curtain of serge. He thrust this aside and stepped
cautiously beyond it. Here it was utterly black. He was in the magazine.
He was in the area where the ammunition party would wear list slippers,
because nailed shoes might cause a spark to ignite the gunpowder. He
felt cautiously about him; one hand touched a wall of cartridges, serge
cylinders ready filled, and the other hand touched the harsh outline of
a cask. Those were the powder-barrels--his hand involuntarily withdrew
itself, as though it had touched a snake. No time for that sort of
idiocy, he was surrounded by violent death.

He drew his cutlass, snarling in the darkness with the intensity of his
emotion. Twice he stabbed into the wall of cartridges, and his ears were
rewarded by the whispering sound of a cascade of powder-grains pouring
out through the gashes he had made. He must have a firm anchorage for
the fuse; and he stooped and sank the blade of the cutlass into another
cartridge. He unravelled a length of quick match and wound a bight
firmly round the hilt, and he buried the end in the pile of
powder-grains on the floor; an unnecessarily careful measure, perhaps,
when a single spark would set off the explosion. Unreeling the quick
match behind him, carefully, very carefully, lest he jerk the cutlass
loose, he made his way out past the curtain again, and up the steps, up
into the growing light, round the corner. The light through the broken
door was dazzling, and he blinked as he came out crouching through it,
still unreeling the quick match.

'Cut this!' he snapped, and Black whipped out his knife and sawed
through the quick match at the point indicated by Hornblower's hand.

Quick match burned faster than the eye could follow; the fifty feet or
so that extended down to the magazine would burn in less than a second.

'Cut me a yard off that!' said Hornblower pointing to the slow match.

Slow match was carefully tested. It burned in still air at exactly
thirty inches in one hour, one inch in two minutes. Hornblower had no
intention whatever of allowing an hour or more for the combustion of
this yard, however. He could hear the muskets banging; he could hear
drums echoing in the hills. He must keep calm.

'Cut off another foot and light it!'

While Black was executing this order Hornblower was tying quick match to
slow match, making sure they were closely joined. Yet he still had to
think of the general situation in addition to these vital details.

'Hewitt!' he snapped, looking up from his work. 'Listen carefully. Run
to the lieutenant's party of marines over the ridge there. Tell him
we're going to fall back now, and he is to cover our retreat at the last
slope above the boats. Understand?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Then run.'

Just as well that it was not Grimes who had to be entrusted with the
mission. The fuses were knotted together now, and Hornblower looked
round him.

'Bring that dead man over here!'

Black asked no questions, but dragged the corpse to the foot of the
door. Hornblower had looked first for a stone, but a corpse would be
better in every way. It was not yet stiff, and the arm lay limply across
the quick match just above the knot, after Hornblower had passed all
excess slack back through the shattered door. The dead man served to
conceal the existence of the fuse. If the French arrived too early he
would gain valuable seconds for the plan; the moment the fire reached
the quick match it would flash under the dead man's arm and shoot on
down to the powder. If to investigate the magazine they dragged the
corpse out of the way, the weight of a fuse inside the door would whisk
the knot inside and so gain seconds too--perhaps the burning end would
tumble down the steps, perhaps right into the magazine.

'Captain Jones! Warn everybody to be ready to retreat. At once, please.
Give me that burning fuse, Black.'

'Let me do that, sir.'

'Shut your mouth.'

Hornblower took the smouldering slow match and blew on it to quicken its
life. Then he looked down at the length of slow match knotted to the
quick match. He took special note of a point an inch and a half from the
knot; there was a black spot there which served to mark the place. An
inch and a half. Three minutes.

'Get up on the parapet, Black. Now. Yell for them to run. Yell!'

As Black began to bellow Hornblower pressed the smouldering end down
upon the black spot. After two seconds he withdrew it; the slow match
was alight and burning in two directions--in one, harmlessly towards the
inoperative excess, and in the other towards the knot, the quick match
an inch and a half away. Hornblower made sure it was burning, and then
he scrambled to his feet and leaped up on the parapet.

The marines were trooping past him, with Ctard and his seamen bringing
up the rear. A minute and a half--a minute, now, and the French were
following them up, just out of musket range.

'Better hurry, Ctard. Come on!'

They broke into a dogtrot.

'Steady, there!' yelled Jones. He was concerned about panic among his
men if they ran from the enemy instead of retreating steadily, but there
was a time for everything. The marines began to run, with Jones yelling
ineffectually and waving his sword.

'Come on, Jones,' said Hornblower as he passed him, but Jones was filled
with fighting madness, and went on shouting defiance at the French,
standing alone with his face to the enemy.

Then it happened. The earth moved back and forth under their feet so
that they tripped and staggered, while a smashing, overwhelming
explosion burst on their ears, and the sky went dark. Hornblower looked
back. A column of smoke was still shooting upwards, higher and higher,
and dark fragments were visible in it. Then the column spread out,
mushrooming at the top. Something fell with a crash ten yards away,
throwing up chips of stone which rattled round Hornblower's feet.
Something came whistling through the air, something huge, curving down
as it twirled. Selectively, inevitably, it fell, half a ton of rock,
blown from where it roofed the magazine right on to Jones in his red
coat, sliding along as if bestially determined to wipe out completely
the pitiful thing it dragged beneath it. Hornblower and Ctard gazed at
it in mesmerised horror as it came to rest six feet from their left
hands.

It was the most difficult moment of all for Hornblower to keep his
senses, or to regain them. He had to shake himself out of a daze.

'Come on.'

He still had to think clearly. They were at the final slope above the
boats. The lieutenant's party of marines, sent out as a flank guard, had
fallen back to this point and were drawn up here firing at a threatening
crowd of Frenchmen. The French wore white facings on their blue
uniforms--infantry men, not the artillery men who had opposed them round
the battery. And beyond them was a long column of infantry, hurrying
along, with a score of drums beating an exhilarating rhythm--the _pas de
charge_.

'You men get down into the boats,' said Hornblower, addressing the
rallying group of seamen and marines from the battery, and then he
turned to the lieutenant.

'Captain Jones is dead. Make ready to run for it the moment those others
reach the jetty.'

'Yes, sir.'

Behind Hornblower's back, turned as it was to the enemy, they heard a
sharp sudden noise, like the impact of a carpenter's axe against wood.
Hornblower swung round again. Ctard was staggering, his sword and the
books and papers he had carried all this time fallen to the ground at
his feet. Then Hornblower noticed his left arm, which was swaying in the
air as if hanging by a thread. Then came the blood. A musket bullet had
crashed into Ctard's upper armbone, shattering it. One of the axemen
who had not yet left caught him as he was about to fall.

'Ah--ah--ah!' gasped Ctard, with the jarring of his shattered arm. He
stared at Hornblower with bewildered eyes.

'Sorry you've been hit,' said Hornblower, and to the axeman, 'Get him
down to the boat.'

Ctard was gesticulating towards the ground with his right hand, and
Hornblower spoke to the other axeman.

'Pick those papers up and go down to the boat too.'

But Ctard was not satisfied.

'My sword! My sword!'

'I'll look after your sword,' said Hornblower. These absurd notions of
honour were so deeply engrained that even in these conditions Ctard
could not bear the thought of leaving his sword on the field of battle.
Hornblower realised he had no cutlass as he picked up Ctard's sword.
The axeman had gathered up the books and papers.

'Help Mr Ctard down,' said Hornblower, and added, as another thought
struck him. 'Put a scarf round his arm above the wound and strain it
tight. Understand?'

Ctard, supported by the other axeman was already tottering down the
path. Movement meant agony. That heart rendering 'ah--ah--ah!' came back
to Hornblower's ears at every step Ctard took.

'Here they come!' said the marine lieutenant.

The skirmishing Frenchmen, emboldened by the near approach of their main
body, were charging forward. A hurried glance told Hornblower that the
others were all down on the jetty; the lobster-boat was actually pushing
off, full of men.

'Tell your men to run for it,' he said, and the moment after they
started he followed them.

It was a wild dash, slipping and sliding, down the path to the jetty,
with the French yelling in pursuit. But here was the covering party, as
Hornblower had ordered so carefully the day before; _Hotspur's_ own
thirteen marines, under their own sergeant. They had built a breastwork
across the jetty, again as Hornblower had ordered when he had visualised
this hurried retreat. It was lower than waist-high, hurriedly put
together with rocks and fish-barrels full of stones. The hurrying mob
poured over it, Hornblower, last of all, gathering himself together and
leaping over it, arms and legs flying, to stumble on the far side and
regain his footing by a miracle.

'_Hotspur's_ marines! Line the barricade. Get into the boats, you
others!'

Twelve marines knelt at the barricade; twelve muskets levelled
themselves over it. At the sight of them the pursuing French hesitated,
tried to halt.

'Aim low!' shouted the marine lieutenant hoarsely.

'Go back and get the men into the boats, Mr What's-your-name,' snapped
Hornblower. 'Have the launch ready to cast off, while you shove off in
the yawl and get away.'

The French were coming forward again; Hornblower looked back and saw the
lieutenant drop off the jetty on the heels of the last marine.

'Now sergeant. Let 'em have it.'

'Fire!' said the sergeant.

That was a good volley, but there was not a moment to admire it.

'Come on!' yelled Hornblower. 'Over to the launch!'

With the weight of _Hotspur's_ marines leaping into it the launch was
drifting away by the time he was at the edge; there was a yard of black
water for Hornblower to leap over, but his feet reached the gunnel and
he pitched forward among the men clustered there; he luckily remembered
to drop Ctard's sword so that he fell harmlessly into the bottom of the
boat without wounding anyone. Oars and boat-hook thrust against the
jetty and the launch surged away while Hornblower scrambled into the
stern sheets. He almost stepped on Ctard's face; Ctard was lying
apparently unconscious on the bottom boards.

Now the oars were grinding in the rowlocks. They were twenty yards away,
thirty yards away, before the first Frenchmen came yelling along the
jetty, to stand dancing with rage and excitement on the very edge of the
masonry. For an invaluable second or two they even forgot the muskets in
their hands. In the launch the huddled men raised their voices in a yell
of derision that excited Hornblower's cold rage.

'Silence! Silence, all of you!'

The stillness that fell on the launch was more unpleasant than the
noise. One or two muskets banged off on the jetty, and Hornblower,
looking over his shoulder, saw a French soldier drop on one knee and
take deliberate aim, saw him choose a target, saw the musket barrel
fore-shorten until the muzzle was pointed directly at him. He was wildly
contemplating throwing himself down into the bottom of the boat when the
musket went off. He felt a violent jar through his body, and realised
with relief that the bullet had buried itself in the solid oak transom
of the launch against which he was sitting. He recovered his wits;
looking forward he saw Hewitt trying to force his way aft to his side
and he spoke to him as calmly as his excitement permitted.

'Hewitt! Get for'ard to the gun. It's loaded with grape. Fire when it
bears.' Then he spoke to the oarsmen and to Cargill at the tiller.
'Hard-a-port. Starboard side oars, back water.'

The launch turned her clumsy length.

'Port side, back water.'

The launch ceased to turn; she was pointed straight at the jetty, and
Hewitt, having shoved the other men aside, was cold-bloodedly looking
along the sights of the four-pounder carronade mounted in the bows,
fiddling with the elevating coign. Then he leaned over to one side and
pulled the lanyard. The whole boat jerked sternwards abruptly with the
recoil, as though when under way she had struck a rock, and the smoke
came back round them in a sullen pall.

'Give way, starboard side! Pull! Hard-a-starboard!' The boat turned
ponderously. 'Give way, port side!'

Nine quarter pound grapeshot-balls had swept through the group on the
jetty; there were struggling figures, quiescent figures, lying there.
Bonaparte had a quarter of a million soldiers under arms, but he had now
lost some of them. It could not be called a drop out of the bucketful,
but perhaps a molecule. Now they were out of musket shot, and Hornblower
turned to Cargill in the stern sheets beside him.

'You managed your part of the business well enough. Mr Cargill.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Cargill had been appointed by Hornblower to land with the marines and to
take charge of the boats and prepare them for the evacuation.

'But it might have been better if you'd sent the launch away first and
kept the yawl back until the last. Then the launch could have lain off
and covered the others with her gun.'

'I thought of that, sir. But I couldn't be sure until the last moment
how many men would be coming down in the last group. I had to keep the
launch for that.'

'Maybe you're right,' said Hornblower, grudgingly, and then, his sense
of justice prevailing, 'In fact I'm sure you're right.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Cargill again, and, after a pause, 'I wish you
had let me come with you, sir.'

Some people had queer tastes, thought Hornblower bitterly to himself,
having regard to Ctard lying unconscious with a shattered arm at their
feet, but he had to smooth down ruffled feelings in these touchy young
men thirsting for honour and for the promotion that honour might bring.

'Use your wits, man,' he said, bracing himself once more to think
logically. 'Someone had to be in charge on the jetty, and you were the
best man for the job.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Cargill all over again, but still wistfully, and
therefore still idiotically.

A sudden thought struck Hornblower, and he turned and stared back over
his shoulder. He actually had to look twice, although he knew what he
was looking for. The silhouette of the hills had changed. Then he saw a
wisp of black smoke still rising from the summit. The semaphore was
gone. The towering thing that had spied on their movements and had
reported every disposition of the Inshore Squadron was no more. Trained
British seamen and riggers and carpenters could not replace it--if they
had such a job to do--in less than a week's work. Probably the French
would take two weeks at least; his own estimate would be three.

And there was _Hotspur_ waiting for them, maintopsail aback, as he had
seen her half an hour ago; half an hour that seemed like a week. The
lobster-boat and the yawl were already going round to her port side, and
Cargill steered for her starboard side; in these calm waters and with
such a gentle wind there was no need for the boats to be offered a lee.

'Oars!' said Cargill, and the launch ran alongside, and there was Bush
looking down on them from close overhead. Hornblower seized the
entering-ropes and swung himself up. It was his right as captain to go
first, and it was also his duty. He cut Bush's congratulations short.

'Get the wounded out as quick as you can, Mr Bush. Send a stretcher down
for Mr Ctard.'

'Is he wounded, sir?'

'Yes.' Hornblower had no desire to enter into unnecessary explanations.
'You'll have to lash him to it and then sway the stretcher up with a
whip from the yardarm. His arm's in splinters.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Bush by now had realised that Hornblower was in no
conversational mood.

'The surgeon's ready?'

'He's started work, sir.'

A wave of Bush's hand indicated a couple of wounded men who had come on
board from the yawl and were being supported below.

'Very well.'

Hornblower headed for his cabin; no need to explain that he had his
report to write; no need to make excuses. But as always after action he
yearned for the solitude of his cabin even more than he yearned to sink
down and forget his weariness. But at the second step he pulled up
short. This was not a neat clean end to the venture. No peace for him at
the moment, and he swore to himself under this final strain, using
filthy black blasphemies such as he rarely employed.

He would have to deal with Grimes, and instantly. He must make up his
mind about what he should do. Punish him? Punish a man for being a
coward? That would be like punishing a man for having red hair.
Hornblower stood first on one foot and then on the other, unable to
pace, yet striving to goad his weary mind to further action. Punish
Grimes for showing cowardice? That was more to the point. Not that it
would do Grimes any good, but it would deter other men from showing
cowardice. There were officers who would punish, not in the interests of
discipline, but because they thought punishment should be inflicted in
payment for crime, as sinners had to go to Hell. Hornblower would not
credit himself with the divine authority some officers thought natural.

But he would have to act. He thought of the court martial. He would be
the sole witness, but the court would know he was speaking the truth.
His word would decide Grimes' fate, and then--the hangman's noose, or at
the very least five hundred lashes, with Grimes screaming in pain until
he should fall unconscious, to be nursed round for another day of
torture, and another after that, until he was a gibbering idiot with
neither mind nor strength left.

Hornblower hated the thought. But he remembered that the crew must have
already guessed. Grimes must have already started his punishment, and
yet the discipline of the _Hotspur_ must be preserved. Hornblower would
have to do his duty; he must pay one of the penalties for being a naval
officer, just as he suffered sea-sickness--just as he risked his life.
He would have Grimes put under arrest at once, and while Grimes was
spending twenty-four hours in irons he could make up his mind to the
final decision. He strode aft to his cabin, with all relief gone from
the thought of relaxation.

Then he opened the door, and there was no problem left; only horror,
further horror. Grimes hung there, from a rope threaded through the hook
that supported the lamp. He was swaying with the gentle motion of the
ship, his feet dragging on the deck so that even his knees were almost
on the deck too. There was a blackened face and protruding
tongue--actually there was no likeness to Grimes at all in the horrible
thing hanging there. Grimes had not the courage to face the landing
operation, but when the realisation had come to him, when the crew had
displayed their feelings, he had yet had the determination to do this
thing, to submit himself to this slow strangulation, falling with a
small preliminary jerk from a cramped position crouching on the cot.

In all the crew of the _Hotspur_ Grimes had been the one man who as
captain's steward could find the necessary privacy to do this thing. He
had foreseen the flogging or the hanging, he had suffered the scorn of
his shipmates; there was bitter irony in the thought that the semaphore
station which he had feared to attack had turned out to be defended by a
helpless civilian and his wife.

_Hotspur_ rolled gently on the swell, and as she rolled the lolling head
and the dangling arms swayed in unison, and the feet scraped over the
deck. Hornblower shook off the horror that had seized him, drove himself
to be clear-headed once more despite his fatigue and his disgust. He
went to the door of the cabin; it was excusable that no sentry had yet
been reposted there, seeing that the _Hotspur's_ marines had only just
come on board.

'Pass the word for Mr Bush,' he said.

Within a minute Bush hurried in, to pull up short as soon as he saw the
thing.

'I'll have that removed at once, if you please, Mr Bush. Put it over the
side. Give it a burial, Christian burial, if you like.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Bush shut his mouth after his formal statement of compliance. He could
see that Hornblower was in even less a conversational mood in this cabin
than he had been when on deck. Hornblower passed into the chart-room and
squeezed himself into the chair, and sat still, his hands motionless on
the table. Almost immediately he heard the arrival of the working-party
Bush had sent. He heard loud amazed voices, and something like a laugh,
all instantly repressed when they realised that he was next door. The
voices died to hoarse whispers. There was a clump or two, and then a
dragging noise and he knew the thing was gone.

Then he got to his feet to carry out the resolution formed during his
recent clarity of mind. He walked firmly into the cabin, a little like
someone unwillingly going into a duel. He did not want to; he hated this
place, but in a tiny ship like _Hotspur_ he had nowhere else to go. He
would have to grow used to it. He put aside the weak thought that he
could move himself into one of the screened-off cabins in the 'tween
decks, and send, for instance, the warrant officers up here. That would
occasion endless inconvenience, and--even more important--endless
comment as well. He had to use this place and the longer he contemplated
the prospect the less inviting it would be. And he was so tired he could
hardly stand. He approached the cot; a mental picture developed in his
mind's eye of Grimes kneeling on it, rope round his neck, to pitch
himself off. He forced himself coldly to accept that picture, as
something in the past. This was the present, and he dropped on to the
cot, shoes on his feet, cutlass-sheath at his side, sandbag in his
pocket. Grimes was not present to help him with those.




                               CHAPTER XI


Hornblower had written the address, the date, and the word 'Sir'
before he realised that the report would not be so easy to write. He was
quite sure that this letter would appear in the Gazette, but he had been
sure of that from the moment he had faced the writing of it. It would be
a 'Gazette Letter,' one of the few, out of the many hundreds of reports
coming into the Admiralty, selected for publication, and it would be his
first appearance in print. He had told himself that he would simply
write a standard straight forward report along the time-honoured lines,
yet now he had to stop and think, although stage fright had nothing to
do with it. The publication of this letter meant that it would be read
by the whole world. It would be read by the whole Navy, which meant that
his subordinates would read it, and he knew, only too well, how every
careless word would be scanned and weighed by touchy individuals.

Much more important still; it would be read by all England, and that
meant that Maria would read it. It would open a peephole into his life
that so far she had never been able to look through. From the point of
view of his standing with the Navy it might be desirable to let the
dangers he had undergone be apparent, in a modest sort of way, but that
would be in direct contradiction of the breezy lighthearted letter he
intended to write to Maria. Maria was a shrewd little person, and he
could not deceive her; to read the Gazette letter after his letter would
excite her mistrust and apprehension at a moment when she was carrying
what might well be the heir to the Hornblower name, with possibly the
worst effects both on Maria and on the child.

He faced the choice, and it had to be in favour of Maria. He would make
light of his difficulties and dangers, and even then he could still hope
that the Navy would read between the lines that which Maria in her
ignorance would not guess at. He re-dipped his pen, and bit the end in a
momentary mental debate as to whether all the Gazette Letters he had
read had been written in the face of similar difficulties, and decided
that was probably true of the majority. Well, it had to be written.
There was no avoiding it--for that matter there was no postponing it.
The necessary preliminary words, 'In accordance with your orders' set
him off, started the flow. He had to remember all that he had to put in.
'Mr William Bush, my first lieutenant, very handsomely volunteered his
services, but I directed him to remain in command of the ship.' Later on
it was no effort to write 'Lieut Charles Ctard, of H.M.S.
_Marlborough_, who had volunteered for the expedition, gave invaluable
assistance as a result of his knowledge of the French language. I regret
very much to have to inform you that he received a wound which
necessitated amputation, and his life is still in danger.' Then there
was something else he had to put in. 'Mr'--what was his first name?--'Mr
Alexander Cargill, Master's Mate, was allotted by me the duty of
superintending the re-embarkation, which he carried out very much to my
satisfaction.' The next passage would satisfy Maria. 'The Telegraph
Station was seized by the party under my personal command without the
slightest opposition, and was set on fire and completely destroyed after
the confidential papers had been secured.' Intelligent naval officers
would have a higher opinion of an operation carried through without loss
of life than of one which cost a monstrous butcher's bill.

Now for the battery; he had to be careful about this. 'Captain Jones of
the Royal Marines, having gallantly secured the battery, was
unfortunately involved in the explosion of the magazine, and I much
regret to have to report his death, while several other Royal Marines of
his party are dead or missing.' One of them had been as useful dead as
alive. Hornblower checked himself. He still could not bear to remember
those minutes by the magazine door. He went on with his letter.
'Lieutenant Reid of the Royal Marines guarded the flank and covered the
retreat with small loss. His conduct calls for my unreserved
approbation.'

That was very true, and pleasant to write. So was the next passage. 'It
is with much gratification that I can inform you that the battery is
completely wrecked. The parapet is thrown down along with the guns, and
the gun-carriages destroyed, as will be understood because not less than
one ton of gunpowder was exploded in the battery.' There were four
thirty-two pounders in that battery. A single charge for one of these
guns was ten pounds of powder, and the magazine, sunk deep below the
parapets, must have contained charges for fifty rounds per gun as a
minimum. A crater had been left where once the parapet stood.

Not much more to write now. 'The retreat was effected in good order. I
append the list of killed, wounded, and missing.' The rough list lay in
front of him, and he proceeded to copy it out carefully; there were
widows and bereaved parents who might derive consolation from the sight
of those names in the Gazette. One seaman had been killed and several
slightly wounded. He recorded their names and began a fresh paragraph.
'Royal Marines. Killed. Captain Henry Jones. Privates--' A thought
struck him at this moment and he paused with his pen in the air. There
was not only consolation in seeing a name in the Gazette; parents and
widows could receive the back pay of the deceased and some small
gratuity. He was still thinking when Bush came hurrying in the door.

'Cap'n, sir. I'd like to show you something from the deck.'

'Very well. I'll come.'

He paused for only a short while. There was a single name in the
paragraph headed 'Seamen killed'--James Johnson, Ordinary Seaman. He
added another name. 'John Grimes, Captain's Steward' and then he put
down the pen and came out on deck.

'Look over there, sir,' said Bush, pointing eagerly ashore and
proffering his telescope.

The landscape was still unfamiliar, with the semaphore gone and the
battery--easily visible previously--replaced now by a mound of earth.
But that was not what Bush was referring to. There was a considerable
body of men on horseback riding along the slopes; through the telescope
Hornblower could fancy he could detect plumes and gold lace.

'Those must be generals, sir,' said Bush excitedly, 'come out to see the
damage. The commandant, and the governor, an' the chief engineer, an'
all the rest of 'em. We're nearly in range now, sir. We could drop down
without their noticing, run out the guns smartly, full elevation,
and--we ought to hit a target that size with one shot in a broadside at
least, sir.'

'I think we could,' agreed Hornblower. He looked up at the wind-vane and
over at the shore. 'We could wear ship and--'

Bush waited for Hornblower to complete his speech, but the end never
came.

'Shall I give the order, sir?'

There was another pause.

'No,' said Hornblower at last. 'Better not.'

Bush was too good a subordinate to protest, but his disappointment
showed plainly enough, and it was necessary to soften the refusal with
an explanation. They might kill a general, although the odds were that
it would merely be an orderly dragoon. On the other hand they would be
drawing most forcible attention to the present weakness of this portion
of coast.

'Then they'll be bringing field batteries,' went on Hornblower, 'Only
nine-pounders, but--'

'Yes, sir. They might be a nuisance,' said Bush in reluctant agreement.
'Do you have anything in mind, sir?'

'Not me. Him,' said Hornblower. All operations of the Inshore Squadron
were Pellew's responsibility and should be to Pellew's credit. He
pointed towards the Inshore Squadron where Pellew's broad pendant flew.

But the broad pendant was to fly there no longer. The boat that took
Hornblower's report to the _Tonnant_ returned not only with stores but
with official despatches.

'Sir,' said Orrock, after handing them over, 'The Commodore sent a man
with me from the _Tonnant_ who carries a letter for you.'

'Where is he?'

He seemed a very ordinary sort of seaman, dressed in the standard
clothes of the slop-chest. His thick blond pigtail, as he stood hat in
hand, indicated that he had long been a seaman. Hornblower took the
letter and broke the seal.

    'My dear Hornblower,

    It is with infinite pain to myself that I have to confirm the
    news, conveyed to you in the official despatches, that your
    latest report will also be the last that I shall have the
    pleasure of reading. My flag has come, and I shall hoist it as
    Rear-Admiral commanding the squadron assembling for the blockade
    of Rochefort. Rear-Admiral Wm. Parker will take over the command
    of the Inshore Squadron and I have recommended you to him in the
    strongest terms although your actions speak even more strongly
    for you. But Commanding officers are likely to have their
    favourites, men with whom they are personally acquainted. We can
    hardly quarrel on this score, seeing that I have indulged myself
    in a favourite whose initials are H. H.! Now let us leave this
    subject for another even more personal.

    I noted in your report that you have had the misfortune to lose
    your steward, and I take the liberty to send you James Doughty
    as a substitute. He was steward of the late Captain Stevens of
    the _Magnificent_, and he has been persuaded to volunteer for
    the _Hotspur_. I understand that he has had much practical
    experience in attending to gentlemen's needs, and I hope you
    will find him suitable and that he will look after you for many
    years. If during that time you are reminded of me by his
    presence I shall be well satisfied.

                                           Your sincere friend,
                                                     Ed. Pellew.'

Even with all his quickness of mind it took Hornblower a little while to
digest the manifold contents of this letter after reading it. It was all
bad news; bad news about the change of command, and just as bad,
although in a different way, that he was being saddled with a
gentleman's gentleman who would sneer at his domestic arrangements. Yet
if there was anything that a naval career taught anybody, it was to be
philosophic about drastic changes.

'Doughty?' said Hornblower.

'Sir.'

Doughty looked respectful, but there might be something quizzical in his
glance.

'You're going to be my servant. Do your duty and you have nothing to
fear.'

'Yes, sir. No, sir.'

'You've brought your dunnage?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'The First Lieutenant will detail someone to show you where to sling
your hammock. You'll share a berth with my clerk.'

The captain's steward was the only ordinary seaman in the ship who did
not have to sleep in the tiers.

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Then you can take up your duties.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

It was only a few minutes later that Hornblower, in his cabin, looked up
to find a silent figure slipping in through the door; Doughty knew that
as a personal servant he did not knock if the sentry told him the
captain was alone.

'Have you had your dinner, sir?'

It took a moment to answer that question, at the end of a broken day
following an entirely sleepless night. During that moment Doughty looked
respectfully over Hornblower's left shoulder. His eyes were a startling
blue.

'No, I haven't. You'd better see about something for me,' replied
Hornblower.

'Yes, sir.'

The blue eyes looked round the cabin and found nothing.

'No. There are no cabin stores. You'll have to go to the galley. Mr
Simmonds will find something for me.' The ship's cook, as a warrant
officer, rated the 'Mr' in front of his name. 'No. Wait. There are two
lobsters somewhere in this ship. You'll find 'em in a barrel of seawater
somewhere on the booms. And that reminds me. Your predecessor has been
dead for nearly twenty-four hours and that water hasn't been changed.
You must do that. Go to the officer of the watch with my compliments and
ask him to put the wash-deck pump to work on it. That'll keep one
lobster alive while I have the other.'

'Yes, sir. Or you could have this one hot tonight and the other one cold
tomorrow if I boil them both now, sir.'

'I could,' agreed Hornblower without committing himself.

'Mayonnaise,' said Doughty. 'Are there any eggs in this ship, sir? Any
salad oil?'

'No there are not!' rasped Hornblower. 'There are no cabin stores
whatever in this ship except those two damned lobsters.'

'Yes, sir. Then I'll serve this one with drawn butter and I'll see what
I can do tomorrow, sir.'

'Do whatever you damned well like and don't trouble me,' said
Hornblower.

He was working into a worse and worse temper. He not only had to storm
batteries but he also had to remember about keeping lobsters alive. And
Pellew was leaving the Brest fleet; the official orders he had just read
gave details about salutes to the new flags tomorrow. And tomorrow this
damned Doughty and his damned mayonnaise, whatever that was, would be
pawing over his patched shirts.

'Yes, sir,' said Doughty, and disappeared as quietly as he had entered.

Hornblower went out on deck to pace off his bad temper. The first breath
of the delightful evening air helped to soothe him; so, too, did the
hurried movement of everyone on the quarter-deck over to the lee side so
as to leave the weather side to him. For him there was as much space as
heart could desire--five long strides forward and aft--but all the other
officers had now to take the air under crowded conditions. Let 'em. He
had to write out his report to Pellew three times, the original draught,
the fair copy, and the copy in his confidential letter book. Some
captains gave that work to their clerks, but Hornblower would not do so.
Captain's clerks made a practice of exploiting their confidential
position; there were officers in the ship who would be glad to hear what
their captain said about them, and what the future plans might be.
Martin would never have the chance. He could confine himself to muster
rolls and returns of stores and the other nuisances that plagued a
captain's life.

Now Pellew was leaving them, and that was a disaster. Earlier today
Hornblower had actually allowed his mind to dally with the notion that
some day he might know the inexpressible joy of being 'made Post,' of
being promoted to Captain. That called for the strongest influence, in
the Fleet and in the Admiralty. With Pellew's transfer he had lost a
friend in the Fleet. With Parry's retirement he had lost a friend in the
Admiralty--he did not know a single soul there. His promotion to
Commander had been a fantastic stroke of luck. When _Hotspur_ should be
paid off there were three hundred ambitious young Commanders all with
uncles and cousins and all anxious to take his place. He could find
himself rotting on the beach on half-pay. With Maria. With Maria and the
child. The reverse side of the penny was no more attractive than the
front.

This was not the way to work off the gloom that threatened to engulf
him. He had written Maria a letter to be proud of, reassuring, cheerful,
and as loving as he had found it possible to make it. Over there was
Venus, shining out in the evening sky. This sea air was stimulating,
refreshing, delightful. Surely this was a better world than his drained
nervous condition allowed him to believe. It took a full hour of pacing
to convince him fully of this. At the end of that time the comfortably
monotonous exercise had slowed down his overactive mind. He was
healthily tired now, and the moment he thought about it he knew he was
ravenously hungry. He had seen Doughty flitting about the deck more than
once, for however lost in distraction Hornblower might be he
nevertheless took instant note, consciously or subconsciously, of
everything that went on in the ship. He was growing desperately
impatient, and night had entirely closed in, when his pacing was
intercepted.

'Your dinner's ready, sir.'

Doughty stood respectfully in front of him.

'Very well. I'll come.'

Hornblower sat himself down at the chart-room table, Doughty standing at
his chair in the cramped space.

'One moment, sir, while I bring your dinner from the galley. May I pour
you some cider, sir?'

'Pour me some...?'

But Doughty was already pouring from jug to cup, and then he vanished.
Hornblower tasted gingerly. There was no doubt about it, it was
excellent cider, rough and yet refined, fruity and yet in no way sweet.
After water months in cask it was heavenly. He only took two preliminary
sips before his head went back and the whole cupful shot delightfully
down his throat. He had not begun to debate this curious phenomenon when
Doughty slipped into the chart-room again.

'The plate is hot, sir,' he said.

'What the devil's this?' asked Hornblower.

'Lobster cutlets, sir,' said Doughty, pouring more cider, and then, with
a gesture not quite imperceptible, he indicated the wooden saucer he had
laid on the table at the same time. 'Butter sauce, sir.'

Extraordinary. There were neat brown cutlets on his plate that bore no
outward resemblance to lobster, but when Hornblower cautiously added
sauce and tasted, the result was excellent. Minced lobster. And when
Doughty took the cover off the cracked vegetable dish there was a dream
of delight revealed. New potatoes, golden and lovely. He helped himself
hurriedly and very nearly burned his mouth on them. Nothing could be
quite as nice as the first new potatoes of the year.

'These came with the ship's vegetables, sir,' explained Doughty. 'I was
in time to save them.'

Hornblower did not need to ask from what those new potatoes had been
saved. He knew a good deal about Huffnell the purser, and he could guess
at the appetite of the ward-room mess. Lobster cutlets and new potatoes
and this pleasant butter sauce; he was enjoying his dinner, resolutely
putting aside the knowledge that the ship's biscuit in the bread barge
was weevily. He was used to weevils, which always showed up after the
first month at sea, or earlier if the biscuit had been long in store. He
told himself as he took another mouthful of lobster cutlet that he would
not allow a weevil in his biscuit to be a fly in his ointment.

He took another pull at the cider before he remembered to ask where it
came from.

'I pledged your credit for it, sir,' said Doughty. 'I took the liberty
of doing so, to the extent of a quarter of a pound of tobacco.'

'Who had it?'

'Sir,' said Doughty, 'I promised not to say.'

'Oh, very well,' said Hornblower.

There was only one source for cider--the _Camilla_, the lobster-boat he
had seized last night. Of course the Breton fishermen who manned it
would have a keg on board, and somebody had looted it; Martin, his
clerk, most likely.

'I hope you bought the whole keg,' said Hornblower.

'Only some of it, I am afraid, sir. All that remained.'

Out of a two-gallon keg of cider--Hornblower hoped it might be
more--Martin could hardly have downed more than a gallon in twenty-four
hours. And Doughty must have noted the presence of a keg in the berth he
shared with Martin; Hornblower was quite sure that more pressure than
the offer of a mere quarter of a pound of tobacco had been applied to
make Martin part with the keg, but he did not care.

'Cheese, sir,' said Doughty; Hornblower had eaten everything else in
sight.

And the cheese--the ration cheese supplied for the ship's company--was
reasonably good, and the butter was fresh; a new firkin must have come
in the boat and Doughty must somehow have got at it although the rancid
previous assignment had not been used up. The cider jug was empty and
Hornblower felt more comfortable than he had felt for days.

'I'll go to bed now,' he announced.

'Yes, sir.'

Doughty opened the chart-room door and Hornblower passed into his cabin.
The lamp swayed from the deck beam. The patched nightshirt was laid out
on the cot. Perhaps it was because he was full of cider that Hornblower
did not resent Doughty's presence as he brushed his teeth and made ready
for bed. Doughty was at hand to take his coat as he pulled it off;
Doughty retrieved his trousers when he let them fall; Doughty hovered by
as he dropped into bed and pulled the blankets over him.

'I'll brush this coat, sir. Here's your bed gown if you're called in the
night, sir. Shall I put out the lamp, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Good night, sir.'

It was not until next morning that Hornblower remembered again that
Grimes had hanged himself in this cabin. It was not until next morning
that he remembered those minutes down in the magazine with the
gunpowder. Doughty had already proved his worth.




                              CHAPTER XII


The salutes had been fired. Pellew's flag had been hoisted and then
the _Tonnant_ had sailed away to initiate the blockade of Rochefort. The
_Dreadnought_ had hoisted Admiral Parker's flag, and each flag had
received thirteen guns from every ship. The French on their hillsides
must have seen the smoke and heard the firing, and the naval officers
among them must have deduced that one more rear admiral had joined the
Channel Fleet; and must have shaken their heads a little sadly at this
further proof that the British Navy was increasing its lead over the
French in the race to build up maritime strength.

Hornblower, peering up the Goulet, over the black shapes of the Little
Girls, could count the vessels of war swinging to their anchors in Brest
Roads. Eighteen ships of the line now, and seven frigates, but with
sub-minimum crews and incomplete stores; no match for the fifteen superb
ships of the Line under Cornwallis who waited for them outside, growing
daily in efficiency and in moral ascendancy. Nelson off Toulon and now
Pellew off Rochefort similarly challenged inferior French squadrons, and
under their protection the merchant fleets of Britain sailed the seas
unmolested except by privateers--and the merchant fleet themselves,
bunched in vast convoys, received constant close cover from further
British squadrons of a total strength even exceeding that of the
blockading fleets. Cordage and hemp, timber and iron and copper,
turpentine and salt, cotton and nitre, could all flow freely to the
British Isles and be as freely distributed round them, maintaining the
ship yards in constant activity, whilst the French yards were doomed to
idleness, to the gangrene that follows the cutting off of the
circulation.

But the situation was nevertheless not without peril. Along the Channel
Coast Bonaparte had two hundred thousand soldiers, the most formidable
army in the world, and collecting in the Channel Ports, from St. Malo to
Ostend and beyond was a flotilla of seven thousand flat-bottomed boats.
Admiral Keith with his frigates, backed by a few ships of the line, held
the Channel secure against Bonaparte's threat; there was no chance of
invasion as long as England held naval command of the Channel.

Yet in a sense that command was precarious. If the eighteen ships of the
line in Brest Roads could escape, could round Ushant and come up-Channel
with Cornwallis distracted in some fashion, Keith might be driven away,
might be destroyed. Three days would be sufficient to put Bonaparte's
army into the boats and across the Channel, and Bonaparte would be
issuing decrees from Windsor Castle as he had already done from Milan
and Brussels. Cornwallis and his squadron, _Hotspur_ and her mightier
colleagues, were what made this impossible; a moment of carelessness, a
misjudged movement, and the tricolour might fly over the Tower of
London.

Hornblower counted the ships in Brest Roads, and as he did so he was
very conscious that this morning routine was the ultimate, most insolent
expression of the power of England at sea. England had a heart, a brain,
an arm, and he and _Hotspur_ were the final sensitive fingertip of that
long arm. Nineteen ships of the line at anchor, two of them
three-deckers. Seven frigates. They were the ones he had observed
yesterday. Nothing had contrived to slip out unnoticed during the night,
by the passage of the Four or the Raz.

'Mr Foreman! Signal to the Flag, if you please. "Enemy at anchor.
Situation unchanged."'

Foreman had made that signal several times before, but, while Hornblower
watched him unobtrusively, he checked the numbers in the signal book. It
was Foreman's business to know all the thousand arbitrary signals off by
heart, but it was best, when time allowed, that he should corroborate
what his memory told him. An error of a digit might send the warning
that the enemy was coming out.

'Flag acknowledges, sir,' reported Foreman.

'Very well.'

Poole, as officer of the watch, made note of the incident in the rough
log. The hands were washing down the deck, the sun was lifting over the
horizon. It was a beautiful day, with every promise of being a day like
any other.

'Seven bells, sir,' reported Prowse.

Only half an hour more of the ebb; time to withdraw from this lee shore
before the flood set in.

'Mr Poole! Wear the ship, if you please. Course west by north.'

'Good morning, sir.'

'Good morning, Mr Bush.'

Bush knew better than to indulge in further conversation, besides, he
could devote his attention to watching how smartly the hands braced the
maintopsail round, and to how Poole handled the ship when the topsails
filled. Hornblower swept the northern shore, seeking as ever for any
signs of change. His attention was concentrated on the ridge beyond
which Captain Jones had met his death, when Poole reported again.

'Wind's come westerly, sir. Can't make west by north.'

'Make it west nor'west,' replied Hornblower, his eye still to the
telescope.

'Aye aye, sir. West nor'west, full and bye.' There was a hint of relief
in Poole's voice; an officer is likely to be apprehensive when he has to
tell his captain that the last order was impossible to execute.

Hornblower was aware that Bush had taken his stand beside him with his
telescope trained in the same direction.

'A column of troops, sir,' said Bush.

'Yes.'

Hornblower had detected the head of the column crossing the ridge. He
was watching now to see to what length the column would stretch. It
continued interminably over the ridge, appearing through his glass like
some caterpillar hurrying over the even rougher hillside. Ah! There was
the explanation. Beside the caterpillar appeared a string of ants,
hurrying even faster along the path. Field artillery--six guns and
limbers with a wagon bringing up the rear. The head of the caterpillar
was already over the farther ridge before the tail appeared over the
nearer one. That was a column of infantry more than a mile long, five
thousand men or more--a division of infantry with its attendant battery.
It might be merely a portion of the garrison of Brest turning out for
exercises and manoeuvres on the hillside, but its movements were
somewhat more hurried and purposeful than would be expected in that
case.

He swept his glass farther round the coast, and then checked it with a
start and a gulp of excitement. There were the unmistakable lugsails of
a French coaster coming round the bold headland of Point Matthew. There
was another pair--a whole cluster. Could it possibly be that a group of
coasters was trying to run the blockade into Brest in broad daylight in
the teeth of _Hotspur_? Hardly likely. Now there was a bang--bang--bang
of guns, presumably from the field battery, invisible over the farther
ridge. Behind the coasters appeared a British frigate, and then another,
showing up at the moment when the coasters began to go about; as the
coasters tacked they revealed that they had no colours flying.

'Prizes, sir. And that's _Naiad_ an' _Doris_' said Bush.

The two British frigates must have swooped down during the night by the
passage of the Four inshore of Ushant and cut out these coasters from
the creeks of Le Conquet where they had been huddled for shelter. A neat
piece of work, undoubtedly, but bringing them out had only been made
possible by the destruction of the battery on the Petit Minou. The
frigates tacked in the wake of the coasters, like shepherd dogs
following a flock of sheep. They were escorting their prizes in triumph
back to the Inshore Squadron, whence, presumably they would be
dispatched to England for sale. Bush had taken his telescope from his
eye and had turned his gaze full on Hornblower, while Prowse came up to
join them.

'Six prizes, sir,' said Bush.

'A thousand pound each, those coasters run, sir,' said Prowse. 'More, if
it's naval stores, and I expect it is. Six thousand pound. Seven
thousand. An' no trouble selling 'em, sir.'

By the terms of the royal proclamation issued on the declaration of war,
prizes taken by the Royal Navy became--as was traditional by now--the
absolute property of the captors.

'And we weren't in sight, sir,' said Bush.

The proclamation also laid down the proviso that the value of the
prizes, after a deduction for flag officers, should be shared among
those ships in sight at the moment the colours came down or possession
was secured.

'We couldn't expect to be,' said Hornblower. He was honestly implying
that _Hotspur_ was too preoccupied with her duty of watching the Goulet,
but the others misinterpreted the speech.

No, sir, not with--' Bush broke off what he was saying before he became
guilty of mutiny. He had been about to continue 'not with Admiral Parker
in command' but he had more sense than to say it, after Hornblower's
meaning had become clear to him.

'One eighth'd be nigh on a thousand pounds,' said Prowse.

An eighth of the value of the prizes was, by the proclamation, to be
divided among the lieutenants and masters taking part in the capture of
the ships. Hornblower was making a different calculation. The share of
the captains was two-eighths; if _Hotspur_ had been associated in the
venture with _Naiad_ and _Doris_ he would have been richer by five
hundred pounds.

'And it was us that opened the way for 'em, sir,' went on Prowse.

'It was you, sir, who--' Bush broke off his speech for the second time.

'That's the fortune of war,' said Hornblower, lightly. 'Or the
misfortune of war.'

Hornblower was quite convinced that the whole system of prize money was
vicious, and tended towards making the navy less effective in war. He
told himself that this was sour grapes, that he would think differently
if he had won great amounts of prize money, but that did not soften his
present conviction.

'For'ard, there!' yelled Poole from beside the binnacle. 'Get the lead
going in the mainchains.'

The three senior officers beside the hammock nettings came back to the
present world with a general start. Hornblower felt a chill wave of
horror over his ribs as he realised his inexcusable carelessness. He had
forgotten all about the course he had set. _Hotspur_ was sailing
tranquilly into peril, was in danger of running aground, and it was his
fault, the result of his own inattention. He had no time for
self-reproach at the present moment, all the same. He lifted his voice,
trying to pitch it steadily.

'Thank you, Mr Poole,' he called. 'Belay that order. Put the ship on the
other tack, if you please.'

Bush and Prowse were wearing guilty, hangdog looks. It had been their
duty, it had been Prowse's particular duty, to warn him when _Hotspur_
was running into navigational dangers. They would not meet his eye; they
tried to assume a pose of exaggerated interest in Poole's handling of
the ship as she went about. The yards creaked as she came round, the
sails flapped and then drew again, the wind blew on their faces from a
different angle.

'Hard-a-lee!' ordered Poole, completing the manoeuvre. 'Fore-tack! Haul
the bowlines!'

_Hotspur_ settled down on her new course, away from the dangerous shore
to which she had approached too close, and all danger was averted.

'You see, gentlemen,' said Hornblower coldly, and he waited until he had
the full attention of Bush and Prowse. 'You see, there are many
disadvantages about the system of prize money. I am aware now of a new
one, and I hope you are too. Thank you, that will do.'

He remained by the hammock netting as they slunk away; he was taking
himself to task. It was his first moment of carelessness in a
professional career of ten years. He had made mistakes through
ignorance, through recklessness, but never carelessness before. If there
had been a fool as officer of the watch just now utter ruin would have
been possible. If _Hotspur_ had gone aground, in clear weather and a
gentle breeze, it would have been the end of everything for him. Court
martial and dismissal from the service, and then...? In his bitter
self-contempt he told himself that he would not be capable even of
begging his bread, to say nothing of Maria's. He might perhaps ship
before the mast, and with his clumsiness and abstraction he would be the
victim of the cat, of the boatswain's rattan. Death would be better. He
shuddered with cold.

Now he turned his attention to Poole, standing impassive by the
binnacle. What had been the motives that had impelled him to order the
lead into use? Had it been mere precaution, or had it been a tactful way
of calling his captain's attention to the situation of the ship? His
present manner and bearing gave no hint of the answer. Hornblower had
studied his officers carefully since _Hotspur_ was commissioned; he was
not aware of any depths of ingenuity or tact in Poole, but he freely
admitted to himself that they might exist, unobserved. In any case, he
must allow for them. He sauntered down the quarter-deck.

'Thank you, Mr Poole,' he said, slowly and very distinctly.

Poole touched his hat in reply, but his homely face did not change its
expression. Hornblower walked on, nettled--amused--that his questions
remained unanswered. It was a momentary relief from the torments of
conscience which still plagued him.

The lesson he had learned remained with him during that summer to
trouble his conscience. Otherwise during those golden months the
blockade of Brest might have been for _Hotspur_ and Hornblower a
yachting holiday, a holiday with a certain macabre quality. Just as some
lay theologians advanced the theory that in Hell sinners would be
punished by being forced to repeat, in unutterable tedium and surfeit,
the sins they had committed during life, so Hornblower spent those
delightful months doing delightful things until he felt he could not do
them any longer. Day after day, and night after night, through the
finest summer in human memory, _Hotspur_ cruised in the approaches to
Brest. She pressed up to the Goulet with the last of the flood, and
cannily withdrew in to safety with the last of the ebb. She counted the
French fleet, she reported the result of her observations to Admiral
Parker. She drifted, hove-to, over calm seas amid gentle breezes. With
westerly winds she worked her way out to give the lee shore a wide
berth; with easterly winds she beat back again to beard the impotent
French in their safe harbour.

They were months of frightful peril for England, with the Grande Armee,
two hundred thousand strong, poised within thirty miles of the Kentish
beaches, but they were months of tranquillity for _Hotspur_, even with a
score of hostile battleships in sight. There were occasional flurries
when the coasters tried too boldly to enter or leave; there were
occasional busy moments when squalls came down and topsails had to be
reefed. There were encounters after dark with fishing vessels,
conversations over a glass of rum with the Breton captains, purchases of
crabs and lobsters and pilchards--and of the latest decree of the
Inscription Maritime, or of a week-old copy of the _Moniteur_.

Hornblower's telescope revealed ant-like hordes of workmen rebuilding
the blown-up batteries, and for a couple of weeks he watched the
building of scaffolding and the erection of sheers on the Petit Minou,
and, for three continuous days, as a result, the slow elevation to the
vertical of the new mast of the semaphore station. The subsequent days
added horizontal and vertical arms; before the summer was over those
arms were whirling about reporting once more the movements of the
blockading squadron.

Much good might that do the French, huddled in their anchored ships in
the Roads. Inertia and a sense of inferiority would work their will on
the unfortunate crews. The ships ready for sea might slowly increase in
number; men might slowly be found for them, but every day the balance of
fighting quality, of naval power, swung faster and faster over in favour
of the British, constantly exercising at sea, and constantly reinforced
by the seaborne tribute of the world.

There was a price to be paid; the dominion of the seas was not given
free by destiny. The Channel Fleet paid in blood, in lives, as well as
in the sacrifice of the freedom and leisure of every officer and man on
board. There was a constant petty drain. Ordinary sickness took only
small toll; among men in the prime of life isolated from the rest of the
world illnesses were few, although it was noticeable that after the
arrival of victualling ships from England epidemics of colds would sweep
through the fleet, while rheumatism--the sailor's disease--was always
present.

The losses were mainly due to other causes. There were men who, in a
moment of carelessness or inattention, fell from the yards. There were
the men who ruptured themselves, and they were many, for despite the
ingenuity of blocks and tackles there were heavy weights to haul about
by sheer manpower. There were crushed fingers and crushed feet when
ponderous casks of salted provisions were lowered into boats from the
storeships and hauled up on to the decks of the fighting ships. And
frequently a lacerated limb would end--despite all the care of the
surgeons--in gangrene, in amputation, and death. There were the careless
men who, during target practice with the cannon, lost their arms by
ramming a cartridge into an improperly sponged gun, or who did not
remove themselves from the line of the recoil. Three times that year
there were men who died in quarrels, when boredom changed to hysteria
and knives were drawn; and on each of those occasions another life was
lost, a life for a life, a hanging with the other ships clustered round
and the crews lining the sides to learn what happened when a man lost
his temper. And once the crews manned the sides to see what happened
when a wretched young seaman paid the price for a crime worse even than
murder--for raising his fist to his superior officer. Incidents of that
sort were inevitable as the ships beat back and forth monotonously, over
the eternal grey inhospitable sea.

It was as well for the _Hotspur_ that she was under the command of a man
to whom any form of idleness or monotony was supremely distasteful. The
charts of the Iroise were notoriously inaccurate; _Hotspur_ set herself
to run line after line of soundings, to take series after series of
careful triangulations from the headlands and hilltops. When the fleet
ran short of silver sand, so necessary to keep the decks spotless white,
it was _Hotspur_ who supplied the deficiency, finding tiny lost beaches
round the coast where a party could land--trespassing upon Bonaparte's
vaunted dominion over Europe--to fill sacks with the precious commodity.
There were fishing competitions, whereby the lower-deck's rooted
objection to fish as an item of diet was almost overcome; a prize of a
pound of tobacco for the biggest catch by an individual mess set all the
messes to work on devising more novel fish-hooks and baits. There were
experiments in ship-handling, when obsolescent and novel methods were
tested, when by careful and accurate measurement with the log the effect
of goose-winging the topsails was ascertained; or, it being assumed that
the rudder was lost, the watch keeping officers tried their hands at
manoeuvring the ship by the sails alone.

Hornblower himself found mental exercise in working out navigational
problems. Conditions were ideal for taking lunar observations, and by
their aid it was possible to arrive at an accurate determination of
longitude--a subject of debate since the days of the Carthaginians--at
the cost of endless calculations. Hornblower was determined to perfect
himself in this method, and his officers and young gentlemen bewailed
the decision, for they, too, had to make lunar observations and work out
the resulting sums. The longitude of the Little Girls was calculated on
board the _Hotspur_ a hundred times that summer, with nearly a hundred
different results.

To Hornblower it was a satisfactory occupation, the more satisfactory as
it became obvious that he was acquiring the necessary knack. He tried to
acquire the same facility in another direction, without the same
satisfaction, as he wrote his weekly letters to Maria. There was only a
limited number of endearments, only a limited number of ways of saying
that he missed her, that he hoped her pregnancy was progressing
favourably. There was only the one way of excusing himself for not
returning to England as he had promised to do, and Maria was inclined to
be a little peevish in her letters regarding the exigencies of the
service. When the water-hoys arrived periodically and the enormous
labour had to be undertaken of transferring the already stale liquid
into the _Hotspur_ Hornblower always found himself thinking that getting
those eighteen tons of water on board meant another month of writing
letters to Maria.




                              CHAPTER XIII


_Hotspur's_ bell struck two double strokes; it was six o'clock in
the evening, and the first dog watch had come to an end in the
gathering darkness.

'Sunset, sir,' said Bush.

'Yes,' agreed Hornblower.

'Six o'clock exactly. The equinox, sir.'

'Yes,' agreed Hornblower again; he knew perfectly well what was coming.

'We'll have a westerly gale, sir, or my name's not William Bush.'

'Very likely,' said Hornblower, who had been sniffing the air all day
long.

Hornblower was a heretic in this matter. He did not believe that the
mere changing from a day a minute longer than twelve hours to one a
minute shorter made gales blow from out of the west. Gales happened to
blow at this time because winter was setting in, but ninety-nine men out
of a hundred firmly believed in a more direct, although more mysterious
causation.

'Wind's freshening and sea's getting up a bit, sir,' went on Bush,
inexorably.

'Yes.'

Hornblower fought down the temptation to declare that it was not because
the sun happened to set at six o'clock, for he knew that if he expressed
such an opinion it would be received with the tolerant and concealed
disagreement accorded to the opinions of children and eccentrics and
captains.

'We've water for twenty-eight days, sir. Twenty-four allowing for
spillage and ullage.'

'Thirty-six, on short allowance,' corrected Hornblower.

'Yes, sir,' said Bush, with a world of significance in those two
syllables.

'I'll give the order within the week,' said Hornblower.

No gale could be expected to blow for a month continuously, but a second
gale might follow the first before the water-hoys could beat down from
Plymouth to refill the casks. It was a tribute to the organisation set
up by Cornwallis that during nearly six continuous months at sea
_Hotspur_ had not yet had to go on short allowance for water. Should it
become necessary, it would be one more irksome worry brought about by
the passage of time.

'Thank you, sir,' said Bush, touching his hat and going off about his
business along the darkened reeling deck.

There were worries of all sorts. Yesterday morning Doughty had pointed
out to Hornblower that there were holes appearing in the elbows of his
uniform coat, and he only had two coats apart from full dress. Doughty
had done a neat job of patching, but a search through the ship had not
revealed any material of exactly the right weather-beaten shade.
Furthermore the seats of nearly all his trousers were paper-thin, and
Hornblower did not fancy himself in the baggy slop-chest trousers issued
to the lower-deck; yet as that store was fast running out he had had to
secure a pair for himself before they should all go. He was wearing his
thick winter underclothing; three sets had appeared ample last April,
but now he faced the prospect, in a gale, of frequent wettings to the
skin with small chance of drying anything. He cursed himself and went
off to try to make sure of some sleep in anticipation of a disturbed
night. At least he had a good dinner inside him; Doughty had braised an
oxtail, the most despised and rejected of all the portions of the weekly
ration bullock, and had made of it a dish fit for a king. It might be
his last good dinner for a long time if the gale lasted--winter affected
land as well as sea, so that he could expect no other vegetables than
potatoes and boiled cabbage until next spring.

His anticipation of a disturbed night proved correct. He had been awake
for some time, feeling the lively motion of the _Hotspur_ and trying to
make up his mind to rise and dress or to shout for a light and try to
read, when they came thundering on his door.

'Signal from the Flag, sir!'

'I'll come.'

Doughty was really the best of servants; he arrived at the same moment,
with a storm lantern.

'You'll need your pea jacket, sir, and oilskins over it. Your
sou'wester, sir. Better have your scarf, sir, to keep your pea jacket
dry.'

A scarf round the neck absorbed spray that might otherwise drive in
between sou'wester and oilskin coat and soak the pea jacket. Doughty
tucked Hornblower into his clothes like a mother preparing her son for
school, while they reeled and staggered on the leaping deck. Then
Hornblower went out into the roaring darkness.

'A white rocket and two blue lights from the Flag, sir,' reported Young.
'That means "take offshore stations."'

'Thank you. What sail have we set?' Hornblower could guess the answer by
the feel of the ship, but he wanted to be sure. It was too dark for his
dazzled eyes to see as yet.

'Double reefed tops'ls and main course, sir.'

'Get that course in and lay her on the port tack.'

'Port tack. Aye aye, sir.'

The signal for offshore stations meant a general withdrawal of the
Channel Fleet. The main body took stations seventy miles to seaward off
Brest, safe from that frightful lee shore and with a clear run open to
them for Tor Bay--avoiding Ushant on the one hand and the Start on the
other--should the storm prove so bad as to make it impossible to keep
the sea. The Inshore Squadron was to be thirty miles closer in. They
were the most weatherly ships and could afford the additional risk in
order to be close up to Brest should a sudden shift of wind enable the
French to get out.

But there was not merely the question of the French coming out, but of
other French ships coming in. Out in the Atlantic there were more than
one small French squadron--Bonaparte's own brother was on board one of
them, with his American wife--seeking urgently to regain a French port
before food and water should be completely exhausted. So _Naiad_ and
_Doris_ and _Hotspur_ had to stay close in, to intercept and report.
They could best encounter the dangers of the situation. And they could
best be spared if they could not. So _Hotspur_ had to take her station
only twenty miles to the west of Ushant, where French ships running
before the gale could be best expected to make their landfall.

Bush loomed up in the darkness, shouting over the gale.

'The equinox, just as I said, sir.'

'Yes.'

'It'll be worse before it's better, sir.'

'No doubt.'

_Hotspur_ was close-hauled now, soaring, pitching, and rolling over the
vast invisible waves that the gale was driving in upon her port bow.
Hornblower felt resentfully that Bush was experiencing pleasure at this
change of scene. A brisk gale and a struggle to windward was stimulating
to Bush after long days of fair weather, while Hornblower struggled to
keep his footing and felt a trifle doubtful about the behaviour of his
stomach as a result of this sudden change.

The wind howled round them and the spray burst over the deck so that the
black night was filled with noise. Hornblower held on to the hammock
netting; the circus riders he had seen in his childhood, riding round
the ring, standing upright on two horses with one foot on each, had no
more difficult task than he had at present. And the circus riders were
not smacked periodically in the face with bucketfuls of spray.

There were small variations in the violence of the wind. They could
hardly be called gusts; Hornblower took note that they were increases in
force without any corresponding decreases. Through the soles of his
feet, through the palms of his hands, he was aware of a steady increase
in _Hotspur's_ heel and a steady stiffening in her reaction. She was
showing too much canvas. With his mouth a yard from Young's ear he
yelled his order.

'Four reefs in the tops'ls!'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The exaggerated noises of the night were complicated now with the
shrilling of the pipes of the bos'n's mates; down in the waist the
orders were bellowed at hurrying, staggering men.

'All hands reef tops'ls!'

The hands clawed their way to their stations; this was the moment when a
thousand drills bore fruit, when men carried out in darkness and turmoil
the duties that had been ingrained into them in easier conditions.
Hornblower felt _Hotspur's_ momentary relief as Young set the topsails
a-shiver to ease the tension on them. Now the men were going aloft to
perform circus feats compared with which his maintenance of his foothold
was a trifle. No trapeze artist ever had to do his work in utter
darkness on something as unpredictable as a foot-rope in a gale, or had
to exhibit the trained strength of the seaman passing the ear-ring while
hanging fifty feet above an implacable sea. Even the lion tamer, keeping
a wary eye on his treacherous brutes, did not have to encounter the
ferocious enmity of the soulless canvas that tried to tear the topmast
men from their precarious footing.

A touch of the helm set the sails drawing again, and _Hotspur_ lay over
in her fierce struggle with the wind. Surely there was no better example
of the triumph of man's ingenuity over the blind forces or nature than
this, whereby a ship could wring advantage out of the actual attempt of
the gale to push her to destruction. Hornblower clawed his way to the
binnacle and studied the heading of the ship, working out mental
problems of drift and leeway against the background of his mental
picture of the trend of the land. Prowse was there, apparently doing the
same thing.

'I should think we've made our offing, sir.' Prowse had to shout each
syllable separately. Hornblower had to do the same when he replied.

'We'll hold on a little longer, while we can.'

Extraordinary how rapidly time went by in these circumstances. It could
not be long now until daylight. And this storm was still working up: it
was nearly twenty-four hours since Hornblower had detected the
premonitory symptoms, and it had not yet reached its full strength. It
was likely to blow hard for a considerable time, as much as three days
more, possibly even longer than that. Even when it should abate the wind
might stay westerly for some considerable further time, delaying the
water-hoys and the victuallers in their passage from Plymouth, and when
eventually they should come, _Hotspur_ might well be up in her station
off the Goulet.

'Mr Bush!' Hornblower had to reach out and touch Bush's shoulder to
attract his attention in the wind. 'We'll reduce the water allowance
from today. Two between three.'

'Aye aye, sir. Just as well, I think, sir.'

Bush gave little thought to hardship, either for the lower-deck or for
himself. It was no question of giving up a luxury; to reduce the water
ration meant an increase in hardship. The standard issue of a gallon a
day a head was hardship, even though a usual one; a man could just
manage to survive on it. Two-thirds of a gallon a day was a horrible
deprivation; after a few days thirst began to colour every thought. As
if in mockery the pumps were going at this moment. The elasticity and
springiness that kept _Hotspur_ from breaking up under these strains
meant also that the sea had greater opportunities of penetrating her
fabric, working its way in through the straining seams both above and
below the water line. It would accumulate in the bilge, one--two--three
feet deep. While the storm blew most of the crew would have six hour's
hard physical work a day--an hour each watch--pumping the water out.

Here was the grey dawn coming, and the wind was still increasing, and
_Hotspur_ could not battle against it any longer.

'Mr Cargill!' Cargill was now officer of the watch. 'We'll heave to. Put
her under main-topmast stays'l.'

Hornblower had to shout the order at the top of his lungs before Cargill
nodded that he understood.

'All hands! All hands!'

Some minutes of hard work effected a transformation. Without the immense
leverage of the topsails _Hotspur_ ceased to lie over quite so steeply;
the more gentle influence of the main-topmast staysail kept her
reasonably steady, and now the rudder desisted from its hitherto
constant effort to force the little ship to battle into the wind. Now
she rose and swooped more freely, more extravagantly yet with less
strain. She was leaping wildly enough, and still shipping water over her
weather-bow, but her behaviour was quite different as she yielded to the
wind instead of defying it at the risk of being torn apart.

Bush was offering him a telescope, and pointing to windward, where there
was now a grey horizon dimly to be seen--a serrated horizon, jagged with
the waves hurrying towards them. Hornblower braced himself to put two
hands to the telescope. Sea and then sky raced past the object glass as
_Hotspur_ tossed over successive waves. It was hard to sweep the area
indicated by Bush; that had to be done in fits and starts, but after a
moment something flashed across the field, was recaptured--many hours of
using a telescope had developed Hornblower's reflex skills--and soon
could be submitted to intermittent yet close observation.

'_Naiad_, sir,' shouted Bush into his ear.

The frigate was several miles to windward, hove-to like _Hotspur_. She
had one of those new storm-topsails spread, very shallow and without
reefs. It might be of considerable advantage when lying-to, for even the
reduction in height alone would be considerable, but when Hornblower
turned his attention back to the _Hotspur_ and observed her behaviour
under her main-topmast staysail he felt no dissatisfaction. Politeness
would have led him to comment on it when he handed back the glass, but
politeness stood no chance against the labour of making conversation in
the wind, and contented himself with a nod. But the sight of _Naiad_ out
there to windward was confirmation that _Hotspur_ was on her station,
and beyond her Hornblower had glimpses of the _Doris_ reeling and
tossing on the horizon. He had done all there was to be done at present.
A sensible man would get his breakfast while he might, and a sensible
man would resolutely ignore the slight question of stomach occasioned by
this new and different motion of the ship. All he had to do now was to
endure it.

There was a pleasant moment when he reached his cabin and Huffnell the
purser came in to make his morning report, for then it appeared that at
the first indication of trouble Bush and Huffnell between them had
routed out Simmonds the cook and had set him to work cooking food.

'That's excellent, Mr Huffnell.'

'It was laid down in your standing orders, sir.'

So it was, Hornblower remembered. He had added that paragraph after
reading Cornwallis's orders regarding stations to be assumed in westerly
gales. Simmonds had boiled three hundred pounds of salt pork in
_Hotspur's_ cauldrons, as well as three hundred pounds of dried peas,
before the weather had compelled the galley fires to be extinguished.

'Pretty nigh on cooked, anyway, sir,' said Huffnell.

So that for the next three days--four at a pinch--the hands would have
something more to eat than dry biscuit. They would have cold parboiled
pork and cold pease porridge; the latter was what the Man in the Moon
burned his mouth on according to the nursery rhyme.

'Thank you, Mr Huffnell. It's unlikely that this gale will last more
than four days.'

That was actually the length of time that gale lasted, the gale that
ushered in the worst winter in human memory, following the best summer.
For those four days _Hotspur_ lay hove-to, pounded by the sea, flogged
by the wind, while Hornblower made anxious calculations regarding leeway
and drift; as the wind backed northerly his attention was diverted from
Ushant to the north to the Isle de Sein to the south of the approaches
to Brest. It was not until the fifth day that _Hotspur_ was able to set
three-reefed topsails and thrash her way back to station while Simmonds
managed to start his galley fires again and to provide the crew--and
Hornblower--with hot boiled beef as a change from cold boiled pork.

Even then that three-reefed gale maintained the long Atlantic rollers in
all their original vastness, so that _Hotspur_ soared over them and
slithered unhappily down the far side, adding her own corkscrew motion
as her weather-bow met the swells, her own special stagger when a rogue
wave crashed into her, and the worse lurch when--infrequently--a higher
wave than usual blanketed her sails so that she reeled into the sea
instead of yielding, with a bursting of green water over her decks. But
an hour's work at the pumps every watch kept the bilges clear, and by
tacking every two hours _Hotspur_ was able to beat painfully out to sea
again--not more than half a mile's gain to windward on each tack--and
recover the comparative safety of her original station before the next
storm.

It was as if in payment for that fair weather summer that these gales
blew, and perhaps that was not an altogether fanciful thought; to
Hornblower's mind there might be some substance to the theory that
prolonged local high pressure during the summer now meant that the
pent-up dirty weather to the westward could exert more than its usual
force. However that might be, the mere fresh gale that endured for four
days after the first storm then worked up again into a tempest, blowing
eternally from the westward with almost hurricane force; grey dreary
days of lowering cloud, and wild black nights, with the wind howling
unceasingly in the rigging until the ear was sated with the noise, until
no price seemed too great to pay for five minutes of peace--and yet no
price however great could buy even a second of peace. The creaking and
the groaning of _Hotspur's_ fabric blended with the noise of the wind,
and the actual woodwork of the ship vibrated with the vibration of the
rigging until it seemed as if body and mind, exhausted with the din and
with the fatigues of mere movement, could not endure for another minute,
and yet went on to endure for days.

The tempest died down to a fresh gale, to a point when the topsails
needed only a single reef, and then, unbelievably, worked up into a
tempest again, the third in a month, during which all on board renewed
the bruises that covered them as a result of being flung about by the
motion of the ship. And it was during that tempest that Hornblower went
through a spiritual crisis. It was not a mere question of calculation,
it went far deeper than that, even though he did his best to appear
quite imperturbable as Bush and Huffnell and Wallis the surgeon made
their daily reports. He might have called them into a formal council of
war; he might have covered himself by asking for their opinions in
writing, to be produced in evidence should there be a court of inquiry,
but that was not in his nature. Responsibility was the air he breathed;
he could no more bring himself to evade it than he could hold his breath
indefinitely.

It was the first day that reefed topsails could be set that he reached
his decision.

'Mr Prowse, I'd be obliged if you would set a course to close _Naiad_ so
that she can read our signals.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower, standing on the quarter-deck in the eternal, infernal wind,
hated Prowse for darting that inquiring glance at him. Of course the
ward-room had discussed his problem. Of course they knew of the shortage
of drinking water; of course they knew that Wallis had discovered three
cases of sore gums--the earliest symptoms of scurvy in a navy that had
overcome scurvy except in special conditions. Of course they had
wondered about when their captain would yield to circumstances. Perhaps
they had made bets on the date. The problem, the decision, had been his
and not theirs.

_Hotspur_ clawed her way over the tossing sea to the point on _Naiad's_
lee bow when the signal flags would blow out at right angles to the line
of sight.

'Mr Foreman! Signal to _Naiad_, if you please. "Request permission to
return to port."'

'Request permission to return to port. Aye aye, sir.'

_Naiad_ was the only ship of the Inshore Squadron--of the Channel
Fleet--in sight, and her captain was therefore senior officer on the
station. Every captain was senior to the captain of the _Hotspur_.

'_Naiad_ acknowledges, sir,' reported Foreman, and then, after ten
seconds' wait '_Naiad_ to _Hotspur_, sir "Interrogative."'

Somehow it might have been more politely put. Chambers of the _Naiad_
might have signalled 'Kindly give reasons for request,' or something
like that. But the single interrogative hoist was convenient and rapid.
Hornblower framed his next signal equally tersely.

'_Hotspur_ to _Naiad_. "Eight days water."'

Hornblower watched the reply soar up _Naiad's_ signal halliards. It was
not the affirmative; if it was permission, it was a qualified
permission.

'_Naiad_ to _Hotspur_, sir. "Remain four more days".'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman.'

Hornblower tried to keep all expression out of his voice and his face.

'I'll wager he has two months' water on board, sir, said Bush, angrily.

'I hope he has, Mr Bush.'

They were seventy leagues from Tor Bay; two days' sailing with a fair
wind. There was no margin for misfortune. If at the end of four days the
wind should shift easterly, as was perfectly possible, they could not
reach Tor Bay in a week or even more; the water-hoys might come
down-channel, but might easily not find them at once, and then it was
not unlikely that the sea would be too rough for boat work. There was an
actual possibility that the crew of the _Hotspur_ might die of thirst.
It had not been easy for Hornblower to make his request; he had no
desire to be thought one of those captains whose sole desire was to
return to port, and he had waited to the last sensible moment. Chambers
saw the problem differently, as a man well might do as regards the
possible misfortune of other people. This was an easy way of
demonstrating his resolution and firmness. An easy way, a comfortable
way, a cheap way.

'Send this signal, if you please, Mr Foreman. "Thank you. Am returning
to station. Good-bye," Mr Prowse, we can bear away when that signal is
acknowledged. Mr Bush, from today the water ration is reduced. One
between two.'

Two quarts of water a day for all purposes--and such water--to men
living on salted food, was far below the minimum for health. It meant
sickness as well as discomfort, but the reduction also meant that the
last drop of water would not be drunk until sixteen days had passed.

Captain Chambers had not foreseen the future weather, and perhaps he
could not be blamed for that, seeing that on the fourth day after the
exchange of signals the westerly wind worked up again, unbelievably,
into the fourth tempest of that gale-ridden autumn. It was towards the
end of the afternoon watch that Hornblower was called on deck again to
give his permission for the reefed topsails to be got in and the storm
staysail set once more. Significantly it was growing dark already; the
days of the equinox when the sun set at six o'clock were long past, and,
equally significantly, that roaring westerly gale now had a chilling
quality about it. It was cold; not freezing, not icy, but cold,
searchingly cold. Hornblower tried to pace the unstable deck in an
endeavour to keep his circulation going; he grew warm, not because of
his walking, but because the physical labour of keeping his feet was
great enough for the purpose. _Hotspur_ was leaping like a deer beneath
him, and from down below, too, came the dreary sound of the pumps at
work.

Six days' water on board now; twelve at half-rations. The gloom of the
night was no more gloomy than his thoughts. It was five weeks since he
had last been able to send a letter to Maria, and it was six weeks since
he had last heard from her, six weeks of westerly gales and westerly
tempests. Anything might have happened to her or to the child, and she
would be thinking that anything might have happened to the _Hotspur_ or
to him.

A more irregular wave than usual, roaring out of the darkness, burst
upon _Hotspur's_ weather-bow. Hornblower felt her sudden sluggishness,
her inertia, beneath his feet. That wave must have flooded the waist to
a depth of a yard or more, fifty or sixty tons of water piled up on her
deck. She lay like something dead for a moment. Then she rolled,
slightly at first, and then more freely; the sound of the cataracts of
water pouring across could be clearly heard despite the gale. She freed
herself as the water cascaded out through the overworked scuppers, and
she came sluggishly back to life, to leap once more in her mad career
from wave crest to trough. A blow like that could well be her death;
some time she might not rise to it; some time her deck might be burst
in. Another wave beat on her bow like the hammer of a mad giant, and
another after that.

Next day was worse, the worst day that _Hotspur_ had experienced in all
these wild weeks. Some slight shift in the wind, or the increase in its
strength, had worked up the waves to a pitch that was particularly
unsuited to _Hotspur's_ idiosyncrasies. The waist was flooded most of
the time now, so that she laboured heavily without relief, each wave
catching her before she could free herself. That meant that the pumps
were at work three hours out of every four, so that even with petty
officers and idlers and waisters and marines all doing their share,
every hand was engaged on the toilsome labour for twelve hours a day.

Bush's glance was more direct even than usual when he came to make his
report.

'We're still sighting _Naiad_ now and then, sir, but not a chance of
signals being read.'

This was the day when by Captain Chambers's orders they were free to run
for harbour.

'Yes. I don't think we can bear away in this wind and sea.'

Bush's expression revealed a mental struggle. _Hotspur's_ powers of
resistance to the present battering were not unlimited, but on the other
hand to turn tail and run would be an operation of extreme danger.

'Has Huffnell reported to you yet, sir?'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

There were nine hundred-gallon casks of freshwater left down below,
which had been standing in the bottom tier for a hundred days. And now
one of them had proved to be contaminated with seawater and was hardly
drinkable. The others might perhaps be even less so.

'Thank you, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower, terminating the interview. 'We'll
remain hove-to for today at least.'

Surely a wind of this force must moderate soon, even though Hornblower
had a premonition that it would not.

Nor did it. The slow dawn of the new day found _Hotspur_ still labouring
under the dark clouds, the waves still as wild, the wind still as
insane. The time had come for the final decision, as Hornblower well
knew as he came out on deck in his clammy clothes. He knew the dangers,
and he had spent a large part of the night preparing his mind to deal
with them.

'Mr Bush, we'll get her before the wind.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Before she could come before the wind she would have to present her
vulnerable side to the waves. There would be seconds during which she
could be rolled over on to her beam ends, beaten down under the waves,
pounded into a wreck.

'Mr Cargill!'

This was going to be a moment far more dangerous than being chased by
the _Loire_, and Cargill would have to be trusted to carry out a similar
duty as on a tense occasion then. Face close to face, Hornblower shouted
his instructions.

'Get for'ard. Make ready to show a bit of the fore-topmast stays'l. Haul
it up when I wave my arm.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Get it in the moment I wave a second time.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Mr Bush! We shall need the fore-tops'l.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Goose-wing it.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Stand by the sheets. Wait for me to wave my arm the second time.'

'The second time. Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur's_ stern was nearly as vulnerable as her side. If she presented
it to the waves while stationary she would be 'pooped'--a wave would
burst over her and sweep her from stern to stem, a blow she would
probably not survive. The fore-topsail would give her the necessary way,
but spreading it before she was before the wind would lay her over on
her beam ends. 'Goose-winging it'--pulling down the lower corners while
leaving the centre portion still furled--would expose less canvas than
the reefed sail; enough in that gale to carry her forward at the
necessary speed.

Hornblower took his station beside the wheel, where he could be clearly
seen from forward. He ran his eyes aloft to make sure that the
preparations for goose-winging the fore-topsail were complete, and his
gaze lingered for a while longer as he observed the motion of the spars
relative to the wild sky. Then he transferred his attention to the sea
on the weather side, to the immense rollers hurrying towards the ship.
He watched the roll and the pitch; he gauged the strength of the howling
wind which was trying to tear him from his footing. That wind was trying
to stupefy him, to paralyse him, too. He had to keep the hard central
core of himself alert and clear thinking while his outer body was numbed
by the wind.

A rogue wave burst against the weather-bow in a huge but fleeting pillar
of spray, the green mass pounding aft along the waist, and Hornblower
swallowed nervously while it seemed as if _Hotspur_ would never recover.
But she did, slowly and wearily, rolling off the load from her deck. As
she cleared herself the moment came, a moment of regularity in the
on-coming waves, with her bow just lifting to the nearest one. He waved
his arm, and saw the slender head of the fore-topmast staysail rising up
the stay, and the ship lay over wildly to the pressure.

'Hard-a-port,' he yelled to the hands at the wheel.

The enormous leverage of the staysail, applied to the bowsprit, began to
swing the _Hotspur_ round like a weather-vane; as she turned, the wind
thrusting more and more from aft gave her steerage way so that the
rudder could bite and accelerate the turn. She was down in the trough of
the wave but turning, still turning. He waved his arm again. The clews
of the fore-topsail showed themselves as the hands hauled on the sheets,
and _Hotspur_ surged forward with the impact of the wind upon the
canvas. The wave was almost upon them, but it disappeared out of the
tail of Hornblower's eye as _Hotspur_ presented first her quarter and
then her stern to it.

'Meet her! Midships!'

The tug of the sail on the foremast would put _Hotspur_ right before the
wind without the use of the rudder; indeed the rudder would only delay
her acquiring all the way she could. Time enough to put the rudder to
work again when she was going at her fastest. Hornblower braced himself
for the impact of the wave now following them up. The seconds passed and
then it came, but the stern had begun to lift and the blow was deprived
of its force. Only a minor mass of water burst over the taffrail, to
surge aft again as _Hotspur_ lifted her bows. Now they were racing along
with the waves; now they were travelling through the water ever so
little faster. That was the most desirable point of speed; there was no
need to increase or decrease even minutely the area of canvas exposed by
the goose-winged fore-topsail. The situation was safe and yet
unutterably precarious, balanced on a knife edge. The slightest yawing
and _Hotspur_ was lost.

'Keep her from falling off!' Hornblower yelled to the men at the wheel,
and the grizzled senior quartermaster, his wet grey ringlets flapping
over his cheeks from out of his sou'wester, nodded without taking his
eyes from the fore-topsail. Hornblower knew--with his vivid imagination
he could feel the actual sensation up his arms--how uncertain and
unsatisfactory was the feel of wheel and rudder when running before a
following sea, the momentary lack of response to the turning spokes, the
hesitation of the ship as a mounting wave astern deprived the
fore-topsail of some of the wind that filled it, the uncontrolled
slithering sensation as the ship went down a slope. A moment's
inattention--a moment's bad luck--could bring ruin.

Yet here they were momentarily safe before the wind, and running for the
Channel. Prowse was already staring into the binnacle and noting the new
course on the traverse board, and at a word from him Orrock and a seaman
struggled aft to cast the log and determine the speed. And here came
Bush, ascending to the quarter-deck, grinning over the success of the
manoeuvre and with the exhilaration of the new state of affairs.

'Course nor'east by east, sir,' reported Prowse. 'Speed better than
seven knots.'

Now there was a new set of problems to deal with. They were entering the
Channel. There were shoals and headlands ahead of them; there were
tides--the tricky tidal streams of the Channel--to be reckoned with. The
very nature of the waves would change soon, with the effect upon the
Atlantic rollers of the shallowing water and the narrowing Channel and
the varying tides. There was the general problem of avoiding being blown
all the way up Channel, and the particular one of trying to get into Tor
Bay.

All this called for serious calculation and reference to tide tables,
especially in face of the fact that running before the wind like this it
would be impossible to take soundings.

We ought to get a sight of Ushant on this course, sir,' yelled Prowse.

That would be a decided help, a solid base for future calculations, a
new departure. A shouted word sent Orrock up to the fore-topmasthead
with a telescope to supplement the look-out there, while Hornblower
faced the first stage of the new series of problems--the question of
whether he could bring himself to leave the deck--and the second
stage--the question of whether he should invite Prowse to share his
calculations. The answer to both was necessarily in the affirmative.
Bush was a good seaman and could be trusted to keep a vigilant eye on
the wheel and on the canvas; Prowse was a fair navigator and was by law
co-responsible with Hornblower for the course to be set and so would
have just cause for grievance if he was not consulted, however much
Hornblower wished to be free of his company.

So it came about that Prowse was with Hornblower in the chart-room,
struggling with the tide tables, when Foreman opened the door--his
knocking not having been heard in the general din--and admitted all the
noise of the ship in full volume.

'Message from Mr Bush, sir. Ushant in sight on the starboard beam, seven
or eight miles, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman.'

That was a stroke of good fortune, the first they had had. Now they
could plan the next struggle to bend the forces of nature to their will.
It was a struggle indeed; for the men at the wheel a prolonged physical
ordeal which made it necessary to relieve them every half-hour and for
Hornblower a mental ordeal which was to keep him at full-strain for the
next thirty hours. There was the tentative trying of the wheel, to see
if it were possible to bring the wind a couple of points on her port
quarter. Three times they made the attempt, to abandon it hastily as
wind and wave rendered the ship unmanageable, but at the fourth try it
became possible, with the shortening of the waves in their advance
up-Channel and the turn of the tide over on the French coast. Now they
tore through the water, speed undiminished despite the drag of the
rudder as the helmsmen battled with the wheel that kicked and struggled
as if it were alive and malignant under their hands, and while the whole
strength of the crew handled the braces to trim the yard exactly to make
certain there was no danger of sailing by the lee.

At least the danger of running _Hotspur_ bodily under water was now
eliminated. There was no chance of her putting her bows into the slack
back of a dilatory wave and never lifting them again. To balance the
leverage of the fore-topsail they hauled up the mizzen-staysail, which
brought relief to the helmsmen even though it laid _Hotspur_ over until
her starboard gun-ports were level with the water. It lasted for a
frantic hour, and it seemed to Hornblower that he was holding his breath
during all that time, and until it burst in the centre with a report
like a twelve pounder, splitting into flying pendants of canvas that
cracked in the wind like coach-whips as the helmsmen fought against the
renewed tendency of _Hotspur_ to turn away from the wind. Yet the
temporary success justified replacing the sail with the mizzen-topmast
staysail, just a corner of it showing, and the head and the tack still
secured by gaskets. It was a brand new sail, and it managed to endure
the strain, to compensate for the labour and difficulty of setting it.

The short dark day drew to an end, and now everything had to be done in
roaring night, while lack of sleep intensified the numbness and fatigue
and the stupidity induced by the unremitting wind. With his dulled
sensitivity Hornblower's reaction was slow to the changed behaviour of
_Hotspur_ under his feet. The transition was gradual, in any case, but
at last it became marked enough for him to notice it, his sense of touch
substituting for his sense of sight to tell him that the waves were
becoming shorter and steeper; this was the choppiness of the Channel and
not the steady sweep of the Atlantic rollers.

_Hotspur's_ motion was more rapid, and in a sense more violent; the
waves broke over her bow more frequently though in smaller volume.
Although still far below the surface the floor of the Channel was
rising, from a hundred fathoms deep to forty fathoms, and there was the
turn of the tide to be considered, even though this westerly tempest
must have piled up the waters of the Channel far above mean level. And
the Channel was narrower now; the rollers that had found ample passage
between Ushant and Scilly were feeling the squeeze, and all these
factors were evident in their behaviour. _Hotspur_ was wet all the time
now, and only continuous working of the pumps kept the water down below
within bounds--pumps worked by weary men, thirsty men, hungry men,
sleepy men, throwing their weight on the long handles each time with the
feeling that they could not repeat the effort even once more.

At four in the morning Hornblower was conscious of a shift in the wind,
and for a precious hour he was able to order a change of course until a
sudden veering of the wind forced them back on the original course
again, but he had gained, so his calculations told him, considerably to
the northward; there was so much satisfaction in that that he put his
forehead down on his forearms on the chart-room table and was surprised
into sleep for several valuable minutes before a more extravagant
leaping of the ship banged his head upon his arms and awakened him to
make his way wearily out upon the quarter-deck again.

'Wish we could take a sounding, sir,' shouted Prowse.

'Yes.'

There was no sense in wasting strength in voicing wishes.

Yet now, even in the darkness, Hornblower could feel that the recent
gain and the change in the character of the sea made it justifiable to
heave to for a space. He could goad his mind to deal with the problem of
drift and leeway; he could harden his heart to face the necessity of
calling upon the exhausted topmen to make the effort to furl the
goose-winged fore-topsail while he stood by, alert, to bring the ship to
under the mizzen-staysail; bring the helm over at the right moment so
that she met the steep waves with her bow. Riding to the wind her motion
was wilder and more extravagant than ever, but they managed to cast the
deep sea lead, with the crew lined up round the ship, calling 'Watch!
Watch!' as each man let his portion of line loose.
Thirty-eight--thirty-seven--thirty-eight fathoms again; the three casts
consumed an hour, with everyone wet to the skin and exhausted. It was a
fragment more of the data necessary, while heaving-to eased the labour
of the worn-out quartermasters and actually imposed so much less strain
on the seams that the pumps steadily gained on the water below.

At the first watery light of dawn they set the goose-winged fore-topsail
again while Hornblower faced the problem of getting _Hotspur_ round with
the wind over her quarter without laying her over on her beam ends. Then
they were thrashing along in the old way, decks continually under water,
rolling until every timber groaned, with Orrock freezing at the
fore-topmasthead with his glass. It was noon before he sighted the land;
half an hour later Bush returned to the quarter-deck from the ascent he
made to confirm Orrock's findings. Bush was more weary than he would
ever admit, his dirty hollow cheeks overgrown with a stubble of beard,
but he could still show surprise and pleasure.

'Bolt Head, sir!' he yelled. 'Fine on the port bow. And I could just
make out the Start.'

'Thank you.'

Even though it meant shouting, Bush wanted to express his feelings about
this feat of navigation, but Hornblower had no time for that, nor the
patience, nor, for that matter, the strength. There was the question of
not being blown too far to leeward at this eleventh hour, of making
preparations to come to an anchor in conditions that would certainly be
difficult. There was the tide rip off the Start to be borne in mind, the
necessity of rounding-to as close under Berry Head as possible. There
was the sudden inexpressible change in wind and sea as they came under
the lee of the Start; the steep choppiness here seemed nothing compared
with what _Hotspur_ had been enduring five minutes before, and the land
took the edge off the hurricane wind to reduce it to the mere force of a
full gale that still kept _Hotspur_ flying before it. There was the
Newstone and the Blackstones--here as well as in the Iroise--and the
final tricky moment of the approach to Berry Head.

'Ships of war at anchor, sir,' reported Bush, sweeping Tor Bay with his
glass as they opened it up. 'That's _Dreadnought_. That's _Temeraire_.
It's the Channel Fleet. My God! There's one aground in Torquay Roads.
Two-decker--she must have dragged her anchors.'

'Yes. We'll back the best bower anchor before we let go, Mr Bush. We'll
have to use the launch's carronade. You've time to see about that.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Even in Tor Bay there was a full gale blowing; where a two-decker had
dragged her anchors every precaution must be taken at whatever further
cost in effort. The seven hundredweight of the boat carronade, attached
to the anchor-cable fifty feet back from the one ton of the best bower,
might just save that anchor from lifting and dragging. And so _Hotspur_
came in under goose-winged fore-topsail and storm mizzen-staysail, round
Berry Head, under the eyes of the Channel Fleet, to claw her way in
towards Brixham pier and to round-to with her weary men furling the
fore-topsail and to drop her anchors while with a last effort they sent
down the topmasts and Prowse and Hornblower took careful bearings to
make sure she was not dragging. It was only then that there was leisure
to spare to make her number to the flagship.

'Flag acknowledges, sir,' croaked Foreman.

'Very well.'

It was still possible to do something more without collapsing. 'Mr
Foreman, kindly make this signal. "Need drinking water."'




                              CHAPTER XIV


Tor Bay was a tossing expanse of white horses. The land lessened the
effect of the wind to some extent; the Channel waves were hampered in
their entry by Berry Head, but all the same the wind blew violently and
the waves racing up the Channel managed to wheel leftwards, much
weakened, but now running across the wind, and with the tide to confuse
the issue Tor Bay boiled like a cauldron. For forty hours after
_Hotspur's_ arrival the _Hibernia_, Cornwallis's big three-decker, flew
the signal 715 with a negative beside it, and 715 with a negative meant
that boats were not to be employed.

Not even the Brixham fishermen, renowned for their small boat work,
could venture out into Tor Bay while it was in that mood, so that until
the second morning at anchor the crew of the _Hotspur_ supported an
unhappy existence on two quarts of tainted water a day. And Hornblower
was the unhappiest man on board, from causes both physical and mental.
The little ship almost empty of stores was the plaything of wind and
wave and tide; she surged about at her anchors like a restive horse. She
swung and she snubbed herself steady with a jerk; she plunged and
snubbed herself again. With her topmasts sent down she developed a
shallow and rapid roll. It was a mixture of motions that would test the
strongest stomach, and Hornblower's stomach was by no means the
strongest, while there was the depressing association in his memory of
his very first day in a ship of war, when he had made himself a laughing
stock by being sea-sick in the old _Justinian_ at anchor in Spithead.

He spent those forty hours vomiting his heart out, while to the black
depression of sea-sickness was added the depression resulting from the
knowledge that Maria was only thirty miles away in Plymouth, and by a
good road. Cornwallis's representations had caused the government to cut
that road, over the tail end of Dartmoor, so that the Channel Fleet in
its rendezvous could readily be supplied from the great naval base. Half
a day on a good horse and Hornblower could be holding Maria in his arms,
he could be hearing news first-hand about the progress of the child, on
whom (to his surprise) his thoughts were beginning to dwell
increasingly. The hands spent their free moments on the forecastle,
round the knightheads, gazing at Brixham and Brixham Pier; even in that
wind with its deluges of rain there were women to be seen occasionally,
women in skirts, at whom the crew stared like so many Tantaluses. After
one good night's sleep, and with pumping only necessary now for half an
hour in each watch, those men had time and energy so that their
imaginations had free play. They could think about women, and they could
think about liquor--most of them dreamed dreams of swilling themselves
into swinish unconsciousness on Brixham's smuggled brandy, while
Hornblower could only vomit and fret.

But he slept during the second half of the second night, when the wind
not only moderated but backed two points northerly, altering the
conditions in Tor Bay like magic, so that after he had assured himself
at midnight that the anchors were still holding, his fatigue took charge
and he could sleep without moving for seven hours. He was still only
half awake when Doughty came bursting in on him.

'Signal from the Flag, sir.'

There were strings of bunting flying from the halliards of the
_Hibernia_; with the shift of wind they could be read easily enough from
the quarter-deck of the _Hotspur_.

'There's our number there, sir,' said Foreman, glass at eye. 'It comes
first.'

Cornwallis was giving orders for the victualling and re-watering of the
fleet, establishing the order in which the ships were to be replenished,
and that signal gave _Hotspur_ priority over all the rest.

'Acknowledge,' ordered Hornblower.

'We're lucky, sir,' commented Bush.

'Possibly,' agreed Hornblower. No doubt Cornwallis had been informed
about _Hotspur's_ appeal for drinking water, but he might have further
plans, too.

'Look at that, sir,' said Bush. 'They waste no time.'

Two lighters, each propelled by eight sweeps, and with a six-oared yawl
standing by, were creeping out round the end of Brixham Pier.

'I'll see about the fend-offs, sir,' said Bush, departing hastily.

These were the water-lighters, marvels of construction, each of them
containing a series of vast cast-iron tanks. Hornblower had heard about
them; they were of fifty tons' burthen each of them, and each of them
carried ten thousand gallons of drinking water, while _Hotspur_, with
every cask and hogshead brim full, could not quite store fifteen
thousand.

So now began an orgy of freshwater, clear springwater which had not lain
in the cast-iron tanks for more than a few days. With the lighters
chafing uneasily alongside, a party from _Hotspur_ went down to work the
beautiful modern pumps which the lighters carried, forcing the water up
through four superb canvas hoses passed in through the ports and then
down below. The deck scuttle butt, so long empty, was swilled out and
filled, to be instantly emptied by the crew and filled again; just
possibly at that moment the hands would rather have freshwater than
brandy.

It was glorious waste; down below the casks were swilled and scrubbed
out with freshwater, and the swillings drained into the bilge whence the
ship's pumps would later have to force it overboard at some cost of
labour. Every man drank his fill and more; Hornblower gulped down glass
after glass until he was full, yet half an hour later found him drinking
again. He could feel himself expanding like a desert plant after rain.

'Look at this, sir,' said Bush, telescope in hand and gesturing towards
Brixham.

The telescope revealed a busy crowd at work there, and there were cattle
visible.

'Slaughtering', said Bush. 'Fresh meat.'

Soon another lighter was creeping out to them; hanging from a frame down
the midship line were sides of beef, carcasses of sheep and pigs.

I won't mind a roast of mutton, sir,' said Bush.

Bullocks and sheep and swine had been driven over the moors to Brixham,
and slaughtered and dressed on the waterfront immediately before
shipping so that the meat would last fresh as long as possible.

Four days' rations there, sir,' said Bush making a practised estimate.
'An' there's a live bullock an' four sheep an' four pigs. Excuse me,
sir, and I'll post a guard at the side.'

Most of the hands had money in their pockets and would spend it freely
on liquor if they were given the chance, and the men in the victualling
barges would sell to them unless the closest supervision were exercised.
The water-lighters had finished their task and were casting off. It had
been a brief orgy; from the moment that the hoses were taken in ship's
routine would be re-established. One gallon of water per man per day for
all purposes from now on.

The place of the watering barges was taken by the dry victualling barge,
with bags of biscuit, sacks of dried peas, kegs of butter, cases of
cheese, sacks of oatmeal, but conspicuous on top of all this were half a
dozen nets full of fresh bread. Two hundred four-pound
loaves--Hornblower could taste the crustiness of them in his watering
mouth when he merely looked at them. A beneficent government, under the
firm guidance of Cornwallis, was sending these luxuries aboard; the
hardships of a life at sea were the result of natural circumstances
quite as much as of ministerial ineptitude.

There was never a quiet moment all through that day. Here was Bush
touching his hat again with a final demand on his attention.

'You've given no order about wives, sir.'

'Wives?'

'Wives, sir.'

There was an interrogative lift in Hornblower's voice as he said the
word; there was a flat, complete absence of expression in Bush's. It was
usual in His Majesty's Ship when they lay in harbour for women to be
allowed on board, and one or two of them might well be wives. It was
some small compensation for the system that forbade a man to set foot on
shore lest he desert; but the women inevitably smuggled liquor on board,
and the scenes of debauchery that ensued on the lower-deck were as
shameless as in Nero's court. Disease and indiscipline were the natural
result; it took days or weeks to shake the crew down again into an
efficient team. Hornblower did not want his fine ship ruined but if
_Hotspur_ were to stay long at anchor in Tor Bay he could not deny what
was traditionally a reasonable request. He simply could not deny it.

'I'll give my orders later this morning,' he said.

It was not difficult, some minutes later, to intercept Bush at a moment
when a dozen of the hands were within earshot.

'Oh, Mr Bush!' Hornblower hoped his voice did not sound as stilted and
theatrical as he feared. 'You've plenty of work to be done about the
ship.'

'Yes, sir. There's a good deal of standing rigging I'd like set up
again. And there's running rigging to be re-rove. And there's the paint
work--'

'Very well, Mr Bush. When the ship's complete in all respects we'll
allow the wives on board, but not until then. Not until then, Mr Bush.
And if we have to sail before then it will be the fortune of war.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Next came the letters; word must have reached the post office in
Plymouth of the arrival of _Hotspur_ in Tor Bay, and the letters had
been sent across overland. Seven letters from Maria; Hornblower tore
open the last first, to find that Maria was well and her pregnancy
progressing favourably, and then he skimmed through the others, to find,
as he expected, that she had rejoiced to read her Valiant Hero's Gazette
letter although she was perturbed by the risks run by her Maritime
Alexander, and although she was consumed with sorrow because the Needs
of the Service had denied from her eyes the light of his Countenance.
Hornblower was half-way through writing a reply when a midshipman came
escorted to his cabin door with a note...

    'H.M.S. _Hibernia_
    Tor Bay
    Dear Captain Hornblower,

    If you can be tempted out of your ship at three o'clock this
    afternoon to dine in the flagship it would give great pleasure
    to

                                             Your ob't servant,
                                         Wm. Cornwallis, Vice Ad.

    _P.S._--An affirmative signal hung out in the _Hotspur_ is all
    the acknowledgement necessary.'

Hornblower went out on to the quarter-deck.

'Mr Foreman. Signal "_Hotspur_ to Flag. Affirmative."'

'Just affirmative, sir?'

'You heard me.'

An invitation from the Commander in Chief was as much a royal command as
if it had been signed George R.--even if the postscript did not dictate
the reply.

Then there was the powder to be put on board, with all the care and
precautions that operation demanded; _Hotspur_ had fired away one ton of
the five tons of gunpowder that her magazine could hold. The operation
was completed when Prowse brought up one of the hands who manned the
powder-barge.

'This fellow says he has a message for you, sir.'

This was a swarthy gypsy-faced fellow who met Hornblower's eye boldly
with all the assurance to be expected of a man who carried in his pocket
a protection against impressment.

'What is it?'

'Message for you from a lady, sir, and I was to have a shilling for
delivering it to you.'

Hornblower looked him over keenly. There was only one lady who could be
sending a message.

'Nonsense. That lady promised sixpence. Now didn't she?'

Hornblower knew that much about Maria despite his brief married life.

'Well, yes, sir.'

'Here's the shilling. What's the message?'

'The lady said look for her on Brixham Pier, sir.'

'Very well.'

Hornblower took the glass from its becket and walked forward. Busy
though the ship was, there were nevertheless a few idlers round the
knightheads who shrank away in panic at the remarkable sight of their
captain here. He trained the glass; Brixham Pier, as might be expected,
was crowded with people, and he searched for a long time without result,
training the glass first on one woman and then on another. Was that
Maria? She was the only woman wearing a bonnet and not a shawl. Of
course it was Maria; momentarily he had forgotten that this was the end
of the seventh month. She stood in the front row of the crowd; as
Hornblower watched she raised an arm and fluttered a scarf. She could
not see him, or at least she certainly could not recognise him at that
distance without a telescope. She must have heard, along with the rest
of Plymouth, of the arrival of _Hotspur_ in Tor Bay; presumably she had
made her way here via Totnes in the carrier's cart--a long and tedious
journey.

She fluttered her scarf again, in the pathetic hope that he was looking
at her. In that part of his mind which never ceased attending to the
ship Hornblower became conscious of the pipes of the bos'n's mate--the
pipes had been shrilling one call or another all day long.

'Quarter-boat away-ay-ay!'

Hornblower had never been so conscious of the slavery of the King's
service. Here he was due to leave the ship to dine with the
Commander-in-Chief, and the Navy had a tradition of punctuality that he
could not flout. And there was Foreman, breathless from his run forward.

'Message from Mr Bush, sir. The boat's waiting.'

What was he to do? Ask Bush to write Maria a note and send it by a shore
boat? No, he would have to risk being late--Maria could not bear to
receive second hand messages at this time of all times. A hurried
scribble with the left-handed quill.

    'My own darling,

    So much pleasure in seeing you, but not a moment to spare yet. I
    will write to you at length.

                                           Your devoted husband,
                                                              H.'

He used that initial in all his letters to her; he did not like his
first name and he could not bring himself to sign 'Horry.' Damn it all,
here was the half-finished letter, interrupted earlier that day and
never completed. He thrust it aside and struggled to apply a wafer to
the finished note. Seven months at sea had destroyed every vestige of
gum and the wafer would not adhere. Doughty was hovering over him with
sword and hat and cloak--Doughty was just as aware of the necessity for
punctuality as he was. Hornblower gave the open note to Bush.

'Seal this, if you please, Mr Bush. And send it by shore boat to Mrs
Hornblower on the pier. Yes, she's on the pier. By a shore boat, Mr
Bush; no one from the ship's to set foot on land.' Down the side and
into the boat. Hornblower could imagine the explanatory murmur through
the crowd on the pier, as Maria would learn from better informed
bystanders what was going on.

'That's the captain going down into the boat.' She would feel a surge of
excitement and happiness. The boat shoved off, the conditions of wind
and current dictating that her bow was pointing right at the pier; that
would be Maria's moment of highest hope. Then the boat swung round while
the hands hauled at the halliards and the balance-lug rose up the mast.
Next moment she was flying towards the flagship, flying away from Maria
without a word or a sign, and Hornblower felt a great welling of pity
and remorse within his breast.

Hewitt responded to the flagship's hail, turned the boat neatly into the
wind, dropped the sail promptly, and with the last vestige of the boat's
way ran her close enough to the starboard mainchains for the bowman to
hook on. Hornblower judged his moment and went up the ship's side. As
his head reached the level of the main-deck the pipes began to shrill in
welcome. And through that noise Hornblower heard the three sharp double
strokes of the ship's bell. Six bells in the afternoon watch; three
o'clock, the time stated in his invitation.

The great stern cabin in the _Hibernia_ was furnished in a more subdued
fashion than Pellew had affected in the _Tonnant_, more Spartan and less
lavish, but comfortable enough. Somewhat to Hornblower's surprise there
were no other visitors; present in the cabin were only Cornwallis, and
Collins, the sardonic Captain of the Fleet, and the flag-lieutenant,
whose name Hornblower vaguely heard as one of these new-fangled double
barrelled names with a hyphen.

Hornblower was conscious of Cornwallis's blue eyes fixed upon him,
examining him closely in a considering, appraising way that might have
unsettled him in other conditions. But he was still a little preoccupied
with his thoughts about Maria, on the one hand, while on the other seven
months at sea, seven weeks of continuous storms, provided all necessary
excuse for his shabby coat and his seaman's trousers. He could meet
Cornwallis's glance without shyness. Indeed, the effect of Cornwallis's
kindly but unsmiling expression was much modified because his wig was
slightly awry; Cornwallis still affected a horsehair bobwig of the sort
that was now being relegated by fashion to noblemen's coachmen, and
today it had a rakish cant that dissipated all appearance of dignity.

Yet, wig or no wig, there was something in the air, some restraint, some
tension, even though Cornwallis was a perfect host who did the honours
of his table with an easy grace. The quality of the atmosphere was such
that Hornblower hardly noticed the food that covered the table, and he
felt acutely that the polite conversation was guarded and cautious. They
discussed the recent weather; _Hibernia_ had been in Tor Bay for several
days, having run for shelter just in time to escape the last hurricane.

'How were your stores when you came in, Captain?' asked Collins.

Now here was another sort of atmosphere, something artificial. There was
an odd quality about Collins' tone, accentuated by the formal 'Captain,'
particularly when addressed to a lowly Commander. Then Hornblower
identified it. This was a stilted and prepared speech, exactly of the
same nature as his recent speech to Bush regarding the admission of
women to the ship. He could identify the tone, but he still could not
account for it. But he had a commonplace answer, so commonplace that he
made it in a commonplace way.

'I still had plenty, sir. Beef and pork for a month at least.'

There was a pause a shade longer than natural, as if the information was
being digested, before Cornwallis asked the next question in a single
word.

'Water?'

'That was different, sir. I'd never been able to fill my casks
completely from the hoys. We were pretty low when we got in. That was
why we ran for it.'

'How much did you have?'

'Two days at half-rations, sir. We'd been on half-rations for a week,
and two-thirds rations for four weeks before that.'

'Oh,' said Collins, and in that instant the atmosphere changed.

'You left very little margin for error, Hornblower,' said Cornwallis,
and now he was smiling, and now Hornblower in his innocence realised
what had been going on. He had been suspected of coming in unnecessarily
early, of being one of those captains who wearied of combating tempests.
Those were the captains Cornwallis was anxious to weed out from the
Channel Fleet, and Hornblower had been under consideration for weeding
out.

'You should have come in at least four days earlier,' said Cornwallis.

'Well, sir--' Hornblower could have covered himself by quoting the
orders of Chambers of the _Naiad_, but he saw no reason to, and he
changed what he was going to say. 'It worked out all right in the end.'

'You'll be sending in your journals, of course, sir?' asked the flag
lieutenant.

'Of course,' said Hornblower.

The ship's log would be documentary proof of his assertions, but the
question was a tactless, almost an insulting, impugning of his veracity,
and Cornwallis instantly displayed a hot-tempered impatience at this
awkwardness on the part of his flag lieutenant.

'Captain Hornblower can do that all in his own good time,' he said.
'Now, wine with you, sir?'

It was extraordinary how pleasant the meeting had become; the change in
the atmosphere was as noticeable as the change in the lighting at this
moment when the stewards brought in candles. The four of them were
laughing and joking when Newton, captain of the ship, came in to make
his report and for Hornblower to be presented to him.

'Wind's steady at west nor'west, sir,' said Newton.

'Thank you, captain.' Cornwallis rolled his blue eyes on Hornblower.
'Are you ready for sea?'

'Yes, sir.' There could be no other reply.

'The wind's bound to come easterly soon,' meditated Cornwallis. 'The
Downs, Spithead, Plymouth Sound--all of them jammed with ships outward
bound and waiting for a fair wind. But one point's all you need with
_Hotspur_.'

'I could fetch Ushant with two tacks now, sir,' said Hornblower. There
was Maria huddled in some lodging in Brixham at this moment, but he had
to say it.

'M'm,' said Cornwallis, still in debate with himself. 'I'm not
comfortable without you watching the Goulet, Hornblower. But I can let
you have one more day at anchor.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'That is if the wind doesn't back any further.' Cornwallis reached a
decision. 'Here are your orders. You sail at nightfall tomorrow. But if
the wind backs one more point you hoist anchor instantly. That is, with
the wind at nor'west by west.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Hornblower knew how he liked his own officers to respond to his orders,
and he matched his deportment with that mental model. Cornwallis went
on, his eye still considering him.

'We took some reasonable claret out of a prize a month ago, I wonder if
you would honour me by accepting a dozen, Hornblower?'

'With the greatest of pleasure, sir.'

'I'll have it put in your boat.'

Cornwallis turned to give the order to his steward, who apparently had
something to say in return in a low voice; Hornblower heard Cornwallis
reply, 'Yes, yes, of course,' before he turned back.

'Perhaps your steward would pass the word for my boat at the same time,
sir?' said Hornblower, who was in no doubt that his visit had lasted
long enough by Cornwallis's standards.

It was quite dark when Hornblower went down the side into the boat, to
find at his feet the case that held the wine, and by now the wind was
almost moderate. The dark surface of Tor Bay was spangled with the
lights of ships, and there were the lights of Torquay and of Paignton
and Brixham visible as well. Maria was somewhere there, probably
uncomfortable, for these little places were probably full of naval
officers' wives.

'Call me the moment the wind comes nor'west by west,' said Hornblower to
Bush as soon as he reached the deck.

'Nor'west by west. Aye aye, sir. The hands managed to get liquor on
board, sir.'

'Did you expect anything else?'

The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the
shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his
earrings in exchange.

'I had trouble with some of 'em, sir, especially after the beer issue.'

Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.

'You dealt with 'em?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Bush.'

A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under
the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he
found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole
of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it
open with a hand-spike.

'The only place to put it, sir,' explained Doughty, apologetically.

That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores,
even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient,
there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would
hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry
constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he
had removed from the case.

'What's that?' demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty
was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he
repeated the question more sharply still.

'It's just a parcel from the Admiral's steward, sir.'

'Show me.'

Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled
goods.

'It's only cabin stores, sir.'

'Show me.'

'Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.' Doughty examined the contents while
exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what
he would find. 'This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried
herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here's coffee--only half a pound, by
the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And...'

'How the devil did you get these?'

'I wrote a note, sir, to the Admiral's steward, and sent it by your
coxs'n. It isn't right that you shouldn't have these things sir. Now I
can cook for you properly.'

'Does the Admiral know?'

'I'd be surprised if he did, sir.'

There was an assured superior expression on Doughty's face as he said
this, which suddenly revealed to Hornblower a world of which he had been
ignorant until then. There might be Flag Officers and Captains, but
under that glittering surface was an unseen circle of stewards, with its
own secret rites and passwords, managing the private lives of their
officers without reference to them.

'Sir!' This was Bush, entering the cabin with hurried step. 'Wind's
nor'west by west, sir. Looks as if it'll back further still.'

It took a moment for Hornblower to re-orient his thoughts, to switch
from stewards and dried herbs to ships and sailing orders. Then he was
himself again, rapping his commands.

'Call all hands. Sway the topmasts up. Get the yards crossed. I want to
be under way in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The quiet of the ship was broken by the pipes and the curses of the
petty officers, as they drove the hands to work. Heads bemused by beer
and brandy cleared themselves with violent exercise and the fresh air of
the chilly night breeze. Clumsy fingers clutched hoists and halliards.
Men tripped and stumbled in the darkness and were kicked to their feet
by petty officers goaded on by the master's mates goaded on in turn by
Bush and Prowse. The vast cumbersome sausages that were the sails were
dragged out from where they had been laid away on the booms.

'Ready to set sail, sir,' reported Bush.

'Very well. Send the hands to the capstan. Mr Foreman, what's the night
signal for "Am getting under way."'

'One moment, sir.' Foreman had not learned the night signal book as
thoroughly as he should have done in seven months. 'One blue light and
one Bengal fire shown together, sir.'

'Very well. Make that ready. Mr Prowse, a course from the Start to
Ushant, if you please.'

That would let the hands know what fate awaited them, if they did not
guess already. Maria would know nothing at all until she looked out at
Tor Bay tomorrow to find _Hotspur's_ place empty. And all she had to
comfort her was the curt note he had sent before dinner; cold comfort,
that. He must not think of Maria, or of the child.

The capstan was clanking as they hove the ship up towards the best
bower. They would have to deal with the extra weight of the boat
carronade that backed that anchor; the additional labour was the price
to be paid for the security of the past days. It was a clumsy, as well
as a laborious operation.

'Shall I heave short on the small bower, sir?'

'Yes, if you please, Mr Bush. And you can get under way as soon as is
convenient to you.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Make that signal, Mr Foreman.'

The quarter-deck was suddenly illuminated, the sinister blue light
blending with the equally sinister crimson of the Bengal fire. The last
splutterings had hardly died away before the answer came from the
flagship, a blue light that winked three times as it was momentarily
screened.

'Flagship acknowledges, sir!'

'Very well.'

And this was the end of his stay in harbour, of his visit to England. He
had seen the last of Maria for months to come; she would be a mother
when he saw her next.

'Sheet home!'

_Hotspur_ was gathering way, turning on her heel with a fair wind to
weather Berry Head. Hornblower's mind played with a score of
inconsequential thoughts as he struggled to put aside his overwhelming
melancholy. He remembered the brief private conversation that he had
witnessed between Cornwallis and the steward. He was quite sure that the
latter had been telling his Admiral about the parcel prepared for
transmission to _Hotspur_. Doughty was not nearly as clever as he
thought he was. That conclusion called up a weak smile as _Hotspur_
breasted the waters of the Channel, with Berry Head looming up on her
starboard beam.




                               CHAPTER XV


Now it was cold, horribly cold; the days were short and the nights
were very, very long. Along with the cold weather came easterly
winds--the one involved the other--and a reversal of the tactical
situation. For although with the wind in the east _Hotspur_ was relieved
of the anxiety of being on a lee shore her responsibilities were
proportionately increased. There was nothing academic now about noting
the direction of the wind each hour; it was no mere navigational
routine. Should the wind blow from any one of ten points of the compass
out of thirty-two it would be possible even for the lubberly French to
make their exit down the Goulet and enter the Atlantic. Should they make
the attempt it was _Hotspur's_ duty to pass an instant warning for the
Channel Fleet to form line of battle if the French were rash enough to
challenge action, and to cover every exit--by the Raz, by the Iroise, by
the Four--if, as would be more likely, they attempted merely to escape.

Today the last of the flood did not make until two o'clock in the
afternoon, a most inconvenient time, for it was not until then that
_Hotspur_ could venture in to make her daily reconnaissance at closest
range. To do so earlier would be to risk that a failure of the wind,
leaving her at the mercy of the tide, would sweep her helplessly up,
within range of the batteries on Petit Minou and the Capuchins--the
Toulinguet battery; and more assuredly fatal than the batteries would be
the reefs, Pollux and the Little Girls.

Hornblower came out on deck with the earliest light--not very early on
this almost the shortest day of the year--to check the position of the
ship while Prowse took the bearings of the Petit Minou and the Grand
Gouin.

'Merry Christmas, sir,' said Bush. It was typical of a military service
that Bush should have to touch his hat while saying those words.

'Thank you. The same to you, Mr Bush.'

It was typical, also, that Hornblower should have been acutely aware
that it was December 25th and yet should have forgotten that it was
Christmas Day; tide tables made no reference to the festivals of the
church.

'Any news of your good lady, sir?' asked Bush.

'Not yet,' answered Hornblower, with a smile that was only half-forced.
'The letter I had yesterday was dated the eighteenth, but there's
nothing as yet.'

It was one more indication of the way the wind had been blowing, that he
should have received a letter from Maria in six days; a victualler had
brought it out with a fair wind. That also implied that it might be six
weeks before his reply reached Maria, and in six weeks--in one
week--everything would be changed, and the child would be born. A naval
officer writing to his wife had to keep one eye on the wind-vane just as
the Lords of the Admiralty had to do when drafting their orders for the
movements of fleets. New Year's Day was the date Maria and the midwife
had decided upon; at that time Maria would be reading the letters he
wrote a month ago. He wished he had written more sympathetically, but
nothing he could do could recall, alter, or supplement those letters.

All he could do would be to spend some of this morning composing a
letter that might belatedly compensate for the deficiencies of its
predecessors (and Hornblower realised with a stab of conscience that
this was not the first time he had reached that decision) while it would
be even more difficult than usual because it would have to be composed
with an eye to all eventualities. All eventualities; Hornblower felt in
that moment the misgivings of every prospective father.

He spent until eleven o'clock on these unsatisfactory literary
exercises, and it was with guilty relief that he returned to the
quarter-deck to take _Hotspur_ up with the last of the tide with the
well-remembered coasts closing in upon her on both sides. The weather
was reasonably clear; not a sparkling Christmas Day, but with little
enough haze at noon, when Hornblower gave the orders that hove _Hotspur_
to, as close to Pollux Reef as he dared. The dull thud of a gun from
Petit Minou coincided with his orders. The rebuilt battery there was
firing its usual range-testing shot in the hope that this time he had
come in too far. Did they recognise the ship that had done them so much
damage? Presumably.

'Their morning salute, sir,' said Bush.

'Yes.'

Hornblower took the telescope into his gloved, yet frozen, hands and
trained it up the Goulet as he always did. Often there was something new
to observe. Today there was much.

'Four new ships at anchor, sir,' said Bush.

'I make it five. Isn't that a new one--the frigate in line with the
church steeple?'

'Don't think so, sir. She's shifted anchorage. Only four new ones by my
count.'

'You're right, Mr Bush.'

'Yards crossed, sir. And--sir, would you look at those tops'l yards?'

Hornblower was already looking.

'I can't be sure.'

'I think those are tops'ls furled over-all, sir.'

'It's possible.'

A sail furled over-all was much thinner and less noticeable, with the
loose part gathered into the bunt about the mast, than one furled in the
usual fashion.

'I'll go up to the masthead myself, sir. And young Foreman has good
eyes. I'll take him with me.'

'Very well. No, wait a moment, Mr Bush. I'll go myself. Take charge of
the ship, if you please. But you can send Foreman up.'

Hornblower's decision to go aloft was proof of the importance he
attached to observation of the new ships. He was uncomfortably aware of
his slowness and awkwardness, and it was only reluctantly that he
exhibited them to his lightfooted and lighthearted subordinates. But
there was something about those ships...

He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the fore-topmasthead,
and it took several seconds to steady himself sufficiently to fix the
ships in the field of the telescope, but he was much warmer. Foreman was
there already, and the regular look-out shrank away out of the notice of
his betters. Neither Foreman nor the look-out could be sure about those
furled topsails.

They thought it likely, yet they would not commit themselves.

'D'you make out anything else about those ships, Mr Foreman?'

'Well, no, sir. I can't say that I do.'

'D'you think they're riding high?'

'Maybe, yes, sir.'

Two of the new arrivals were small two-deckers--sixty-fours,
probably--and the lower tier of gun-ports in each case might be farther
above the waterline than one might expect. It was not a matter of
measurement, all the same; it was more a matter of intuition, of good
taste. Those hulls were just not quite right, although, Foreman, willing
enough to oblige, clearly did not share his feelings.

Hornblower's glass swept the shores round the anchorage, questing for
any further data. There were the rows of hutments that housed the
troops. French soldiers were notoriously well able to look after
themselves, to build themselves adequate shelter; the smoke of their
cooking fires was clearly visible--today, of course, they would be
cooking their Christmas dinners. It was from here that had come the
battalion that had chased him back to the boats the day he blew up the
battery. Hornblower's glass checked itself, moved along, and returned
again. With the breeze that was blowing he could not be certain, but it
seemed to him that from two rows of huts there was no smoke to be seen.
It was all a little vague; he could not even estimate the number of
troops those huts would house; two thousand men, five thousand men; and
he was still doubtful about the absence of cooking smoke.

'Captain, sir!' Bush was hailing from the deck. 'The tide's turned.'

'Very well. I'll come down.'

He was abstracted and thoughtful when he reached the deck.

'Mr Bush, I'll be wanting fish for my dinner soon. Keep a special
look-out for the _Duke's Freers_.'

He had to pronounce it that way to make sure Bush understood him. Two
days later he found himself in his cabin drinking rum--pretending to
drink rum--with the captain of the _Deux Frres_. He had bought himself
half a dozen unidentifiable fish, which the captain strongly recommended
as good eating. 'Carrelets,' the captain called them--Hornblower had a
vague idea that they might be flounders. At any rate, he paid for them
with a gold piece which the captain slipped without comment into the
pockets of his scale-covered serge trousers.

Inevitably the conversation shifted to the sights to be seen up the
Goulet, and from the general to the particular, centring on the new
arrivals in the anchorage. The captain dismissed them with a gesture as
unimportant.

'_Arme's en flte_,' he said, casually.

_En flte!_ That told the story. That locked into place the pieces of
the puzzle. Hornblower took an unguarded gulp at his glass of rum and
water and fought down the consequent cough so as to display no special
interest. A ship of war with her guns taken out was like a flute when
her ports were opened--she had a row of empty holes down her side.

'Not to fight,' explained the captain. 'Only for stores, or troops, or
what you will.'

For troops especially. Stores could best be carried in merchant ships
designed for cargo, but ships of war were constructed to carry large
numbers of men--their cooking arrangements and water storage facilities
had been built in with that in mind. With only as many seamen on board
as were necessary to work the ship there was room to spare for soldiers.
Then the guns would be unnecessary, and at Brest they could be
immediately employed in arming new ships. Removing the guns meant a vast
increase in available deck space into which more troops could be
crammed; the more there were the more strain on the cooking and watering
arrangements, but on a short voyage they would not have long to suffer.
A short voyage. Not the West Indies, nor Good Hope, and certainly not
India. A forty-gun frigate armed _en flte_ might have as many as a
thousand soldiers packed into her. Three thousand men, plus a few
hundred more in the armed escorts. The smallness of the number ruled out
England--not even Bonaparte, so improvident with human life, would throw
away a force that size in an invasion of England where there was at
least a small army and a large militia. There was only one possible
target; Ireland, where a disaffected population meant a weak militia.

'They are no danger to me, then,' said Hornblower, hoping that the
interval during which he had been making these deductions had not been
so long as to be obvious.

'Not even to this little ship,' agreed the Breton captain with a smile.

It called for the exertion of all Hornblower's moral strength to
continue the interview without allowing his agitation to show. He wanted
to get instantly into action, but he dared not appear impatient, the
Breton captain wanted another three-finger glass of rum and was unaware
of any need for haste. Luckily Hornblower remembered an admonition from
Doughty, who had impressed on him the desirability of buying cider as
well as fish, and Hornblower introduced the new subject. Yes, agreed the
captain, there was a keg of cider on board the _Deux Frres_, but he
could not say how much was left, as they had tapped it already during
the day. He would sell what was left.

Hornblower forced himself to bargain; he did not want the Breton captain
to know that his recent piece of information was worth further gold. He
suggested that the cider, of an unknown quantity, should be given him
for nothing extra, and the captain with an avaricious gleam in his
peasant's eye, indignantly refused. For some minutes the argument
proceeded while the rum sank lower in the captain's glass.

'One franc, then,' offered Hornblower at last. 'Twenty sous.'

'Twenty sous and a glass of rum,' said the captain, and Hornblower had
to reconcile himself to that much further delay, but it was worth it to
retain the captain's respect and to allay the captain's suspicions.

So that it was with his head swimming with rum--a sensation he
detested--that Hornblower sat down at last to write his urgent despatch,
having seen his guest down the side. No mere signal could convey all
that he wanted to say, and no signal would be secret enough, either. He
had to choose his words as carefully as the rum would permit, as he
stated his suspicions that the French might be planning an invasion of
Ireland, and as he gave his reasons for those suspicions. He was
satisfied at last, and wrote 'H. Hornblower, Commander,' at the foot of
the letter. Then he turned over the sheet and wrote the address: 'Rear
Admiral William Parker, Commanding the Inshore Squadron,' on the other
side, and folded and sealed the letter. Parker was one of the extensive
Parker clan; there were and had been admirals and captains innumerable
with that name, none of them specially distinguished; perhaps this
letter would alter that tradition.

He sent it off--a long and arduous trip for the boat, and waited
impatiently for the acknowledgement.

    'Sir,

    Your letter of this date has been received and will be given my
    full attention.

                                                Your ob'd serv't,
                                                       Wm. Parker.'

Hornblower read the few words in a flash; he had opened the letter on
the quarter-deck without waiting to retire with it to his cabin, and he
put it in his pocket hoping that his expression betrayed no
disappointment.

'Mr Bush,' he said, 'We shall have to maintain a closer watch than ever
over the Goulet, particularly at night and in thick weather.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Probably Parker needed time to digest the information, and would later
produce a plan; until that time it was Hornblower's duty to act without
orders.

'I shall take the ship up to the Little Girls whenever I can do so
unobserved.'

'The Little Girls? Aye aye, sir.'

It was a very sharp glance that Bush directed at him. No one in his
senses--at least no one except under the strongest compulsion--would
risk his ship near those navigational dangers in conditions of bad
visibility. True; but the compulsions existed. Three thousand
well-trained French soldiers landing in Ireland would set that
distressful country in a flame from end to end, a wilder flame than had
burned in 1798.

'We'll try it tonight,' said Hornblower.

'Aye aye, sir.'

The Little Girls lay squarely in the middle of the channel of the
Goulet, on either side lay a fairway a scant quarter of a mile wide, and
up and down those fairways raced the tide; it would only be during the
ebb that the French would be likely to come down. No, that was not
strictly true, for the French could stem the flood tide with a fair
wind--with this chill easterly wind blowing. The Goulet had to be
watched in all conditions of bad visibility and _Hotspur_ had to do the
watching.




                              CHAPTER XVI


'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Bush, lingering after delivering his
afternoon report, and hesitating before taking the next step he had
clearly decided upon.

'Yes, Mr Bush?'

'You know, sir, you're not looking as well as you should.'

'Indeed?'

'You've been doing too much, sir. Day and night.'

'That's a strange thing for a seaman to say, Mr Bush. And a King's
officer.'

'It's true, all the same, sir. You haven't had an hour's sleep at a time
for days. You're thinner than I've ever known you, sir.'

'I'm afraid I'll have to endure it, nevertheless, Mr Bush.'

'I can only say I wish you didn't have to, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush. I'm going to turn in now, as a matter of fact.'

'I'm glad of that, sir.'

'See that I'm called the moment the weather shows signs of thickening.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Can I trust you, Mr Bush?'

That brought a smile into what was too serious a conversation.

'You can, sir.'

Thank you, Mr Bush.'

It was interesting after Bush's departure to look into the speckled
chipped mirror and observe his thinness, the cheeks and temples fallen
in, the sharp nose and the pointed chin. But this was not the real
Hornblower. The real one was inside, unaffected--as yet, at least--by
privation or strain. The real Hornblower looked out at him from the
hollow eyes in the mirror with a twinkle of recognition, a twinkle that
brightened, not with malice, but with something akin to that--a kind of
cynical amusement--at the sight of Hornblower seeking proof of the
weaknesses of the flesh. But time was too precious to waste; the weary
body that the real Hornblower had to drag about demanded repose. And, as
regards the weaknesses of the flesh, how delightful, how comforting it
was to clasp to his stomach the hot-water bottle that Doughty had put
into his cot, to feel warm and relaxed despite the clamminess of the
bedclothes and the searching cold that pervaded the cabin.

'Sir,' said Doughty, coming into the cabin after what seemed to be one
minute's interval but which, his watch told him, was two hours. 'Mr
Prowse sent me. It's snowing, sir.'

'Very well. I'll come.'

How often had he said those words? Every time the weather had thickened
he had taken _Hotspur_ up the Goulet, enduring the strain of advancing
blind up into frightful danger, watching wind and tide, making the most
elaborate calculations, alert for any change in conditions, ready to
dash out again at the first hint of improvement, not only to evade the
fire of the batteries, but also to prevent the French from discovering
the close watch that was being maintained over them.

'It's only just started to snow, sir,' Doughty was saying. 'But Mr
Prowse says it's set in for the night.'

With Doughty's assistance Hornblower had bundled himself automatically
into his deck clothing without noticing what he was doing. He went out
into a changed world, where his feet trod a thin carpet of snow on the
deck, and where Prowse loomed up in the darkness shimmering in the white
coating of snow on his oilskins.

'Wind's nor' by east, sir, moderate. An hour of flood still to go.'

'Thank you. Turn the hands up and send them to quarters, if you please.
They can sleep at the guns.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Five minutes from now I don't want to hear a sound.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

This was only regular routine. The less the distance one could see the
readier the ship had to be to open fire should an enemy loom up close
alongside. But there was no routine about his own duties; every time he
took the ship up conditions were different, the wind blowing from a
different compass point and the tide of a different age. This was the
first time the wind had been so far round to the north. Tonight he would
have to shave the shallows off Petit Minou as close as he dared, and
then, close-hauled, with the last of the flood behind him, _Hotspur_
could just ascend the northern channel, with the Little Girls to
starboard.

There was spirit left in the crew; there were jokes and cries of
surprise when they emerged into the snow from the stinking warmth of the
'tween deck, but sharp orders suppressed every sound. _Hotspur_ was
deadly quiet, like a ghost ship when the yards had been trimmed and the
helm orders given and she began to make her way through the impenetrable
night, night more impenetrable than ever with the air full of snowflakes
silently dropping down upon them.

A shuttered lantern at the taffrail for reading the log, although the
log's indications were of minor importance, when speed over the ground
could be so different--instinct and experience were more important. Two
hands in the port side mainchains with the lead. Hornblower on the
weather side of the quarter-deck could hear quite a quiet call, even
though there was a hand stationed to relay it if necessary. Five
fathoms. Four fathoms. If his navigation were faulty they would strike
before the next cast. Aground under the guns of Petit Minou, ruined and
destroyed; Hornblower could not restrain himself from clenching his
gloved hands and tightening his muscles. Six and a half fathoms. That
was what he had calculated upon, but it was a relief,
nevertheless--Hornblower felt a small contempt for himself at feeling
relieved, at his lack of faith in his own judgement.

'Full and bye,' he ordered.

They were as close under Petit Minou as possible, a quarter of a mile
from those well-known hills, but there was nothing visible at all. There
might be a solid black wall a yard from Hornblower's eyes whichever way
he turned them. Eleven fathoms; they were on the edge of the fairway
now. The last of the flood, two days after the lowest neaps, and wind
north by east; the current should be less than a knot and the eddy off
Mengam non-existent.

'No bottom!'

More than twenty fathoms; that was right.

'A good night this for the Frogs, sir,' muttered Bush beside him, he had
been waiting for this moment.

Certainly it was a good night for the French if they were determined to
escape. They knew the times of ebb and flood as well as he did. They
would see the snow. Comfortable time for them to up anchor and get under
weigh, and make the passage of the Goulet with a fair wind and ebb tide.
Impossible for them to escape by the Four with this wind; the Iroise was
guarded--he hoped--by the Inshore Squadron, but on a night as black as
this they might try it in preference to the difficult Raz du Sein.

Nineteen fathoms; he was above the Little Girls, and he could be
confident of weathering Mengam. Nineteen fathoms.

'Should be slack water now, sir,' muttered Prowse, who had just looked
at his watch in the light of the shaded binnacle.

They were above Mengam now; the lead should record a fairly steady
nineteen fathoms for the next few minutes, and it was time that he
should plan out the next move--the next move but one, rather. He
conjured up the chart before his mental eye.

'Listen!' Bush's elbow dug into Hornblower's ribs with the urgency of
the moment.

'Avast there at the lead!' said Hornblower. He spoke in a normal tone to
make sure he was understood; with the wind blowing that way his voice
would not carry far in the direction he was peering into.

There was the sound again; there were other noises. A long drawn
monosyllable borne by the wind, and Hornblower's straining senses picked
it up. It was a Frenchman calling 'Seize,' sixteen. French pilots still
used the old-fashioned _toise_ to measure depths, and the _toise_ was
slightly greater than the English fathom.

'Lights!' muttered Bush, his elbow at Hornblower's ribs again. There was
a gleam here and there--the Frenchman had not darkened his ship nearly
as effectively as the _Hotspur_. There was enough light to give some
sort of indication. A ghost ship sweeping by within biscuit toss. The
topsails were suddenly visible--there must be a thin coating of snow on
the after surfaces whose gleaming white could reflect any light there
was. And then--

'Three red lights in a row on the mizzen-tops'l yard,' whispered Bush.

Visible enough now; shaded in front, presumably, with the light directed
aft to guide following ships. Hornblower felt a surge of inspiration, of
instant decision, plans for the moment, plans for the next five minutes,
plans for the more distant future.

'Run! he snapped at Bush. 'Get three lights hoisted the same way. Keep
'em shaded, ready to show.'

Bush was off at the last word, but the thoughts had to come more rapidly
like lightning. _Hotspur_ dared not tack; she must wear.

'Wear ship!' he snapped at Prowse--no time for the politenesses he
usually employed.

As _Hotspur_ swung round he saw the three separated red lights join
together almost into one, and at the same moment he saw a blue glare,
the French ship was altering course to proceed down the Goulet and was
burning a blue light as an indication to the ships following to up helm
in succession. Now he could see the second French ship, a second faint
ghost--the blue light helped to reveal it.

Pellew in the old _Indefatigable_, when Hornblower was a prisoner in
Ferrol, had once confused a French squadron escaping from Brest by
imitating the French signals, but that had been in the comparatively
open waters of the Iroise. It had been in Hornblower's mind to try
similar tactics, but here in the narrow Goulet there was a possibility
of more decisive action.

'Bring her to the wind on the starboard tack,' he snapped at Prowse, and
_Hotspur_ swung round further still, the invisible hands hauling at the
invisible braces.

There was the second ship in the French line just completing her turn,
with _Hotspur's_ bows pointing almost straight at her.

'Starboard a little.' _Hotspur's_ bows swung away. 'Meet her.'

He wanted to be as close alongside as he possibly could be without
running foul of her.

'I've sent a good hand up with the lights, sir.' This was Bush
reporting. 'Another two minutes and they'll be ready.'

'Get down to the guns,' snapped Hornblower, and then, with the need for
silence at an end, he reached for the speaking-trumpet.

'Main-deck! Man the starboard guns! Run 'em out.'

How would the French squadron be composed? It would have an armed
escort, not to fight its way through the Channel Fleet, but to protect
the transports, after the escape, from stray British cruising frigates.
There would be two big frigates, one in the van and one bringing up the
rear, while the intermediate ships would be defenceless transports,
frigates armed _en flte_.

'Starboard! Steady!'

Yard arm to yardarm with the second ship in the line, going down the
Goulet alongside her, ghost ships side by side in the falling snow. The
rumble of gun-trucks had ceased.

'Fire!'

At ten guns, ten hands jerked at the lanyards, and _Hotspur's_ side
burst into flame, illuminating the sails and hull of the Frenchman with
a bright glare; in the instantaneous glare of snowflakes were visible as
if stationary in mid air.

'Fire away, you men!'

There were cries and shouts to be heard from the French ship, and then a
French voice speaking almost in his ear--the French captain hailing him
from thirty yards away with his speaking-trumpet pointed straight at
him. It would be an expostulation, the French captain wondering why a
French ship should be firing into him, here where no British ship could
possibly be. The words were cut off abruptly by the bang and the flash
of the first gun of the second broadside, the others following as the
men loaded and fired as fast as they could. Each flash brought a
momentary revelation of the French ship, a flickering, intermittent
picture. Those nine-pounder balls were crashing into a ship crammed with
men. At this very moment, as he stood there rigid on the deck, men were
dying in agony by the score just over there, for no more reason than
that they had been forced into the service of a continental tyrant.
Surely the French would not be able to bear it. Surely they would flinch
under this unexpected and unexplainable attack. Ah! She was turning
away, although she had nowhere to turn to except the cliffs and shoals
of the shore close overside. There were the three red lights on her
mizzen-topsail yard. By accident or design she had put her helm down. He
must make sure of her.

'Port a little.'

_Hotspur_ swung to starboard, her guns blazing. Enough.

'Starboard a little. Steady as you go.'

Now the speaking-trumpet. 'Cease fire!'

The silence that followed was broken by the crash as the Frenchman
struck the shore, the clatter of falling spars, the yells of despair.
And in this darkness, after the glare of the guns, he was blinder than
ever, and yet he must act as if he could see; he must waste no moment.

'Back the maintops'l! Stay by the braces!'

The rest of the French line must be coming down, willy-nilly; with the
wind over their quarter and the ebb under their keels and rocks on
either side of them they could do nothing else. He must think quicker
than they; he still had the advantage of surprise--the French captain in
the following ship would not yet have had time to collect his thoughts.

The Little Girls were under their lee; he must not delay another moment.

'Braces, there!'

Here she came, looming up, close, close, yells of panic from her
forecastle.

'Hard-a-starboard!'

_Hotspur_ had just enough way through the water to respond to her
rudder; the two bows swung from each other, collision averted by a
hair's breadth.

'Fire!'

The Frenchman's sails were all a-shiver; she was not under proper
control, and with those nine-pounder balls sweeping her deck she would
not recover quickly. _Hotspur_ must not pass ahead of her; he still had
a little time and a little room to spare.

'Main tops'l aback!'

This was a well-drilled crew; the ship was working like a machine. Even
the powder-boys, climbing and descending the ladders in pitch darkness,
were carrying out their duties with exactitude, keeping the guns
supplied with powder, for the guns never ceased from firing, bellowing
in deafening fashion and bathing the Frenchman with orange light while
the smoke blew heavily away on the disengaged side.

He could not spare another moment with the maintopsail aback. He must
fill and draw ahead even if it meant disengagement.

'Braces, there!'

He had not noticed until now the infernal din of the quarter-deck
carronades beside him; they were firing rapidly, sweeping the
transport's deck with grape. In their flashes he saw the Frenchman's
masts drawing aft as _Hotspur_ regained her way. Then in the next flash
he saw something else, another momentary picture--a ship's bowsprit
crossing the Frenchman's deck from the disengaged side, and he heard a
crash and the screams. The next Frenchman astern had run bows on into
her colleague. The first rending crash was followed by others; he strode
aft to try to see, but already the darkness had closed like a wall round
his blinded eyes. He could only listen, but what he heard told him the
story. The ship that rammed was swinging with the wind, her bowsprit
tearing through shrouds and halliards until it snapped against the
mainmast. Then the fore-topmast would fall, yards would fall. The two
ships were locked together and helpless, with the Little Girls under
their lee. Now he saw blue lights burning as they tried to deal with the
hopeless situation; with the ships swinging the blue lights and the red
lights on the yards were revolving round each other like some planetary
system. There was no chance of escape for them; as wind and current
carried him away he thought he heard the crash as they struck upon the
Little Girls, but he could not be sure, and there was no time--of course
there was no time--to think about it. At this stage of the ebb there was
an eddy that set in upon Pollux Reef and he must allow for that. Then he
would be out in the Iroise, whose waters he used to think so dangerous
before he had ventured up the Goulet, and an unknown number of ships was
coming down from Brest, forewarned now by all the firing and the tumult
that an enemy was in their midst.

He took a hasty glance into the binnacle, gauged the force of the wind
on his cheeks. The enemy--what there was left of them--would certainly,
with this wind, run for the Raz du Sein, and would certainly give the
Trepieds shoal a wide berth. He must post himself to intercept them; the
next ship in the line must be close at hand in any case, but in a few
seconds she would no longer be confined to the narrow channel of the
Goulet. And what would the first frigate be doing, the one he had
allowed to pass without attacking her?'

'Main chains, there! Get the lead going.'

He must keep up to windward as best he could.

'No bottom! No bottom with this line.'

He was clear of Pollux, then.

'Avast, there, with the lead.'

They stood on steadily on the starboard tack; in the impenetrable
darkness he could hear Prowse breathing heavily at his side and all else
was silence round him. He would have to take another cast of the lead
soon enough. What was that? Wind and water had brought a distinctive
sound to his ears, a solemn noise, of a solid body falling into the
water. It was the sound of a lead being cast--and then followed, at the
appropriate interval, the high-pitched cry of the leadsman. There was a
ship just up there to windward, and now with the distance lessening and
with his hearing concentrate in that direction he could hear other
sounds, voices, the working of yards. He leaned over the rail and spoke
quietly down into the waist.

'Stand by your guns.'

There she was, looming faintly on the starboard bow.

'Starboard two points. Meet her.'

They saw _Hotspur_ at that same moment; from out of the darkness came
the hail of a speaking-trumpet, but in the middle of a word Hornblower
spoke down into the waist again.

'Fire!'

The guns went off so nearly together that he felt _Hotspur's_ light
fabric heel a little with the force of the recoil, and there again was
the shape of a ship lit up by the glare of the broadside. He could not
hope to force her on the shoals; there was too much sea room for that.
He took the speaking-trumpet.

'Elevate your guns! Aim for her spars!'

He could cripple her. The first gun of the new broadside went off
immediately after he said the words--some fool had not paid attention.
But the other guns fired after the interval necessary to withdraw the
coigns, flash after flash, bang after bang. Again and again and again.
Suddenly a flash revealed a change in the shape of the illuminated
mizzen-topsail, and at the same moment that mizzen-topsail moved slowly
back abaft the beam. The Frenchman had thrown all aback in a desperate
attempt to escape this tormentor, risking being raked in the hope of
passing under _Hotspur's_ stern to get before the wind. He would wear
the _Hotspur_ round and bring her under the fire of the port broadside
and chase her on to the Trepieds; the speaking-trumpet was at his lips
when the darkness ahead erupted into a volcano of fire.

Chaos. Out of the black snow-filled night had come a broadside, raking
the _Hotspur_ from bow to stern. Along with the sound and the flash came
the rending crash of splintered woodwork, the loud ringing noise as a
cannon-ball hit the breech of a gun, the shriek of the flying splinters,
and following on that came the screaming of a wounded man, cutting
through the sudden new stillness.

One of the armed frigates of the escort--the leader of the line, most
likely--had seen the firing and had been close enough to intervene. She
had crossed _Hotspur's_ bows to fire in a raking broadside.

'Hard-a-starboard!'

He could not tack, even if he were prepared to take the chance of
missing stays with the rigging as much cut up as it must be, for he was
not clear of the transport yet. He must wear, even though it meant being
raked once more.

'Wear the ship!'

_Hotspur_ was turning even as her last guns fired into the transport.
Then came the second broadside from ahead, flaring out of the darkness,
a fraction of a second between each successive shot, crashing into
_Hotspur's_ battered bows, while Hornblower stood, trying not to wince,
thinking what he must do next. Was that the last shot? Now there was a
new and rending crash forward, a succession of snapping noises, another
thundering crash, and cries and shrieks from forward. That must be the
foremast fallen. That must be the fore-topsail yard crashing on the
deck.

'Helm doesn't answer, sir,' called the quartermaster at the wheel.

With the foremast down _Hotspur_ would tend to fly up in the wind, even
if the wreckage were not dragging alongside to act as a sea-anchor. He
could feel the wind shifting on his cheek. Now _Hotspur_ was helpless.
Now she could be battered to destruction by an enemy twice her size,
with four times her weight of metal, with scantlings twice as thick to
keep out _Hotspur's_ feeble shot. He would have to fight despairingly to
the death. Unless... The enemy would be putting his helm a-starboard
to rake _Hotspur_ from astern, or he would be doing so as soon as he
could make out in the darkness what had happened. Time would pass very
fast and the wind was still blowing, thank God, and there was the
transport close on his starboard side still. He spoke loudly into the
speaking-trumpet.

'Silence! Silence!'

The bustle and clatter forward, where the hands had been struggling with
the fallen spars, died away. Even the groaning wounded fell silent; that
was discipline, and not the discipline of the cat o' nine tails. He
could just hear the rumble of the French frigate's gun-trucks as they
ran out the guns for the next broadside, and he could hear shouted
orders. The French frigate was turning to deliver the _coup de grace_ as
soon as she made certain of her target. Hornblower pointed the
speaking-trumpet straight upwards as if addressing the sky, and he tried
to keep his voice steady and quiet. He did not want the French frigate
to hear.

'Mizzen topsail yard! Unmask those lights.'

That was a bad moment; the lights might have gone out, the lad stationed
on the yard might be dead. He had to speak again.

'Show those lights!'

Discipline kept the hand up there from hailing back, but there they
were--one, two, three red lights along the mizzen-topsail yard. Even
against the wind he heard a wild order being shouted from the French
frigate, excitement, even panic in the voice. The French captain was
ordering his guns not to fire. Perhaps he was thinking that some
horrible mistake had already been made; perhaps in the bewildering
darkness he was confusing _Hotspur_ with her recent victim not so far
off. At least he was holding fire; at least he was going off to leeward,
and a hundred yards to leeward in that darkness was the equivalent of a
mile in ordinary conditions.

'Mask those lights again!'

No need to give the Frenchman a mark for gunfire or an objective to
which to beat back when he should clear up the situation. Now a voice
spoke out of the darkness close to him.

'Bush reporting, sir. I've left the guns for the moment, if you give me
leave, sir. Fore-tops'ls all across the starboard battery. Can't fire
those guns in any case yet.'

'Very well, Mr Bush. What's the damage?'

'Foremast's gone six feet above the deck, sir. Everything went over the
starboard side. Most of the shrouds must have held--it's all trailing
alongside.'

'Then we'll get to work--in silence, Mr Bush. I want every stitch of
canvas got in first, and then we'll deal with the wreckage.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Stripping the ship of her canvas would make her far less visible to the
enemy's eyes, and would reduce _Hotspur's_ leeway while she rode to her
strange sea anchor. Next moment it was the carpenter, up from below.

'We're making water very fast, sir. Two feet in the hold. My men are
plugging one shot hole, aft by the magazine, but there must be another
one for'ard in the cable tier. We'll need hands at the pumps, sir, an'
I'd like half a dozen more in the cable tier.'

'Very well.'

So much to be done, in a nightmare atmosphere of unreality, and then
came an explanation of some of the unreality. Six inches of snow lay on
the decks, piled in deeper drifts against the vertical surfaces,
silencing as well as impeding every movement. But most of the sense of
unreality stemmed from simple exhaustion, nervous and physical, and the
exhaustion had to be ignored while the work went on, trying to think
clearly in the numbing darkness, with the knowledge that the Trepieds
shoal lay close under their lee, on a falling tide. Getting up sail when
the wreckage had been cleared away, and discovering by sheer seaman's
instinct how to handle _Hotspur_ under sail without her foremast, with
only the feel of the wind on his cheeks and the wavering compass in the
binnacle to guide him, and the shoals waiting for him if he
miscalculated.

'I'd like you to set the sprit-sail, Mr Bush, if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

A dangerous job for the hands that had to spread the sprit-sail under
the bowsprit in the dark, with all the accustomed stays swept away by
the loss of the foremast, but it had to be done to supply the necessary
leverage forward to keep _Hotspur_ from turning into the wind. Setting
the ponderous main-course, because the main-topmast could not be trusted
to carry sail. Then creeping westward, with the pumps clanking
lugubriously, and the blackness turning slowly to dark grey, and the
dark grey turning slowly to light grey, with the coming of the dawn and
the cessation of the snowfall. Then it was light enough to see the
disorder of the decks and the trampled snow--snow stained pink here and
there, in wide areas. Then at last came the sight of the _Doris_, and
help at hand; it might almost be called safety, except that later they
would have to beat back against contrary winds and with a jury foremast
and in a leaky ship, to Plymouth and refitting.

It was when they saw _Doris_ hoisting out her boats, despatching
additional manpower, that Bush could turn to Hornblower with a
conventional remark. Bush was not aware of his own appearance, his
powder blackened face, his hollow cheeks and his sprouting beard, but
even without that knowledge the setting was bizarre enough to appeal to
Bush's crude sense of humour.

'A Happy New Year to you, sir,' said Bush, with a death's head grin.

It was New Year's Day. Then to the two men the same thought occurred
simultaneously, and Bush's grin was replaced by something more serious.

'I hope your good lady...'

He was taken unawares, and could not find the formal words.

'Thank you, Mr Bush.'

It was on New Year's Day that the child was expected. Maria might be in
labour at this moment while they stood there talking.




                              CHAPTER XVII


'Will you be having dinner on board, sir?' asked Doughty.

'No,' replied Hornblower. He hesitated before he launched into the next
speech that had occurred to him, but he decided to continue. 'Tonight
Horatio Hornblower dines with Horatio Hornblower.'

'Yes, sir.'

No joke ever fell as flat as that one. Perhaps--certainly--it was too
much to expect Doughty to catch the classical allusion, but he might at
least have smiled, because it was obvious that his captain had
condescended so far as to be facetious.

'You'll need your oilskins, sir. It's raining heavily still,' said
Doughty of the almost immovable countenance.

'Thank you.'

It seemed to have rained every single day since _Hotspur_ had crawled
into Plymouth Sound. Hornblower walked out from the dockyard with the
rain rattling on his oilskins as if it were hail and not rain, and it
continued all the time it took him to make his way to Driver's Alley.
The landlady's little daughter opened the door to his knock, and as he
walked up the stairs to his lodgings he heard the voice of the other
Horatio Hornblower loudly proclaiming his sorrows. He opened the door
and entered the small, hot stuffy room where Maria was standing with the
baby over her shoulder, its long clothes hanging below her waist. Her
face lit with pleasure when she saw him, and she could hardly wait for
him to peel off his dripping oilskins before she came to his arms.
Hornblower kissed her hot cheek and tried to look round the corner at
little Horatio, but the baby only put his face into his mother's
shoulder and wailed.

'He's been fractious today, dear,' said Maria, apologetically.

'Poor little fellow! And what about you, my dear?' Hornblower was
careful to make Maria the centre of his thoughts whenever he was with
her.

'I'm well enough now, dear. I can go up and down the stairs like a
bird.'

'Excellent.'

Maria patted the baby's back.

'I wish he would be good. I want him to smile for his father.'

'Perhaps I could try?'

'Oh, no!'

Maria was quite shocked at the notion that a man should hold a crying
baby, even his own, but it was a delightful kind of shock, all the same,
and she yielded the baby to his proffered arms. Hornblower held his
child--it was always a slight surprise to find how light that bundle of
clothes was--and looked down at the rather amorphous features and the
wet nose.

'There!' said Hornblower. The act of transfer had quieted little Horatio
for a moment at least.

Maria stood bathed in happiness at the sight of her husband holding her
son. And Hornblower's emotions were strangely mixed; one emotion was
astonishment at finding pleasure in holding his child, for he found it
hard to believe that he was capable of such sentiment. Maria held the
back of the fireside armchair so that he could sit down in it, and then,
greatly daring, kissed his hair.

'And how is the ship?' she asked, leaning over him.

'She's nearly ready for sea,' said Hornblower.

_Hotspur_ had been in and out of dock, her bottom cleaned, her seams
recaulked, her shot holes patched. Her new foremast had been put in, and
the riggers had set up the standing rigging. She only had to renew her
stores.

'Oh dear,' said Maria.

'Wind's steady in the west,' said Hornblower. Not that that would deter
him from beating down-Channel if he could once work _Hotspur_ down the
Sound--he could not think why he had held out this shred of hope to
Maria.

Little Horatio began to wail again.

'Poor darling!' said Maria. 'Let me take him.'

'I can deal with him.'

'No. It--it isn't right.' It was all wrong, in Maria's mind, that a
father should be afflicted by his child's tantrums. She thought of
something else. 'You wished to see this, dear. Mother brought it in this
afternoon from Lockhart's Library.'

She brought a magazine from the side table, and gave it in exchange for
the baby, whom she clasped once more to her breast.

The magazine was the new number of the _Naval Chronicle_, and Maria with
her free hand helped Hornblower to turn the pages.

'There!' Maria pointed to the relevant passage, on almost the last page.
'On January 1st last...' it began, it was the announcement of little
Horatio's birth.

'The Lady of Captain Horatio Hornblower of the Royal Navy, of a son,'
read Maria. 'That's me and little Horatio. I'm--I'm more grateful to
you, dear, than I can ever tell you.'

'Nonsense,' replied Hornblower. That was just what he thought it was,
but he made himself look up with a smile that took out any sting from
what he said.

'They call you "Captain,"' went on Maria, with an interrogative in the
remark.

'Yes,' agreed Hornblower. 'That's because--'

He embarked once more on the explanation of the profound difference
between a Commander by rank (and a Captain only by courtesy) and a Post
Captain. He had said it all before, more than once.

'I don't think it's right,' decided Maria.

'Very few things are right, my dear,' said Hornblower, a little
absently. He was leafing through the other pages of the _Naval
Chronicle_, working forward from the back page where he had started.
Here was the Plymouth Report, and here was one of the things he was
looking for.

'Came in H.M. Sloop _Hotspur_ under jury rig, from the Channel Fleet.
She proceeded at once into dock. Captain Horatio Hornblower landed at
once with despatches.' Then came the Law Intelligence, and the Naval
Courts Martial, and the Monthly Register of Naval Events, and the Naval
Debates in the Imperial Parliament, and then, between the Debates and
the Poetry, came the Gazette Letters. And here it was. First, in
italics, came the introduction.

    '_Copy of a letter from Vice Admiral Sir William Cornwallis to
    Sir Evan Nepean, Bart., dated on board of H.M.S._ Hibernia, _the
    2nd instant_.'

Next came Cornwallis's letter.

    'Sir,

    I herewith transmit for their Lordships' information, copies of
    letters I have received from Captains Chambers of H.M.S. _Naiad_
    and Hornblower of H.M. Sloop _Hotspur_, acquainting me of the
    capture of the French national frigate _Clorinde_ and of the
    defeat of an attempt by the French to escape from Brest with a
    large body of Troops. The conduct of both these officers appears
    to me to be highly commendable. I enclose also a copy of a
    letter I have received from Captain Smith of H.M.S. _Doris_.

    I have the honour to be, with deepest respect

                                             Your ob'd't serv't,
                                                  Wm. Cornwallis.'

Chambers' report came next. _Naiad_ had caught _Clorinde_ near Molene
and had fought her to a standstill, capturing her in forty minutes.
Apparently the other French frigate which had come out with the
transports had escaped by the Raz du Sein and had still not been caught.

Then at last came his own report. Hornblower felt the flush of
excitement he had known before on reading his own words in print. He
studied them afresh at this interval, and was grudgingly satisfied. They
told, without elaboration, the bare facts of how three transports had
been run ashore in the Goulet, and of how _Hotspur_ while attacking a
fourth had been in action with a French frigate and had lost her
foremast. Not a word about saving Ireland from invasion; the merest
half-sentence about the darkness and the snow and the navigational
perils, but men who could understand would understand.

Smith's letter from the _Doris_ was brief, too. After meeting _Hotspur_
he had pushed in towards Brest and had found a French frigate, armed _en
flte_, aground on the Trepieds with shore boats taking off her troops.
Under the fire of the French coastal batteries _Doris_ had sent in her
boats and had burned her.

'There's something more in the _Chronicle_ that might interest you,
dear,' said Hornblower. He proffered the magazine with his finger
indicating his letter.

'Another letter from you, dear!' said Maria. 'How pleased you must be!'

She read the letter quickly.

'I haven't had time to read this before,' she said, looking up. 'Little
Horatio was so fractious. And--and--I never understand all these
letters, dear. I hope you are proud of what you did. I'm sure you are,
of course.'

Luckily little Horatio set up a wail at that moment to save Hornblower
from a specific answer to that speech. Maria pacified the baby and went
on.

'The shopkeepers will know about this tomorrow and they'll all speak to
me about it.'

The door opened to admit Mrs Mason, her pattens clattering on her feet,
raindrops sparkling on her shawl. She and Hornblower exchanged 'good
evenings' while she took off her outer clothing.

'Let me take that child,' said Mrs Mason to her daughter.

'Horry has another letter in the _Chronicle_,' countered Maria.

'Indeed?'

Mrs Mason sat down across the fire from Hornblower and studied the page
with more care than Maria had done, but perhaps with no more
understanding.

'The Admiral says your conduct was "very Commendable,"' she said,
looking up.

'Yes.'

'Why doesn't he make you a real captain, "post," as you call it?'

'The decision doesn't lie with him,' said Hornblower. 'And I doubt if he
would in any case.'

'Can't admirals make captains?'

'Not in home waters.'

The god-like power of promotion freely exercised on distant stations was
denied to commanders-in-chief where speedy reference to the Admiralty
was possible.

'And what about prize money?'

'There's none for the _Hotspur_.'

'But this--this _Clorinde_ was captured?'

'Yes, but we weren't in sight.'

'But you were fighting, weren't you?'

'Yes, Mrs Mason. But only ships in sight share in prize money. Except
for the flag officers.'

'And aren't you a flag-officer?'

'No. Flag officer means "Admiral," Mrs Mason.'

Mrs Mason sniffed.

'It all seems very strange. So you do not profit at all by this letter?'

'No, Mrs Mason.' At least not in the way Mrs Mason meant.

'It's about time you made some prize money. I hear all the time about
the ships that have made thousands. Eight pounds a month for Maria, and
her with a child.' Mrs Mason looked round at her daughter. 'Threepence a
pound for neck of mutton! The cost of things is more than I can
understand.'

'Yes, mother. Horry gives me all he can, I'm sure.'

As captain of a ship below the sixth rate Hornblower's pay was twelve
pounds a month, and he still needed those new uniforms. Prices were
rising with war-time demand, and the Admiralty, despite many promises,
had not yet succeeded in obtaining an increase in pay for naval
officers.

'Some captains make plenty,' said Mrs Mason.

It was prize money, and the possibility of gaining it, that kept the
Navy quiet under the otherwise intolerable conditions. The great
mutinies at Spithead and the Nore were less than ten years old. But
Hornblower felt he would be drawn into a defence of the prize money
system shortly if Mrs Mason persisted in talking as she did. Luckily the
entrance of the landlady to lay the table for supper changed the subject
of conversation. With another person in the room neither Mrs Mason nor
Maria would discuss such a low subject as money, and they talked about
indifferent matters instead. They sat down to dinner when the landlady
brought in a steaming tureen.

'The pearl barley's at the bottom, Horatio,' said Mrs Mason, supervising
him as he served the food.

'Yes, Mrs Mason.'

'And you'd better give Maria that other chop--that one's meant for you.'

'Yes, Mrs Mason.'

Hornblower had learned to keep a still tongue in his head under the
goadings of tyranny when he was a lieutenant in the old _Renown_ under
Captain Sawyer's command, but he had well-nigh forgotten those lessons
by now, and was having painfully to relearn them. He had married of his
own free will--he could have said 'no' at the altar, he remembered--and
now he had to make the best of a bad business. Quarrelling with his
mother-in-law would not help. It was a pity that _Hotspur_ had come in
for docking at the moment when Mrs Mason had arrived to see her daughter
through her confinement, but he need hardly fear a repetition of the
coincidence during the days--the endless days--to come.

Stewed mutton and pearl barley and potatoes and cabbage. It might have
been a very pleasant dinner, except that the atmosphere was
unfavourable; in two senses. The room, with its sea-coal fire, was
unbearably hot. Thanks to the rain no washing could be hung out of
doors, and Hornblower doubted if in the vicinity of Driver's Alley
washing could be hung out of doors unwatched in any case. So that on a
clothes-horse on the other side of the room hung little Horatio's
clothing, and somehow nature arranged it that every stitch little
Horatio wore had to be washed, as often as several times a day. Hanging
on the horse were the long embroidered gowns, and the long flannel gowns
with their scalloped borders, and the flannel shirts, and the binders,
as well as the innumerable napkins that might have been expected to
sacrifice themselves, like a rearguard, in the defence of the main body.
Hornblower's wet oilskins and Mrs Mason's wet shawl added variant notes
to the smells in the room, and Hornblower suspected that little Horatio,
now in the cradle beside Maria's chair, added yet another.

Hornblower thought of the keen clean air of the Atlantic and felt his
lungs would burst. He did his best with his dinner, but it was a poor
best.

'You're not making a very good dinner, Horatio,' said Mrs Mason, peering
suspiciously at his plate.

'I suppose I'm not very hungry.'

'Too much of Doughty's cooking, I expect,' said Mrs Mason.

Hornblower knew already, without a word spoken, that the women were
jealous of Doughty and ill at ease in his presence. Doughty had served
the rich and the great; Doughty knew of fancy ways of cooking; Doughty
wanted money to bring the cabin stores of the _Hotspur_ up to his own
fastidious standards; Doughty (in the women's minds, at least) was
probably supercilious about Driver's Alley and the family his captain
had married into.

'I can't abide that Doughty,' said Maria--the word was spoken now.

'He's harmless enough, my dear,' said Hornblower.

'Harmless!' Mrs Mason said only that one word, but Demosthenes could not
have put more vituperation into a whole Philippic; and yet, when the
landlady came in to clear the table, Mrs Mason contrived to be at her
loftiest.

As the landlady left the room Hornblower's instincts guided him into an
action of which he was actually unconscious. He threw up the window and
drew the icy evening air deep into his lungs.

'You'll give him his death!' said Maria's voice, and Hornblower swung
round, surprised.

Maria had snatched up little Horatio from his cradle and stood clasping
him to her bosom, a lioness defending her cub from the manifest and
well-known perils of the night air.

'I beg your pardon, dear,' said Hornblower. 'I can't imagine what I was
thinking of.'

He knew perfectly well that little babies should be kept in stuffy
heated rooms, and he was full of genuine contrition regarding little
Horatio. But as he turned back and pulled the window shut again his mind
was dwelling on the Blackstones and the Little Girls, on bleak harsh
days and dangerous nights, on a deck that he could call his own. He was
ready to go to sea again.




                             CHAPTER XVIII


With the coming of spring a new liveliness developed in the blockade
of Brest. In every French port during the winter there had been much
building of flat-bottomed boats. The French army, two hundred thousand
strong, was still poised on the Channel coast, waiting for its chance to
invade, and it needed gun-boats by the thousand to ferry it over when
that chance should come. But the invasion coast from Boulogne to Ostend
could not supply one-tenth, one-hundredth of the vessels needed; these
had to be built whenever there were facilities, and then had to be moved
along the coast to the assembling area.

To Hornblower's mind Bonaparte--the Emperor Napoleon, as he was
beginning to call himself--was displaying a certain confusion of ideas
in adopting this course of action. Seamen and shipbuilding materials
were scarce enough in France; it was absurd to waste them on invasion
craft when invasion was impossible without a covering fleet, and when
the French navy was too small to provide such a fleet. Lord St Vincent
had raised an appreciative smile throughout the Royal Navy when he had
said in the House of Lords regarding the French army, 'I do not say they
cannot come. I only say they cannot come by sea.' The jest had called up
a ludicrous picture in everyone's mind of Bonaparte trying to transport
an invading army by Montgolfier balloons, and the impossibility of such
an attempt underlined the impossibility of the French building up a
fleet strong enough to command the Channel even long enough for the
gun-boats to row across.

It was only by the time summer was far advanced that Hornblower fully
understood Bonaparte's quandary. Bonaparte had to persist in this
ridiculous venture, wasting the substance of his empire on ships and
landing-craft even though a sensible man might well write off the whole
project and devote his resources to some more profitable scheme. But to
do so would be an admission that England was impregnable, could never be
conquered, and such an admission would not only hearten his potential
Continental enemies but would have a most unsettling effect on the
French people themselves. He was simply compelled to continue along this
road, to go on building his ships and his gun-boats to make the world
believe there was a likelihood that England would soon be overthrown,
leaving him dominant everywhere on earth, lord of the whole human race.

And there was always chance, even if it were not one chance in ten or
one chance in a hundred, but one in a million. Some extraordinary,
unpredictable combination of good fortune, of British mismanagement, of
weather, and of political circumstances might give him the week he
needed to get his army across. If the odds were enormous at least the
stakes were fantastic. In itself that might appeal to a gambler like
Bonaparte even without the force of circumstance to drive him on.

So the flat-bottomed boats were built at every little fishing-village
along the coast of France, and they crept from their places of origin
towards the great military camp of Boulogne, keeping to the shallows,
moving by oar more than by sail, sheltering when necessary under the
coastal batteries, each boat manned by fifty soldiers and a couple of
seamen. And because Bonaparte was moving these craft, the Royal Navy
felt bound to interfere with the movement as far as possible.

That was how it came about that _Hotspur_ found herself momentarily
detached from the Channel Fleet and forming a part of a small squadron
under the orders of Chambers of the _Naiad_ operating to the northward
of Ushant, which was doing its best to prevent the passage of half a
dozen gun-boats along the wild and rocky shore of Northern Brittany.

'Signal from the Commodore, sir,' reported Foreman.

Chambers spent a great deal of time signalling to his little squadron.

'Well?' asked Hornblower; Foreman was referring to his signal book.

'Take station within sight bearing east nor'east, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman. Acknowledge. Mr Bush, we'll square away.'

A pleasant day, with gentle winds from the south east, and occasional
white clouds coursing over a blue sky. Overside the sea was green and
clear, and two miles off on the beam was the coast with its white
breakers; the chart showed strange names, Aber Wrack and Aber Benoit,
which told of the relationship between the Breton tongue and Welsh.
Hornblower divided his attention between the _Naiad_ and the coast as
_Hotspur_ ran down before the wind, and he experienced something of the
miser's feeling at some depletion of his gold. It might be necessary to
go off like this to leeward, but every hour so spent might call for a
day of beating back to windward. The decisive strategical point was
outside Brest where lay the French ships of the line, not here where the
little gun-boats were making their perilous passage.

'You may bring-to again, Mr Bush.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

They were now so far from _Naiad_ that it would call for a sharp eye and
a good glass to read her signals.

'We're the terrier at the rat hole, sir,' said Bush, coming back to
Hornblower as soon as _Hotspur_ had lain-to with her maintopsail to the
mast.

'Exactly,' agreed Hornblower.

'Boats are cleared away ready to launch sir.'

'Thank you.'

They might have to dash in to attack the gun-boats when they came
creeping along, just outside the surf.

'Commodore's signalling, sir,' reported Foreman again. 'Oh, it's for the
lugger, sir.'

'There she goes!' said Bush.

The small armed lugger was moving in towards the shore.

'That's the ferret going down the hole, Mr Bush,' said Hornblower,
unwontedly conversational.

'Yes, sir. There's a gun! There's another!'

They could hear the reports, borne on the wind, and could see the gusts
of smoke.

'Is there a battery there, sir?'

'Maybe. Maybe the gun-boats are using their own cannon.'

Each gun-boat mounted one or two heavy guns in the bows, but they
laboured under the disadvantage that half a dozen discharges racked the
little vessels to pieces by the recoil. The theory behind those guns was
that they were to be used for clearing the beaches of defending troops
where the invasion should take place and the gun-boats should be safely
beached.

'Can't make out what's happening,' fumed Bush; a low headland cut off
their view.

'Firing's heavy,' said Hornblower. 'Must be a battery there.'

He felt irritated; the Navy was expending lives and material on an
objective quite valueless, in his opinion. He beat his gloved hands
together in an effort to restore their warmth, for there was an
appreciable chilliness in the wind.

'What's that?' exclaimed Bush, excitedly training his telescope. 'Look
at that, sir! Dismasted, by God!'

Just visible round the point now was a shape that could not instantly be
recognised. It was the lugger, drifting disabled and helpless.
Everything about the situation indicated that she had run into a
well-planned ambush.

'They're still firing at her, sir,' remarked Prowse. The telescope just
revealed the splashes round her as cannon-balls plunged into the sea.

'We'll have to save her,' said Hornblower, trying to keep the annoyance
out of his voice. 'Square away, if you please, Mr Prowse, and we'll run
down.'

It was extremely irritating to have to go into danger like this, to
redeem someone else's mismanagement of an expedition unjustified from
the start.

'Mr Bush, get a cable out aft ready to tow.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Commodore's signalling, sir.' This was Foreman speaking. 'Our number.
"Assist damaged vessel."'

'Acknowledge.'

Chambers had ordered that signal before he could see that _Hotspur_ was
already on the move.

Hornblower scanned the shore on this side of the headland. There was no
gun-smoke on this side, no sign of any battery. With luck all he would
have to do was to haul the lugger round the corner. Down in the waist
the voices of Bush and Wise were urging a working-party to their utmost
efforts as they took the ponderous cable aft. Things were happening
fast, as they always did at crises. A shot screamed overhead as
Hornblower reached for the speaking-trumpet.

'_Grasshopper!_ Stand by to take a line!'

Somebody in the disabled lugger waved a handkerchief in acknowledgement.

'Back the maintops'l, Mr Prowse, and we'll go down to her.'

That was when the _Grasshopper_ disintegrated, blew apart, in two loud
explosions and a cloud of smoke. It happened right under Hornblower's
eyes, as he leaned over with his speaking-trumpet; one second there was
the intact hull of the lugger, with living men working on the wreckage,
and the next the smoking explosions, the flying fragments, the billowing
smoke. It must have been a shell from the shore; there were howitzers or
mortars mounted there. Most likely a field howitzer battery, light and
easily moved across country, which had been brought up to protect the
gun-boats. A shell must have dropped into the lugger and burst in the
magazine.

Hornblower had seen it all, and when the cloud of smoke dispersed the
bow and stern did not disappear from sight. They were floating
waterlogged on the surface, and Hornblower could see a few living
figures as well, clinging to the wreckage among the fragments.

'Lower the quarter-boat! Mr Young, go and pick up those men.'

This was worse than ever. Shell fire was a horrible menace to a wooden
ship that could so easily be set into an inextinguishable blaze. It was
utterly infuriating to be exposed to these perils for no profit. The
quarter-boat was on its way back when the next shell screamed overhead.
Hornblower recognised the difference in the sound from that of a
round-shot; he should have done so earlier. A shell from a howitzer had
a belt about it, a thickening in the centre which gave its flight, as it
arched across the sky, the peculiarly malevolent note he had already
heard.

It was the French army that was firing at them. To fight the French navy
was the essence of _Hotspur's_ duty, and of his own, but to expose
precious ships and seamen to the attack of soldiers who cost almost
nothing to a government that enforced conscription was bad business, and
to expose them without a chance of firing back was sheer folly.
Hornblower drummed on the hammock cloths over the netting in front of
him with his gloved hands in a fury of bad temper, while Young rowed
about the wreckage picking up the survivors. A glance ashore coincided
with the appearance of a puff of white smoke. That was one of the
howitzers at least--before the wind dispersed it he could clearly see
the initial upward direction of the puff; howitzers found their best
range at an angle of fifty degrees, and at end of their trajectory the
shells dropped at sixty degrees. This one was behind a low bank, or in
some sort of ditch; his glass revealed an officer standing above it
directing the operation of the gun at his feet.

Now came the shriek of the shell, not so far overhead; even the fountain
of water that it threw up when it plunged into the sea was different in
shape and duration from those flung up by round-shot from a cannon.
Young brought the quarter-boat under the falls and hooked on; Bush had
his men ready to tail away at the tackles, while Hornblower watched the
operation and fumed at every second of delay. Most of the survivors
picked up were wounded, some of them dreadfully. He would have to go and
see they were properly attended to--he would have to pay a visit of
courtesy--but not until _Hotspur_ were safely out of this unnecessary
peril.

'Very well, Mr Prowse. Bring her before the wind.'

The yards creaked round; the quartermaster spun the wheel round into
firm resistance, and _Hotspur_ slowly gathered way, to leave this
hateful coast behind her. Next came a sudden succession of noises, all
loud, all different, distinguishable even though not two seconds elapsed
between the first and the last--the shriek of a shell, a crash of timber
aloft, a deep note as the main-topmast backstay parted, a thud against
the hammock nettings beside Hornblower, and then a thump three yards
from his feet, and there on the deck death, sizzling death, was rolling
towards him and as the ship heaved death changed its course with the
canting of the deck in a blundering curve as the belt round the shell
deflected its roll. Hornblower saw the tiny thread of smoke, the burning
fuse one-eighth of an inch long. No time to think. He sprang at it as it
wobbled on its belt, and with his gloved hand he extinguished the fuse,
rubbing at it to make sure the spark was out, rubbing at it again
unnecessarily before he straightened up. A marine was standing by and
Hornblower gestured to him.

'Throw the damned thing overboard!' he ordered; the fact that he swore
indicated his bad temper.

Then he looked round. Every soul on that crowded little quarter-deck was
rigid, posed in unnatural attitudes, as if some Gorgon's head had turned
them all into stone, and then with his voice and his gesture they all
came back to life again, to move and relax--it was as if time had
momentarily stood still for everyone except himself. His bad temper was
fanned by the delay, and he lashed out with his tongue indiscriminately.

'What are you all thinking about? Quartermaster, put your helm over! Mr
Bush! Just look at that mizzen-tops'l yard! Send the hands aloft this
minute! Splice that backstay! You, there! Haven't you coiled those falls
yet? Move, damn you!'

'Aye aye, sir! Aye aye, sir!'

The automatic chorus of acknowledgements had a strange note, and in the
midst of the bustle Hornblower saw first Bush from one angle and then
Prowse from another, both looking at him with strange expressions on
their faces.

'What's the matter with you?' he blazed out, and with the last word
understanding came to him.

That extinguishing of the fuse appeared to them in monstrous
disproportion, as something heroic, even perhaps as something
magnificent. They did not see it in its true light as the obvious thing
to do, indeed the only thing to do; nor did they know of the instinctive
flash of action that had followed his observation of that remaining
one-eighth of an inch of fuse. All there was to his credit was that he
had seen and acted quicker than they. He had not been brave, and most
certainly not heroic.

He returned the glance of his subordinates, and with all his senses
still keyed up to the highest pitch he realised that this was the moment
of the conception of a legend, that the wildest tales would be told
later about this incident, and he was suddenly hideously embarrassed. He
laughed, and before the laugh was finished he knew it was a
self-conscious laugh, the motiveless laugh of an idiot, and he was
angrier than ever with himself and with Chambers of the _Naiad_ and with
the whole world. He wanted to be away from all this, back in the
approaches to Brest, doing his proper work and not engaged in these
hare-brained actions that did not forward the defeat of Bonaparte an
iota.

Then another thought struck him, occasioned by the discovery that the
fuse had burned a hole in his right hand glove. Those were the gloves
Maria had given him on that dark morning when he had walked with her
from the George to take _Hotspur_ to sea.




                              CHAPTER XIX


In the Iroise, comfortably sheltered with the wind to the east of
south, _Hotspur_ was completing her stores again. This was the second
time since her refitting in Plymouth that she had gone through this
laborious process, refilling her casks from the water-hoys, replacing
the empty beef and pork barrels from the victuallers, and coaxing all
the small stores she could from the itinerant slop-ship that Cornwallis
had put into commission. She had been six months continuously at sea,
and was now ready for three more.

Hornblower watched with something of relief the slop-ship bearing away;
that six months at sea had barely been sufficient to get his ship clear
of all the plagues that had come on board at Plymouth; disease, bed
bugs, fleas and lice. The bed bugs had been the worst; they had been
hunted from one hiding place in the woodwork to another, scorched with
smouldering oakum, walled in with the paint, time after time, and each
time that he had thought he had extirpated the pests some unfortunate
seaman would approach his division officer and with a knuckling of his
forehead would report, 'Please, sir, I think I've got 'em this time.'

He had seven letters from Maria to read--he had opened the last one
already to make sure that she and little Horatio were well--and he had
already completed this task when Bush came knocking at his door. Sitting
at the chart-table Hornblower listened to what Bush had to report;
trifles, only, and Hornblower wondered at Bush disturbing his captain
about them. Then Bush produced something from his side pocket, and
Hornblower, with a sigh, knew what had been the real object of this
visit. It was the latest number of the _Naval Chronicle_, come on board
with the mail; the ward-room mess subscribed to it jointly. Bush thumbed
through the pages, and then laid the open magazine before him, a gnarled
finger indicating the passage he had found. It only took Hornblower a
couple of minutes to read it; Chambers' report to Cornwallis on the
affray off Aber Wrack, which apparently had been published in the
Gazette to inform the public regarding the circumstances in which
_Grasshopper_ had been lost. Bush's finger pointed again to the last
four lines. 'Captain Hornblower informs me that _Hotspur_ suffered no
casualties although she was struck by a five-inch shell which did
considerable damage aloft but which fortunately failed to explode.'

'Well, Mr Bush?' Hornblower put a stern lack of sympathy in his voice to
warn Bush as much as he could.

'It isn't right, sir.'

This routine of serving so close to home had serious disadvantages. It
meant that in only two or three months the fleet would be reading what
had appeared in the Gazette and the newspapers, and it was extraordinary
how touchy men were about what was written about them. It could well be
subversive of discipline, and Hornblower meant to deal with that
possibility from the start.

'Would you kindly explain, Mr Bush?'

Bush was not to be deterred. He blunderingly repeated himself. 'It isn't
right, sir.'

'Not right? Do you mean that it wasn't a five-inch shell?'

'No, sir. It...'

'Do you imply that it didn't do considerable damage aloft?'

'Of course it did, sir, but...'

'Perhaps you're implying that the shell really did explode?'

'Oh no, sir. I...'

'Then I fail to see what you are taking exception to, Mr Bush.'

It was highly unpleasant to be cutting and sarcastic with Mr Bush, but
it had to be done. Yet Bush was being unusually obstinate.

''T'isn't right, sir. 'T'isn't fair. 'T'isn't fair to you, sir, or the
ship.'

'Nonsense, Mr Bush. What d'you think we are? Actresses? Politicians?
We're King's officers, Mr Bush, with a duty to do, and no thought to
spare for anything else. Never speak to me again like this, if you
please, Mr Bush.'

And there was Bush looking at him with bewildered eyes and still
stubborn.

''T'isn't fair, sir,' he repeated.

'Didn't you hear my order, Mr Bush? I want to hear no more about this.
Please leave this cabin at once.'

It was horrible to see Bush shamble out of the cabin, hurt and
depressed. The trouble with Bush was that he had no imagination; he
could not envisage the other side. Hornblower could--he could see before
his eyes at that moment the words he would have written if Bush had had
his way. 'The shell fell on the deck and with my own hands I
extinguished the fuse when it was about to explode.' He could never have
written such a sentence. He could never have sought for public esteem by
writing it. Moreover, and more important, he would scorn the esteem of a
public who could tolerate a man who would write such words. If by some
chance his deeds did not speak for themselves he would never speak for
them. The very possibility revolted him, and he told himself that this
was not a matter of personal taste, but a well-weighed decision based on
the good of the service; and in that respect he was displaying no more
imagination than Bush.

Then he caught himself up short. This was all lies, all self-deception,
refusal to face the truth. He had just flattered himself that he had
more imagination than Bush; more imagination, perhaps, but far less
courage. Bush knew nothing of the sick horror, the terrible moment of
fear which Hornblower had experienced when that shell dropped. Bush did
not know how his admired captain had had a moment's vivid mental picture
of being blown into bloody rags by the explosion, how his heart had
almost ceased to beat--the heart of a coward. Bush did not know the
meaning of fear, and he could not credit his captain with that knowledge
either. And so Bush would never know why Hornblower had made so light of
the incident of the shell, and why he had been so irascible when it was
discussed. But Hornblower knew, and would know, whenever he could bring
himself to face facts.

There were orders being bellowed on the quarter-deck, a rush of bare
feet over the planking, a clatter of ropes against woodwork, and
_Hotspur_ was beginning to lean over on a new course. Hornblower was at
the cabin door bent on finding out what was the meaning of this activity
which he had not ordered, when he found himself face to face with Young.

'Signal from the Flag, sir. "_Hotspur_ report to Commander-in-Chief."'

'Thank you.'

On the quarter-deck Bush touched his hat.

'I put the ship about as soon as we read the signal, sir,' he explained.

'Very good, Mr Bush.'

When a commander-in-chief demanded the presence of a ship no time was to
be wasted even to inform the captain.

'I acknowledged the signal, sir.'

'Very good, Mr Bush.'

_Hotspur_ was turning her stern to Brest; with the wind comfortably over
her quarter she was running out to sea, away from France. For the
commander-in-chief to demand the attendance of his farthest outpost must
be of significance. He had summoned the ship, not merely the captain.
There must be something more in the wind than this gentle breeze.

Bush called the crew to attention to render passing honours to Parker's
flagship, the flagship of the Inshore Squadron.

'Hope he has as good a ship as us to replace us, sir,' said Bush, who
evidently had the same feeling as Hornblower, to the effect that the
departure was only the beginning of a long absence from the Iroise.

'No doubt,' said Hornblower. He was glad that Bush was bearing no malice
for his recent dressing-down. Of course this sudden break in routine was
a stimulant in itself, but Hornblower in a moment of insight realised
that Bush, after a lifetime of being subject to the vagaries of wind and
weather, could manage to be fatalistic about the unpredictable vagaries
of his captain.

This was the open sea; this was the wide Atlantic, and there on the
horizon was a long line of topsails in rigid order--the Channel Fleet,
whose men and whose guns prevented Bonaparte from hoisting the Tricolor
over Windsor Castle.

'Our number from the Commander-in-Chief, sir. "Pass within hail."'

'Acknowledge. Mr Prowse, take a bearing, if you please.'

A pleasant little problem, to set a course wasting as little time as
possible, with _Hibernia_ close-hauled under easy sail and _Hotspur_
running free under all plain sail. It was a small sop to Prowse's pride
to consult him, for Hornblower had every intention of carrying out the
manoeuvre by eye alone. His orders to the wheel laid _Hotspur_ on a
steadily converging course.

'Mr Bush, stand by to bring the ship to the wind.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

A big frigate was foaming along in _Hibernia's_ wake. Hornblower looked
and looked again. That was the _Indefatigable_, once Pellew's famous
frigate--the ship in which he had served during those exciting years as
midshipman. He had no idea she had joined the Channel Fleet. The three
frigates astern of _Indefatigable_ he knew at once; _Medusa_, _Lively_,
_Amphion_, all veterans of the Channel Fleet. Bunting soared up
_Hibernia's_ halliards.

'"All captains," sir!'

'Clear away the quarter-boat, Mr Bush!'

It was another example of how good a servant Doughty was, that he
appeared on the quarter-deck with sword and boat cloak within seconds of
that signal being read. It was highly desirable to shove off in the boat
at least as quickly as the boats from the frigates, even though it meant
that Hornblower had to spend longer pitching and tossing in the boat
while his betters went up _Hibernia's_ side before him, but the thought
that all this presaged some new and urgent action sustained Hornblower
in the ordeal.

In the cabin of the _Hibernia_ there was only one introduction to be
made, of Hornblower to Captain Graham Moore of the _Indefatigable_.
Moore was a strikingly handsome burly Scotsman; Hornblower had heard
somewhere that he was the brother of Sir John Moore, the most promising
general in the army. The others he knew, Gore of the _Medusa_, Hammond
of the _Lively_, Sutton of the _Amphion_. Cornwallis sat with his back
to the great stern window, with Collins on his left, and the five
captains seated facing him.

'No need to waste time, gentlemen,' said Cornwallis abruptly. 'Captain
Moore has brought me despatches from London and we must act on them
promptly.'

Even though he began with these words he spent a second or two rolling
his kindly blue eyes along the row of captains, before he plunged into
his explanations.

'Our Ambassador at Madrid--' he went on, and that name made them all
stir in their seats; ever since the outbreak of war the Navy had been
expecting Spain to resume her old rle of ally to France.

Cornwallis spoke lucidly although rapidly. British agents in Madrid had
discovered the content of the secret clauses of the treaty of San
Ildefonso between France and Spain; the discovery had confirmed long
cherished suspicions. By those clauses Spain was bound to declare war on
England whenever requested by France, and until that request was made
she was bound to pay a million francs a month into the French treasury.

'A million francs a month in gold and silver, gentlemen,' said
Cornwallis.

Bonaparte was in constant need of cash for his war expenses; Spain could
supply it thanks to her mines in Mexico and Peru. Every month
waggon-loads of bullion climbed the Pyrenean passes to enter France.
Every year a Spanish squadron bore the products of the mines from
America to Cadiz.

'The next _flota_ is expected this autumn, gentlemen,' said Cornwallis.
'Usually it brings about four millions of dollars for the Crown, and
about the same amount on private account.'

Eight millions of dollars, and the Spanish silver dollar was worth, in
an England cursed by a paper currency, a full seven shillings. Nearly
three million pounds.

'The treasure that is not sent to Bonaparte,' said Cornwallis, 'will
largely go towards re-equipping the Spanish navy, which can be employed
against England whenever Bonaparte chooses. So you can understand why it
is desirable that the _flota_ shall not reach Cadiz this year.'

'So it's war, sir?' asked Moore, but Cornwallis shook his head.

'No. I am sending a squadron to intercept the _flota_, and I expect
you've already guessed that it is your ships that I'm sending,
gentlemen. But it is not war. Captain Moore, the senior officer, will be
instructed to request the Spaniards to alter course and enter an English
port. There the treasure will be removed and the ships set free. The
treasure will not be seized. It will be retained by His Majesty's
Government as a pledge, to be returned to His Most Catholic Majesty on
the conclusion of a general peace.'

'What ships are they, sir?'

'Frigates. Ships of war. Three frigates, sometimes four.'

'Commanded by Spanish naval officers, sir?'

'Yes.'

'They'll never agree, sir. They'll never violate their orders just
because we tell 'em to.'

Cornwallis rolled his eyes up to the deck-beams above and then down
again.

'You will have written orders to compel them.'

'Then we'll have to fight them, sir?'

'If they are so foolish as to resist.'

'And that will be war, sir.'

'Yes. His Majesty's Government is of the opinion that Spain without
eight million dollars is less dangerous as an open enemy than she would
be as a secret enemy with that money available. Is the situation
perfectly clear now, gentlemen?'

It was instantly obvious. It could be grasped even more quickly than the
problem in simple mental arithmetic could be solved. Prize money;
one-quarter of three million pounds for the captains--something
approaching eight hundred thousand pounds. Five captains. Say a hundred
and fifty thousand pounds each. An enormous fortune; with that sum a
captain could buy a landed estate and still have sufficient left over to
provide an income on which to live in dignity when invested in the
Funds. Hornblower could see that every one of the four other captains
was working out that problem too.

'I see you all understand, gentlemen. Captain Moore will issue his
orders to you to take effect in case of separation, and he will make his
own plans to effect the interception. Captain Hornblower--' every eye
came round '--will proceed immediately in _Hotspur_ to Cadiz to obtain
the latest information from His Britannic Majesty's Consul there, before
joining you at the position selected by Captain Moore. Captain
Hornblower, will you be kind enough to stay behind after these gentlemen
have left?'

It was an extremely polite dismissal of the other four, whom Collins led
away to receive their orders, leaving Hornblower face to face with
Cornwallis. Cornwallis's blue eyes, as far as Hornblower knew, were
always kindly, but apart from that they were generally remarkably
expressionless. As an exception, this time they had an amused twinkle.

'You've never made a penny of prize money in your life, have you,
Hornblower?' asked Cornwallis.

'No, sir.'

'It seems likely enough that you will make several pennies now.'

'You expect the Dons to fight, sir?'

'Don't you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Only a fool would think otherwise, and you're no fool, Hornblower.'

An ingratiating man would say 'Thank you, sir,' to that speech, but
Hornblower would do nothing to ingratiate himself.

'Can we fight Spain as well as France, sir?'

'I think we can. Are you more interested in the war than in prize money,
Hornblower?'

'Of course, sir.'

Collins was back in the cabin again, listening to the conversation.

'You've done well in the war so far, Hornblower,' said Cornwallis.
'You're on the way towards making a name for yourself.'

'Thank you, sir.' He could say that this time, because a name was
nothing.

'You have no interest at Court, I understand? No friends in the Cabinet?
Or in the Admiralty?'

'No, sir.'

'It's a long, long step from Commander to Captain, Hornblower.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You've no young gentlemen with you in _Hotspur_, either.'

'No, sir.'

Practically every captain in the Navy had several boys of good family on
board, rated as volunteers or as servants, learning to be sea officers.
Most families had a younger son to be disposed of, and this was as good
a way as any. Accepting such a charge was profitable to the captain in
many ways, but particularly because by conferring such a favour he could
expect some reciprocal favour from the family. A captain could even make
a monetary profit, and frequently did, by appropriating the volunteer's
meagre pay and doling out pocket money instead.

'Why not?' asked Cornwallis.

'When we were commissioned I was sent four volunteers from the Naval
Academy, sir. And since then I have not had time.'

The main reason why young gentlemen from the Naval Academy--King's
Letter Boys--were detested by captains was because of this very matter;
their presence cut down on the number of volunteers by whom the captain
could benefit.

'You were unfortunate,' said Cornwallis.

'Yes, sir.'

'Excuse me, sir,' said Collins, breaking in on the conversation. 'Here
are your orders, captain, regarding your conduct in Cadiz. You will of
course receive additional orders from Captain Moore.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Cornwallis still had time for a moment more of gossip.

'You were fortunate the day _Grasshopper_ was lost that that shell did
not explode, were you not, Hornblower?'

'Yes, sir.'

'It is quite unbelievable,' said Collins, adding his contribution to the
conversation, 'what a hot bed of gossip a fleet can be. The wildest
tales are circulating regarding that shell.'

He was looking narrowly at Hornblower, and Hornblower looked straight
back at him in defiance.

'You can't hold me responsible for that, sir,' he said.

'Of course not,' interposed Cornwallis, soothingly. 'Well, may good
fortune always go with you, Hornblower.'




                               CHAPTER XX


Hornblower came back on board _Hotspur_ in a positively cheerful state
of mind. There was the imminent prospect of a hundred and fifty thousand
pounds in prize money. That ought to satisfy Mrs Mason, and Hornblower
found it possible not to dwell too long on the picture of Maria as
chatelaine of a country estate. He could avoid that subject by thinking
about the immediate future, a visit to Cadiz, a diplomatic contact, and
then the adventure of intercepting a Spanish treasure fleet in the broad
Atlantic. And if that were not sufficiently ample food for pleasant
day-dreams, he could recall his conversation with Cornwallis. A
Commander-in-Chief in home waters had small power of promotion, but
surely his recommendations might have weight. Perhaps--?

Bush, with his hand to his hat, welcoming him aboard again, was not
smiling. He was wearing a worried, anxious look.

'What is it, Mr Bush?' asked Hornblower.

'Something you won't like, sir.'

Were his dreams to prove baseless? Had _Hotspur_ sprung some incurable
leak?

'What is it?' Hornblower bit back at the 'damn you' that he nearly said.

'Your servant's under arrest for mutiny, sir,' Hornblower could only
stare as Bush went on. 'He struck his superior officer.'

Hornblower could not show his astonishment or his distress. He kept his
face set like stone.

'Signal from the Commodore, sir!' This was Foreman breaking in. 'Our
number. "Send boat."'

'Acknowledge. Mr Orrock! Take the boat over at once.'

Moore in the _Indefatigable_ had already hoisted the broad pendant that
marked him as officer commanding a squadron. The frigates were still
hove-to, clustered together. There were enough captains there to
constitute a general court martial, with power to hang Doughty that very
afternoon.

'Now, Mr Bush, come and tell me what you know about this.'

The starboard side of the quarter-deck was instantly vacated as
Hornblower and Bush walked towards it. Private conversation was as
possible there as anywhere in the little ship.

'As far as I can tell, sir,' said Bush, 'it was like this--'

Taking stores on board at sea was a job for all hands, and even when
they were on board there was still work for all hands, distributing the
stores through the ship. Doughty, in the working-party in the waist, had
demurred on being given an order by a bos'n's mate, Mayne by name. Mayne
had swung his 'starter,' his length of knotted line that petty officers
used on every necessary occasion--too frequently, in Hornblower's
judgement. And then Doughty had struck him. There were twenty witnesses,
and if that were not enough, Mayne's lip was cut against his teeth and
blood poured down.

'Mayne's always been something of a bully, sir,' said Bush. 'But this--'

'Yes,' said Hornblower.

He knew the Twenty-Second Article of War by heart. The first half dealt
with striking a superior officer; the second half with quarrelling and
disobedience. And the first half ended with the words 'shall suffer
death'; there were no mitigating words like 'or such less punishment.'
Blood had been drawn and witnesses had seen it. Even so, some petty
officers in the give and take of heavy labour on board ship might have
dealt with the situation unofficially, but not Mayne.

'Where's Doughty now?' he asked.

'In irons, sir.' That was the only possible answer.

'Orders from the Commodore, sir!' Orrock was hastening along the deck
towards them, waving a sealed letter which Hornblower accepted.

Doughty could wait; orders could not. Hornblower thought of returning to
his cabin to read them at leisure, but a captain had no leisure. As he
broke the seal Bush and Orrock withdrew to give him what little privacy
was possible when every idle eye in the ship was turned on him. The
opening sentence was plain enough and definite enough.

    'Sir,

    You are requested and required to proceed immediately in H.M.
    Sloop _Hotspur_ under your command to the port of Cadiz.'

    The second paragraph required him to execute at Cadiz the orders
    he had received from the Commander-in-Chief. The third and last
    paragraph named a rendezvous, a latitude and longitude as well
    as a distance and bearing from Cape St Vincent, and required him
    to proceed there 'with the utmost expedition' as soon as he had
    carried out his orders for Cadiz.

He re-read, unnecessarily, the opening paragraph. There was the word
'immediately.'

'Mr Bush! Set all plain sail. Mr Prowse! A course to weather Finisterre
as quickly as possible, if you please. Mr Foreman, signal to the
Commodore. "_Hotspur_ to _Indefatigable_. Request permission to
proceed."'

Only time for one pacing of the quarter-deck, up and down, and then
'"Commodore to _Hotspur_. Affirmative."'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman. Up helm, Mr Bush. Course sou'west by south.'

'Sou'west by south. Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur_ came round, and as every sail began to fill she gathered way
rapidly.

'Course sou'west by south, sir,' said Prowse, breathlessly returning.

'Thank you, Mr Prowse.'

The wind was just abaft the beam, and _Hotspur_ foamed along as sweating
hands at the braces trimmed the yards to an angle that exactly satisfied
Bush's careful eye.

'Set the royals, Mr Bush. And we'll have the stuns'l booms rigged out,
if you please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

_Hotspur_ lay over to the wind, not in any spineless fashion, but in the
way in which a good sword-blade bends under pressure. A squadron of
ships of the line lay just down to leeward, and _Hotspur_ tore past
them, rendering passing honours as she did so. Hornblower could imagine
the feelings of envy in the breasts of the hands over these at the sight
of this dashing little sloop racing off towards adventure. But in that
case they did not allow for a year and a half spent among the rocks and
shoals of the Iroise.

'Set the stuns'ls, sir?' asked Bush.

'Yes, if you please, Mr Bush. Mr Young, what d'you get from the log?'

'Nine, sir. A little more, perhaps--nine an' a quarter.'

Nine knots, and the studding sails not yet set. This was exhilarating,
marvellous, after months of confinement.

'The old lady hasn't forgotten how to run, sir,' said Bush, grinning all
over his face with the same emotions; and Bush did not know yet that
they were going to seek eight million dollars. Nor--and at that moment
all Hornblower's pleasure suddenly evaporated.

He fell from the heights to the depths like a man falling from the main
royal yard. He had forgotten until then all about Doughty. That word
'immediately' in Moore's orders had prolonged Doughty's life. With all
those captains available, and the Commander-in-Chief at hand to confirm
the sentence, Doughty could have been court-martialled and condemned
within the hour. He could be dead by now; certainly he would have died
tomorrow morning. The captains in the Channel Fleet would be unmerciful
to a mutineer.

Now he had to handle the matter himself. There was no desperate
emergency; there was no question of a conspiracy to be quelled. He did
not have to use his emergency powers to hang Doughty. But he could
foresee a dreary future of Doughty in irons and all the ship's company
aware they had a man in their midst destined for the rope. That would
unsettle everyone. And Hornblower would be more unsettled than anyone
else--except perhaps Doughty. Hornblower sickened at the thought of
hanging Doughty. He knew at once that he had grown fond of him. He felt
an actual respect for Doughty's devotion and attention to duty; along
with his tireless attention Doughty had developed skills in making his
captain comfortable comparable with those of a tarry-fingered salt
making long splices.

Hornblower battled with his misery. For the thousandth time in his life
he decided that the King's service was like a vampire, as hateful as it
was seductive. He could not think what to do. But first he had to know
more about the business.

'Mr Bush, would you be kind enough to order the master-at-arms to bring
Doughty to me in my cabin?'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The clank of iron; that was what heralded Doughty's arrival at the cabin
door, with gyves upon his wrists.

'Very well, master-at-arms. You can wait outside.'

Doughty's hard blue eyes looked straight into his.

'Well?'

'I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry to put you out like this.'

'What the hell did you do it for?'

There had always been a current of feeling--as Hornblower had
guessed--between Mayne and Doughty. Mayne had ordered Doughty to do some
specially dirty work, at this moment when Doughty wished to preserve his
hands clean to serve his captain's dinner. Doughty's protest had been
the instant occasion for Mayne to wield his starter.

'I--I couldn't take a blow, sir. I suppose I've been too long with
gentlemen.'

Among gentlemen a blow could only be wiped out in blood; among the lower
orders a blow was something to be received without even a word.
Hornblower was captain of his ship, with powers almost unlimited. He
could tell Mayne to shut his mouth; he could order Doughty's irons to be
struck off, and the whole incident forgotten. Forgotten? Allow the crew
to think that petty officers could be struck back with impunity? Allow
the crew to think that their captain had favourites?

'Damn it all!' raved Hornblower, pounding on the chart-room table.

'I could train someone to take my place, sir,' said Doughty,
'before--before...'

Even Doughty could not say those words.

'No! No! No!' It was utterly impossible to have Doughty circulating
about the ship with every morbid eye upon him.

'You might try Bailey, sir, the gun-room steward. He's the best of a bad
lot.'

'Yes.'

It made matters no easier to find Doughty still so co-operative. And
then there was a glimmer of light, the faintest hint of a possibility of
a solution less unsatisfactory than the others. They were three hundred
leagues and more from Cadiz, but they had a fair wind.

'You'll have to await your trial. Master-at-arms! Take this man away.
You needn't keep him in irons, and I'll give orders about his exercise.'

'Good-bye, sir.'

It was horrible to see Doughty retaining the unmoved countenance so
carefully cultivated as a servant, and yet to know that it concealed a
dreadful anxiety. Hornblower had to forget about it, somehow. He had to
come on deck with _Hotspur_ flying along with every inch of canvas
spread racing over the sea like a thoroughbred horse at last given his
head after long restraint. The dark shadow might not be forgotten, but
at least it could be lightened under this blue sky with the flying white
clouds, and by the rainbows of spray thrown up by the bows, as they tore
across the Bay of Biscay on a mission all the more exciting to the
ship's company in that they could not guess what it might be.

There was the distraction--the counter irritation--of submitting to the
clumsy ministrations of Bailey, brought up from the gun-room mess. There
was the satisfaction of making a neat landfall off Cape Ortegal, and
flying along the Biscay coast just within sight of the harbour of
Ferrol, where Hornblower had spent weary months in captivity--he tried
vainly to make out the Dientes del Diablo where he had earned his
freedom--and then rounding the far corner of Europe and setting a fresh
course, with the wind miraculously still serving, as they plunged along,
close-hauled now, to weather Cape Roca.

There was a night when the wind backed round and blew foul but gently,
with Hornblower out of bed a dozen times, fuming with impatience when
_Hotspur_ had to go on the port tack and head directly out from the
land, but then came the wonderful dawn with the wind coming from the
southwest in gentle puffs, and then from the westward in a strong breeze
that just allowed studding sails to be spread as _Hotspur_ reached
southward to make a noon position with Cape Roca just out of sight to
leeward.

That meant another broken night for Hornblower to make the vital change
of course off Cape St Vincent so as to head, with the wind comfortably
over _Hotspur's_ port quarter and every stitch of canvas still spread,
direct for Cadiz. In the afternoon, with _Hotspur_ still flying along at
a speed often reaching eleven knots, the look-out reported a blur of
land, low-lying, fine on the port bow, as the coast-wise
shipping--hastily raising neutral Portuguese and Spanish colours at
sight of this British ship of war--grew thicker. Ten minutes later
another hail from the masthead told that the landfall was perfect, and
ten minutes after that Hornblower's telescope, trained fine on the
starboard bow, could pick up the gleaming white of the city of Cadiz.

Hornblower should have been pleased at his achievement, but as ever
there was no time for self-congratulation. There were the preparations
to be made to ask permission of the Spanish authorities to enter the
port; there was the excitement of the prospect of getting into touch
with the British representative; and--now or never--there was the
decision to be reached regarding his plan for Doughty. The thought of
Doughty had nagged at him during these glorious days of spread canvas,
coming to distract him from his day-dreams of wealth and promotion, to
divert him from his plans regarding his behaviour in Cadiz. It was like
the bye-plots in Shakespeare's plays, rising continually from the depths
to assume momentarily equal importance with the development of the main
plot.

Yet, as Hornblower had already admitted to himself, it was now or never.
He had to decide and to act at this very minute; earlier would have been
premature, and later would be too late. He had risked death often enough
in the King's service; perhaps the service owed him a life in return--a
threadbare justification, and he forced himself to admit to mere
self-indulgence as he finally made up his mind. He shut up his telescope
with the same fierce decision that he had closed with the enemy in the
Goulet.

'Pass the word for my steward,' he said. No one could guess that the man
who spoke such empty words was contemplating a grave dereliction from
duty.

Bailey, all knees and elbows, with the figure of a youth despite his
years, put his hand to his forehead in salute to his captain, within
sight, and (more important) within earshot of a dozen individuals on the
quarter-deck.

'I expect His Majesty's Consul to sup with me tonight,' said Hornblower.
'I want something special to offer him.'

'Well, sir--' said Bailey, which was exactly what, and all, Hornblower
had expected him to say.

'Speak up, now,' rasped Hornblower.

'I don't exactly know, sir,' said Bailey. He had suffered already from
Hornblower's irascibility--unplanned, during these last days, but lucky
now.

'Damn it, man. Let's have some ideas.'

'There's a cut of cold beef, sir--'

'Cold beef? For His Majesty's Consul? Nonsense.'

Hornblower took a turn up the deck in deep thought, and then wheeled
back again.

'Mr Bush! I'll have to have Doughty released from confinement this
evening. This ninny's no use to me. See that he reports to me in my
cabin the moment I have time to spare.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Very well, Bailey. Get below. Now, Mr Bush, kindly clear away number
one carronade starboard side for the salutes. And isn't that the _guarda
costa_ lugger lying-to for us there?'

The sun declining towards the west bathed the white buildings of Cadiz
to a romantic pink as _Hotspur_ headed in, and as health officers and
naval officers and military officers came on board to see that Cadiz was
guarded against infection and violations of her neutrality. Hornblower
put his Spanish to use--rusty now, as he had not spoken Spanish since
the last war, and more awkward still because of his recent use of
French--but despite its rustiness very helpful during the formalities,
while _Hotspur_ under topsails glided in towards the entrance to the
bay, so well-remembered despite the years that had passed since his last
visit in the _Indefatigable_.

The evening breeze carried the sound of the salutes round the bay, as
_Hotspur's_ carronade spoke out and Santa Catalina replied, and while
the Spanish pilot guided _Hotspur_ between the Pigs and the
Sows--Hornblower had a suspicion that the Pigs were Sea Pigs, Porpoises,
in Spanish--and the hands stood by to take in sail and drop anchor.
There were ships of war lying at anchor already in the bay, and not the
Spanish navy, whose masts and yards Hornblower could just make out in
the inner harbours.

'Estados Unidos,' said the Spanish naval officer, with a gesture towards
the nearer frigate. Hornblower saw the Stars and Stripes, and the broad
pendant at the main-topmast-head.

'Mr Bush! Stand by to render passing honours.'

'_Constitution._ Commodore Preble,' added a Spanish officer.

The Americans were fighting a war of their own, at Tripoli far up the
Mediterranean; and presumably this Preble--Hornblower could not be sure
of the exact name as he heard it--was the latest of a series of American
commanders-in-chief. Drums beat and men lined the side and hats were
lifted in salute as _Hotspur_ crept by.

'French frigate _Flicit_,' went on the Spanish officer, indicating the
other ship of war.

Twenty-two ports on a side--one of the big French frigates, but there
was no need to pay her further attention. As enemies in a neutral
harbour they would ignore each other, cut each other dead, as gentlemen
would do if by unlucky chance they met in the interval between the
challenge and the duel. Lucky that he did not have to give her further
thought, too, seeing that the sight of the _Constitution_ was causing
modification in his other plans--the bye plot was intruding on the main
plot again.

'You can anchor here, Captain,' said the Spanish officer.

'Helm-a-lee! Mr Bush!'

_Hotspur_ rounded-to, her topsails were taken in with commendable
rapidity, and the anchor-cable roared out through the hawse. It was as
well that the operation went through faultlessly, seeing that it was
carried out under the eyes of the navies of three other nations. A flat
report echoed round the bay.

'Sunset gun! Take in the colours, Mr Bush.'

The Spanish officers were standing formally in line, hats in hand, as
they bowed their farewells. Hornblower put on his politest manner and
took off his hat with his politest bow as he thanked them and escorted
them to the side.

'Here comes your consul already,' said the naval officer just before he
went down.

In the gathering darkness a rowing skiff was heading out to them from
the town, and Hornblower almost cut his final farewells short as he
tried to recall what honours should be paid to a consul coming on board
after sunset. The western sky was blood red, and the breeze dropped, and
here in a bay it seemed breathless and stifling after the airy delights
of the Atlantic. And now he had to deal with secrets of state and with
Doughty.

Recapitulating his worries to himself revived another one. There would
now be a break in his letters to Maria; it might be months before she
heard from him again, and she would fear the worst. But there was no
time to waste in thinking. He had to act instantly.




                              CHAPTER XXI


With the wind dropping _Hotspur_ had swung to her anchors, and now
from the stern window of the chart-room USS _Constitution_ was visible,
revealed by her lights as she rode idly in slack water.

'If you please, sir,' asked Doughty, as respectful as ever, 'what is
this place?'

'Cadiz,' replied Hornblower; his surprise was only momentary at the
ignorance of a prisoner immured below--it was possible that some even of
the crew still did not know. He pointed through the cabin window. And
that's an American frigate, the _Constitution_.

'Yes, sir.'

Until Hornblower had seen the _Constitution_ at anchor he had been
visualising a drab future for Doughty, as a penniless refugee on the
waterfront at Cadiz, not daring to ship as a hand before the mast in
some merchant ship for fear of being pressed and recognised, starving at
worst as a beggar, at best as a soldier enlisted in the ragged Spanish
army. A better future than the rope, all the same. Now there was a
better one still. Ships of war never had enough men, even if Preble did
not need a good steward.

Bailey came in from the cabin with the last bottle of claret.

'Doughty will decant that,' said Hornblower. 'And Doughty, see that
those glasses are properly clean. I want them to sparkle.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Bailey, get for'ard to the galley. See that there's a clear fire ready
for the marrow bones.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

It was as simple as that as long as each move was well-timed. Doughty
applied himself to decanting the claret while Bailey bustled out.

'By the way, Doughty, can you swim?'

Doughty did not raise his head.

'Yes, sir,' his voice was hardly more than a whisper. 'Thank you, sir.'

Now the expected knock on the door.

'Boat's coming alongside, sir!'

'Very well, I'll come.'

Hornblower hurried out on to the quarter-deck and down the gangway to
greet the visitor. Darkness had fallen and Cadiz Bay was quite placid,
like a dark mirror.

Mr Carron wasted no time; he hurried aft ahead of Hornblower with
strides that equalled Hornblower's at his hastiest. When he sat in a
chair in the chart-room he seemed to fill the little place completely,
for he was a big heavily built man. He mopped his forehead with his
handkerchief and then readjusted his wig.

'A glass of claret, sir?'

'Thank you.' Mr Carron still wasted no time, plunging into business
while Hornblower filled the glasses.

'You're from the Channel Fleet?'

'Yes, sir, under orders from Admiral Cornwallis.'

'You know about the situation then. You know about the _flota_?' Carron
dropped his voice at the last words.

'Yes, sir. I'm here to take back the latest news to the frigate
squadron.'

'They'll have to act. Madrid shows no sign of yielding.'

'Very well, sir.'

'Godoy's terrified of Boney. The country doesn't want to fight England
but Godoy would rather fight than offend him.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'm sure they're only waiting for the _flota_ to arrive and then Spain
will declare war. Boney wants to use the Spanish navy to help out his
scheme for invading England.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Not that the Dons will be much help to him. There isn't a ship here
ready for sea. But there's the _Flicit_ here. Forty-four guns. You saw
her, of course?'

'Yes, sir.'

'She'll warn the _flota_ if she gets an inkling of what's in the wind.'

'Of course, sir.'

'My last news is less than three days old. The courier had a good
journey from Madrid. Godoy doesn't know yet that we've found out about
the secret clauses in the treaty of San Ildefonso, but he'll guess soon
enough by the stiffening of our attitude.'

'Yes, sir.'

'So the sooner you get away the better. Here's the despatch for the
officer commanding the intercepting squadron. I prepared it as soon as I
saw you coming into the Bay.'

'Thank you, sir. He's Captain Graham Moore in the _Indefatigable_.'

Hornblower put the despatch into his pocket. He had been aware for some
time of sounds and subdued voices from the cabin next door, and he
guessed the reason. Now there was a knock and Bush's face appeared round
the door.

'One moment, please, Mr Bush. You ought to know I'm busy. Yes, Mr
Carron?'

Bush was the only man in the ship who would dare to intrude at that
moment, and he only if he thought the matter urgent.

'You had better leave within the hour.'

'Yes, sir. I was hoping you might sup with me this evening.'

'Duty before pleasure, although I thank you. I'll cross the bay now and
make the arrangements with the Spanish authorities. The land breeze will
start to make before long, and that will take you out.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Make every preparation for weighing anchor. You know of the twenty-four
hour rule?'

'Yes, sir.'

Under the rules of neutrality a ship of one contending nation could not
leave a neutral harbour until one whole day after the exit of a ship of
another contending nation.

'The Dons may not enforce it on the _Flicit_, but they'll certainly
enforce it on you if you give them the opportunity. Two-thirds of
_Flicit's_ crew are in the taverns of Cadiz at this moment, so you
must take your chance now. I'll be here to remind the Dons about the
twenty-four hour rule if she tries to follow you. I might delay her at
least. The Dons don't want to offend us while the _flota's_ still at
sea.'

'Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir.'

Carron was already rising to his feet, with Hornblower following his
example.

'Call the Consul's boat,' said Hornblower as they emerged on to the
quarter-deck. Bush still had something to say, but Hornblower still
ignored him.

And even when Carron had left there was still an order for Bush with
which to distract him.

'I want the small bower hove in, Mr Bush, and heave short on the best
bower.'

'Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir--'

'I want this done in silence, Mr Bush. No pipes, no orders that
_Flicit_ can hear. Station two safe men at the capstan with old canvas
to muffle the capstan pawls. I don't want a sound.'

'Aye aye, sir. But--'

'Go and attend to that yourself personally, if you please, Mr Bush.'

No one else dare intrude on the captain as he strode the quarter-deck in
the warm night. Nor was it long before the pilot came on board; Carron
had certainly succeeded in hastening the slow process of the Spanish
official mind. Topsails sheeted home, anchor broken out, _Hotspur_
glided slowly down the bay again before the first gentle puffs of the
nightly land breeze, with Hornblower narrowly watching the pilot. It
might be a solution of the Spaniard's problem if _Hotspur_ were to take
the ground as she went to sea, and Hornblower determined that should not
happen. It was only after the pilot had left them and _Hotspur_ was
standing out to the south westward that he had a moment to spare for
Bush.

'Sir! Doughty's gone.'

'Gone?'

It was too dark on the quarter-deck for Hornblower's face to be seen,
and he tried his best to make his voice sound natural.

'Yes, sir. He must have nipped out of the stern window of your cabin,
sir. Then he could have lowered himself into the water by the
rudder-pintles, right under the counter where no one could see him, and
then he must have swum for it, sir.'

'I'm extremely angry about this, Mr Bush. Somebody will smart for it.'

'Well, sir--'

'Well, Mr Bush?'

'It seems you left him alone in the cabin when the Consul came on board,
sir. That's when he took his chance.'

'You mean it's my fault, Mr Bush?'

'Well, yes, sir, if you want to put it that way.'

'M'm. Maybe you're right, even if I do say it.' Hornblower paused, still
trying to be natural. 'God, that's an infuriating thing to happen. I'm
angry with myself. I can't think how I came to be so foolish.'

'I expect you had a lot on your mind, sir.'

It was distasteful to hear Bush standing up for his captain in the face
of his captain's self-condemnation.

'There's just no excuse for me. I'll never forgive myself.'

'I'll mark him as "R" on the ship's muster, sir.'

'Yes. You'd better do that.'

Cryptic initials in the ship's muster rolls told various stories--'D'
for discharged,' 'D D' for 'dead,' and 'R' for 'run'--deserted.

'But there's some good news, too, Mr Bush. In accordance with my orders
I must tell you, Mr Bush, in case of something happening to me, but none
of what I'm going to say is to leak out to the ship's company.'

'Of course, sir.'

Treasure; prize money, doubloons and dollars. A Spanish treasure fleet.
If there were anything that could take Bush's mind off the subject of
Doughty's escape from justice it was this.

'It'll be millions, sir!' said Bush.

'Yes. Millions.'

The seamen in the five ships would share one-quarter of the prize
money--the same sum as would be divided between five captains--and that
would mean six hundred pounds a man. Lieutenants and masters and
captains of marines would divide one-eighth. Fifteen thousand pounds for
Bush, at a rough estimate.

'A fortune, sir!'

Hornblower's share would be ten of those fortunes.

'Do you remember, sir, the last time we captured a _flota_? Back in '99,
I think it was, sir. Some of our Jacks when they got their prize money
bought gold watches an' _fried_ 'em on Gosport Hard just to show how
rich they were.'

'Well, you can sleep on it, Mr Bush, as I'm going to try to do. But
remember, not a word to a soul.'

'No, sir. Of course not, sir.'

The project might still fail. The _flota_ might evade capture and escape
into Cadiz; it might have turned back; it might never have sailed. Then
it would be best if the Spanish government--and the world at large--did
not know that such an attempt had ever been contemplated.

These thoughts, and these figures, should have been stimulating,
exciting, pleasant, but tonight, to Hornblower, they were nothing of the
sort. They were Dead Sea fruit, turning to ashes in the mouth.
Hornblower snapped at Bailey and dismissed him; then he sat on his cot,
too low spirited even to be cheered by the swaying of the cot under his
seat to tell him that _Hotspur_ was at sea again, bound on a mission of
excitement and profit. He sat with drooping head, deep in depression. He
had lost his integrity, and that meant he had lost his self-respect. In
his life he had made mistakes, whose memory could still make him writhe,
but this time he had done far more. He had committed a breach of duty.
He had connived at--he had actually contrived--the escape of a deserter,
of a criminal. He had violated his sworn oath, and he had done so from
mere personal reasons, out of sheer self-indulgence. Not for the good of
the service, not for his country's cause, but because he was a
soft-hearted sentimentalist. He was ashamed of himself, and the shame
was all the more acute when his pitiless self-analysis brought up the
conviction that, if he could relive those past hours, he would do the
same again.

There were no excuses. The one he had used, that the Service owed him a
life after all the perils he had run, was nonsense. The mitigating
circumstance that discipline would not suffer, thanks to the new
exciting mission, was of no weight. He was a self-condemned traitor;
worse still, he was a plausible one, who had carried through his scheme
with deft neatness that marked the born conspirator. That first word he
had thought of was the correct one; integrity, and he had lost it.
Hornblower mourned over his lost integrity like Niobe over her dead
children.




                              CHAPTER XXII


Captain Graham Moore's orders for the disposition of the frigate
squadron so as to intercept the _flota_ were so apt that they received
even Hornblower's grudging approval. The five ships were strung out on a
line north and south to the limit of visibility. With fifteen miles
between ships and with the northernmost and southernmost ships looking
out to their respective horizons a stretch of sea ninety miles wide
could be covered. During daylight they beat or ran towards America;
during the night they retraced their course towards Europe, so that if
by misfortune the _flota_ should reach the line in darkness the interval
during which it could be detected would be by that much prolonged. The
dawn position was to be in the longitude of Cape St Vincent--9
west--and the sunset position was to be as far to the west of that as
circumstances should indicate as desirable.

For this business of detecting the needle of the _flota_ in the haystack
of the Atlantic was a little more simple than might appear at first
sight. The first point was that by the cumbrous law of Spain the _flota_
had to discharge its cargo at Cadiz, and nowhere else. The second point
was that the direction of the wind was a strong indication of the point
of the compass from which the _flota_ might appear. The third point was
that the _flota_, after a long sea passage, was likely to be uncertain
of its longitude; by sextant it could be reasonably sure of its
latitude, and could be counted on to run the final stages of its course
along the latitude of Cadiz--36 30 north--so as to make sure of
avoiding the Portuguese coast on the one hand and the African coast on
the other.

So that in the centre of the British line, squarely on latitude 36 30
north, lay the Commodore in the _Indefatigable_, with the other ships
lying due north and due south of him. A flag signal by day or a rocket
by night would warn every ship in the line of the approach of the
_flota_, and it should not be difficult for the squadron to concentrate
rapidly upon the signalling ship, a hundred and fifty miles out from
Cadiz with plenty of time and space available to enforce their demands.

An hour before dawn Hornblower came out on deck, as he had done every
two hours during the night--and every two hours during all the preceding
nights as well. It had been a clear night and it was still clear now.

'Wind nor'east by north, sir,' reported Prowse. 'St Vincent bearing due
north about five leagues.'

A moderate breeze; all sail to the royals could be carried, although the
_Hotspur_ was under topsails, stealing along close-hauled on the port
tack. Hornblower trained his telescope over the starboard beam, due
south, in the direction where _Medusa_ should be, next in line;
_Hotspur_, as befitted her small importance, was the northernmost ship,
at the point where it was least likely for the _flota_ to appear. It was
not quite light enough yet for _Medusa_ to be visible.

'Mr Foreman, get aloft, if you please, with your signal book.'

Of course every officer and man in _Hotspur_ must be puzzled about this
daily routine, this constant surveillance of a single stretch of water.
Ingenious minds might even guess the true objective of the squadron.
That could not be helped.

'There she is, sir!' said Prowse. 'Beating sou' by west. We're a little
ahead of station.'

'Back the mizzen-tops'l, if you please.'

They might be as much as a couple of miles ahead of station--not too
unsatisfactory after a long night. It was easy enough to drop back to
regain the exact bearing, due north from _Medusa_.

'Deck, there!' Foreman was hailing from the main-topmast-head.
'_Medusa's_ signalling. "Commodore to all ships."'

_Medusa_ was relaying the signal from _Indefatigable_ out of sight to
the southward.

'Wear ship,' went on Foreman. 'Course west. Topsails.'

'Mr Cheeseman, kindly acknowledge.'

Cheeseman was the second signal officer, learning his trade as Foreman's
deputy. 'Send the hands to the braces, Mr Prowse.'

It must be gratifying experience for Moore to manoeuvre a line of ships
sixty miles long by sending up and hauling down flags.

'Deck!' There was a different tone in Foreman's voice, not the tone of
matter of fact routine. 'Sail in sight on the port bow, nearly to
windward, sir. Coming down before the wind, fast.'

_Hotspur_ was still waiting for _Medusa's_ signal to come down to
indicate the exact moment to wear.

'What do make of her, Mr Foreman?'

'She's a ship of war, sir. She's a frigate. She looks French to me, sir.
She might be the _Flicit_, sir.'

She might well be the _Flicit_, coming out from Cadiz. By now word
could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea.
_Flicit_ would come out; she could warn, and divert, the _flota_, if
she could get past the British line. Or she could hang about on the
horizon until the _flota_ should appear, and then interfere with the
negotiations. Bonaparte could make great play in the Moniteur regarding
the heroic French navy coming to the aid of an oppressed neutral fleet.
And _Flicit's_ presence might have great weight in the scale should it
come to a fight; a large French frigate and four large Spanish ones
against one large British frigate, three small ones, and a sloop.

'I'll get aloft and have a look at her myself, sir.' This was Bush, in
the right place at the right time as usual. He ran up the ratlines with
the agility of any seaman.

'Signal's down, sir!' yelled Foreman.

_Hotspur_ should put up her helm at this moment, for all five ships to
wear together.

'No, Mr Prowse. We'll wait.'

On the horizon _Medusa_ wore round. Now she was before the wind,
increasing her distance rapidly from _Hotspur_ on the opposite course.

'That's _Flicit_ for certain, sir!' called Bush.

'Thank you, Mr Bush. Kindly come down at once. Drummer! Beat to
quarters. Clear for action. Mr Cheeseman, send this signal. "Have
sighted French frigate to windward."'

'Aye aye, sir. _Medusa's_ going out of sight fast.'

'Hoist it, anyway.'

Bush had descended like lightning, to exchange glances for one moment
with Hornblower before hurrying off to supervise clearing for action.
For that moment there was an enquiring look in his eye. He alone in the
ship beside Hornblower knew the objective of the British squadron. If
_Hotspur_ was parted from the other ships when the _flota_ should be
sighted she would lose her share of the prize money. But prize money was
only one factor; the _flota_ was a primary objective. _Hotspur_ would
disregard _Medusa's_ signals and turn aside from the objective, at her
peril--at Hornblower's peril. And Bush knew, too, the disparity of force
between _Hotspur_ and _Flicit_. A battle broadside to broadside could
only end with half _Hotspur's_ crew dead and the other half prisoners of
war.

'_Medusa's_ out of sight, sir. She hasn't acknowledged.' This was
Foreman, still aloft.

'Very well, Mr Foreman. You can come down.'

'You can see her from the deck, sir,' said Prowse.

'Yes.' Right on the horizon the Frenchman's topsails and topgallants
were plainly in view. Hornblower found it a little difficult to keep
them steady in the field of the telescope. He was pulsing with
excitement; he could only hope that his face did not reveal him to be as
anxious and worried as he felt.

'Cleared for action, sir,' reported Bush.

The guns were run out, the excited guns' crews at their stations.

'She's hauled her wind!' exclaimed Prowse.

'Ah!'

_Flicit_ had come round on the starboard tack, heading to allow
_Hotspur_ to pass far astern of her. She was declining battle.

'Isn't he going to fight?' exclaimed Bush.

Hornblower's tensions were easing a little with this proof of the
accuracy of his judgement. He had headed for _Flicit_ with the
intention of engaging in a scrambling long range duel. He had hoped to
shoot away enough of the _Flicit's_ spars to cripple her so that she
would be delayed in her mission of warning the _flota_. And the
Frenchman had paralleled his thoughts. He did not want to risk injury
with his mission not accomplished.

'Put the ship about, if you please, Mr Prowse.'

_Hotspur_ tacked like a machine.

'Full and bye!'

Now she headed to cross _Flicit's_ bows on a sharply converging
course. The Frenchman, in declining battle, had it in mind to slip round
the flank of the British line so as to escape in the open sea and join
the Spaniards ahead of the British, and Hornblower was heading him off.
Hornblower watched the topsails on the horizon, and saw them swing.

'He's turning away!'

Much good that would do him. Far, far beyond the topsails was a faint
blue line on the horizon, the bold coast of Southern Portugal.

'He won't weather St Vincent on that course,' said Prowse.

Lagos, St Vincent, Sagres; all great names in the history of the sea,
and that jutting headland would just baulk _Flicit_ in her attempt to
evade action. She would have to fight soon, and Hornblower was
visualising the kind of battle it would be.

'Mr Bush!'

'Sir!'

'I want two guns to bear directly astern. You'll have to cut away the
transoms aft. Get to work at once.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush.'

Sailing ships were always hampered in the matter of firing directly
ahead or astern; no satisfactory solution of the difficulty had ever
been found. Guns were generally so useful on the broadside that they
were wasted on the ends of the ship, and ship construction had
acknowledged the fact. Now the cry for the carpenter's crew presaged
abandoning all the advantages that had been wrung from these
circumstances by shipbuilders through the centuries. _Hotspur_ was
weakening herself in exchange for a momentary advantage in a rare
situation. Under his feet Hornblower felt the crack of timber and the
vibration of saws at work.

'Send the gunner aft. He'll have to rig tackles and breechings before
the guns are moved.'

The blue line of the coast was now much more sharply defined; the
towering headland of St Vincent was in plain view. And _Flicit_ was
hull-up now, the long, long, line of guns along her side clearly
visible, run out and ready for action. Her maintopsail was a-shiver, and
she was rounding-to. Now she was challenging action, offering battle.

'Up helm, Mr Prowse. Back the maintops'l.'

Every minute gained was of value. _Hotspur_ rounded-to as well.
Hornblower had no intention of fighting a hopeless battle; if the
Frenchman could wait he could wait as well. With this gentle breeze and
moderate sea _Hotspur_ held an advantage over the bigger French ship
which was not lightly to be thrown away. _Hotspur_ and _Flicit_ eyed
each other like two pugilists just stepping into the ring. It was such a
beautiful day of blue sky and blue sea; it was a lovely world which he
might be leaving soon. The rumble of gun-trucks told him that one
gun-carriage at least was being moved into position, and yet at this
minute somehow he thought of Maria and of little Horatio--madness; he
put that thought instantly out of his mind.

The seconds crept by; perhaps the French captain was holding a council
of war on his quarter-deck; perhaps he was merely hesitating, unable to
reach a decision at this moment when the fate of nations hung in the
balance.

'Message from Mr Bush, sir. One gun run out ready for action, sir. The
other one in five minutes.'

'Thank you, Mr Orrock. Tell Mr Bush to station the two best gun-layers
there.'

_Flicit's_ maintopsail was filling again.

'Hands to the braces!'

_Hotspur_ stood in towards her enemy. Hornblower would not yield an inch
of sea room unnecessarily.

'Helm a-weather!'

That was very long cannon-shot as _Hotspur_ wore round. _Flicit's_ bow
was pointing straight at her; _Hotspur's_ stern was turned squarely to
her enemy, the ships exactly in line.

'Tell Mr Bush to open fire!'

Even before the message could have reached him Bush down below had
acted. There was the bang-bang of the guns, the smoke bursting out under
the counter, eddying up over the quarter-deck with the following wind.
Nothing visible to Hornblower's straining eye at the telescope; only the
beautiful lines of _Flicit's_ bows, her sharply-steeved bowsprit, her
gleaming canvas. The rumble of the gun-trucks underfoot as the guns were
run out again. Bang! Hornblower saw it. Standing right above the gun,
looking straight along the line of flight, he saw the projectile, a lazy
pencil mark against the white and blue, up and then down, before the
smoke blew forward. Surely that was a hit. The smoke prevented his
seeing the second shot.

The long British nine-pounder was the best gun in the service as far as
precision went. The bore was notoriously true, and the shot could be
more accurately cast than the larger projectiles. And even a
nine-pounder shot, flying at a thousand feet a second, could deal lusty
blows. Bang! The Frenchman would be unhappy at receiving this sort of
punishment without hitting back.

'Look at that!' said Prowse.

_Flicit's_ fore-staysail was out of shape, flapping in the wind; it
was hard to see at first glance what had happened.

'His fore-stay's parted, sir,' decided Prowse.

That Prowse was correct was shown a moment later when _Flicit_ took in
the fore-staysail. The loss of the sail itself made little difference,
but the fore-stay was a most important item in the elaborate system of
checks and balances (like a French constitution before Bonaparte seized
power) which kept a ship's masts in position under the pressure of the
sails.

'Mr Orrock, run below and say "Well done" to Mr Bush.'

Bang! As the smoke eddied Hornblower saw _Flicit_ round-to, and as her
broadside presented itself to his sight it vanished in a great bank of
leaping smoke. There was the horrid howl of a passing cannon-ball
somewhere near; there were two jets of water from the surface of the
sea, one on each quarter, and that was all Hornblower saw or heard of
the broadside. An excited crew, firing from a wheeling ship, could not
be expected to do better than that, even with twenty-two guns.

A ragged cheer went up from the _Hotspur's_ crew, and Hornblower,
turning, saw that every idle hand was craning out of the gun-ports,
peering aft at the Frenchman. He could hardly object to that, but when
he turned back to look at _Flicit_ again he saw enough to set the men
hurriedly at work. The Frenchman had not yawed merely to fire her
broadside; she was hove-to, mizzen-topsail to the mast, in order to
splice the fore-stay. Lying like that, her guns would not bear. But not
a second was to be lost, with _Hotspur_ before the wind and the range
increasing almost irretrievably.

'Stand by your guns to port! Hands to the braces! Hard-a-starboard!'

_Hotspur_ wore sweetly round on to the port tack. She was on
_Flicit's_ port quarter where not a French gun would bear. Bush came
running from aft to keep his eye on the port side guns; he strode along
from gun to gun, making sure by eye that elevation and training were
correct as _Hotspur_ fired her broadside into her helpless enemy. Very
long range, but some of those shots must have caused damage. Hornblower
watched the bearing of _Flicit_ altering as _Hotspur_ drew astern of
her.

'Stand-by to go about after the next broadside!'

The nine guns roared out, and the smoke was still eddying in the waist
as _Hotspur_ tacked.

'Starboard side guns!'

Excited men raced across the deck to aim and train; another broadside,
but _Flicit's_ mizzen-topsail was wheeling round.

'Helm a-weather!'

By the time the harassed Frenchman had come before the wind again
_Hotspur_ had anticipated her; both ships were again in line and Bush
was racing aft to supervise the fire of the stern chasers once more.
This was revenge for the action with the _Loire_ so long ago. In this
moderate breeze and smooth sea the handy sloop held every advantage over
the big frigate; what had gone on up to now was only a sample of what
was to continue all through that hungry weary day of golden sun and blue
sea and billowing powder smoke.

The leeward position that _Hotspur_ held was a most decided advantage.
To leeward over the horizon lay the British squadron; the Frenchman
dared not chase her for long in that direction, lest he find himself
trapped between the wind and overwhelming hostile strength. Moreover the
Frenchman had a mission to perform; he was anxious to find and warn the
Spanish Squadron, yet when he had won for himself enough sea room to
weather St Vincent and to turn away his teasing little enemy hung on to
him, firing into his battered stern, shooting holes in his sails,
cutting away his running rigging.

During that long day _Flicit_ fired many broadsides, all at long
range, and generally badly aimed as _Hotspur_ wheeled away out of the
line of fire. And during all that long day Hornblower stood on his
quarter-deck, watching the shifts of the wind, rapping out his orders,
handling his little ship with unremitting care and inexhaustible
ingenuity. Occasionally a shot from _Flicit_ struck home; under
Hornblower's very eyes an eighteen-pounder ball came in through a
gun-port and struck down five men into a bloody heaving mass. Yet until
long after noon _Hotspur_ evaded major damage, while the wind backed
round southerly and the sun crept slowly round to the west. With the
shifting of the wind his position was growing more precarious, and with
the passage of time fatigue was numbing his mind.

At a long threequarters of a mile _Flicit_ at last scored an important
hit, one hit out of the broadside she fired as she yawed widely off her
course. There was a crash aloft, and Hornblower looked up to see the
main-yard sagging in two halves, shot clean through close to the centre,
each half hanging in the slings at its own drunken angle, threatening,
each of them, to come falling like an arrow down through the deck. It
was a novel and cogent problem to deal with, to study the dangling
menaces and to give the correct helm order that set the sails a-shiver
and relieve the strain.

'Mr Wise! Take all the men you need and secure that wreckage!'

Then he could put his glass again to his aching eye to see what
_Flicit_ intended to do. She could force a close action if she took
instant advantage of the opportunity. He would have to fight now to the
last gasp. But the glass revealed something different, something he had
to look at a second time before he could trust his swimming brain and
his weary eye. _Flicit_ had filled away. With every sail drawing she
was reaching towards the sunset. She had turned tail and was flying for
the horizon away from the pest which had plagued all the spirit out of
her in nine continuous hours of battle.

The hands saw it, they saw her go, and someone raised a cheer which ran
raggedly along the deck. There were grins and smiles which revealed
teeth strangely white against the powder blackened faces. Bush came up
from the waist, powder blackened like the others.

'Sir!' he said. 'I don't know how to congratulate you.'

'Thank you, Mr Bush. You can keep your eye on Wise. There's the two
spare stuns'l booms--fish the main-yard with those.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Despite the blackening of his features, despite the fatigue that even
Bush could not conceal, there was that curious expression in Bush's face
again, inquiring, admiring, surprised. He was bursting with things that
he wanted to say. It called for an obvious effort of will on Bush's part
to turn away without saying them; Hornblower fired a parting shot at
Bush's receding back.

'I want the ship ready for action again before sunset, Mr Bush.'

Gurney the Gunner was reporting.

'We've fired away all the top tier of powder, sir, an' we're well into
the second tier. That's a ton an' a half of powder. Five tons of shot,
sir. We used every cartridge; my mates are sewing new ones now.'

The carpenter next, and then Huffnell the purser and Wallis the surgeon;
arrangements to feed the living, and arrangements to bury the dead.

The dead whom he had known so well; there was a bitter regret and a deep
sense of personal loss as Wallis read the names. Good seamen and bad
seamen, alive this morning and now gone from this world, because he had
done his duty. He must not think along those lines at all. It was a hard
service to which he belonged, hard and pitiless like steel, like flying
cannon-shot.

At nine o'clock at night Hornblower sat down to the first food he had
eaten since the night before, and as he submitted to Bailey's clumsy
ministrations, he thought once more about Doughty, and from Doughty he
went on--the step was perfectly natural--to think about eight million
Spanish dollars in prize money. His weary mind was purged of the thought
of sin. He did not have to class himself with the cheating captains he
had heard about, with the peculating officers he had known. He could
grant himself absolution; grudging absolution.




                             CHAPTER XXIII


With her battered sides and her fished main-yard, _Hotspur_ beat her
way back towards the rendezvous appointed in case of separation. Even in
this pleasant latitude of Southern Europe winter was asserting itself.
The nights were cold and the wind blew chill, and _Hotspur_ had to ride
out a gale for twenty-four hours as she tossed about; St Vincent,
bearing north fifteen leagues, was the place of rendezvous, but there
was no sign of the frigate squadron. Hornblower paced the deck as he
tried to reach a decision, as he calculated how far off to leeward the
recent gale might have blown _Indefatigable_ and her colleagues, and as
he debated what his duty demanded he should do next. Bush eyed him from
a distance as he paced; even though he was in the secret regarding the
_flota_ he knew better than to intrude. Then at last came the hail from
the masthead.

'Sail ho! Sail to windward! Deck, there! There's another. Looks like a
fleet, sir.'

Now Bush could join Hornblower.

'I expect that's the frigates, sir.'

'Maybe.' Hornblower hailed the main-topmast-head. 'How many sail now?'

'Eight, sir. Sir, they look like ships of the line, some of them, sir.
Yes, sir, a three-decker an' some two-deckers.'

A squadron of ships of the line, heading for Cadiz. They might possibly
be French--fragments of Bonaparte's navy sometimes evaded blockade. In
that case it was his duty to identify them, risking capture. Most likely
they were British, and Hornblower had a momentary misgiving as to what
their presence would imply in that case.

'We'll stand towards them, Mr Bush. Mr Foreman! Hoist the private
signal.'

There were the topsails showing now, six ships of the line ploughing
along in line ahead, a frigate out on either flank.

'Leading ship answers 264, sir. That's the private signal for this
week.'

'Very well. Make our number.'

Today's grey sea and grey sky seemed to reflect the depression that was
settling over Hornblower's spirits.

'_Dreadnought_, sir. Admiral Parker. His flag's flying.'

So Parker had been detached from the fleet off Ushant; Hornblower's
unpleasant conviction was growing.

'Flag to _Hotspur_, sir. "Captain come on board."'

'Thank you, Mr Foreman. Mr Bush, call away the quarter boat.'

Parker gave an impression of greyness like the weather when Hornblower
was led aft to _Dreadnought's_ quarter-deck. His eyes and his hair and
even his face (in contrast with the swarthy faces round him) were of a
neutral grey. But he was smartly dressed, so that Hornblower felt
something of a ragamuffin in his presence, wishing, too, that his
morning's shave had been more effective.

'What are you doing here, Captain Hornblower?'

'I am on the rendezvous appointed for Captain Moore's squadron, sir.'

'Captain Moore's in England by this time.'

The news left Hornblower unmoved, for it was what he was expecting to
hear, but he had to make an answer.

'Indeed, sir?'

'You haven't heard the news?'

'I've heard nothing for a week, sir.'

'Moore captured the Spanish treasure fleet. Where were you?'

'I had an encounter with a French frigate, sir.'

A glance at _Hotspur_ lying hove-to on the _Dreadnought's_ beam could
take in the fished main-yard and the raw patches on her sides.

'You missed a fortune in prize money.'

'So I should think, sir.'

'Six million dollars. The Dons fought, and one of their frigates blew up
with all hands before the others surrendered.'

In a ship in action drill and discipline had to be perfect; a moment's
carelessness on the part of a powder boy or a gun loader could lead to
disaster. Hornblower's thoughts on this subject prevented him this time
from making even a conversational reply, and Parker went on without
waiting for one.

'So it's war with Spain. The Dons will declare war as soon as they hear
the news--they probably have done so already. This squadron is detached
from the Channel Fleet to begin the blockade of Cadiz.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You had better return north after Moore. Report to the Channel Fleet
off Ushant for further orders.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The cold grey eyes betrayed not the least flicker of humanity. A farmer
would look at a cow with far more interest than this Admiral looked at a
Commander.

'A good journey to you, Captain.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The wind was well to the north of west; _Hotspur_ would have to stand
far out to weather St Vincent, and farther out still to make sure of
weathering Cape Roca. Parker and his ships had a fair wind for Cadiz and
although Hornblower gave his orders the moment he reached the deck they
were over the horizon almost as soon as _Hotspur_ had hoisted in her
boat and had settled down on the starboard tack, close-hauled, to begin
the voyage back to Ushant. And as she plunged to the seas that met her
starboard bow there was something additional to be heard and felt about
her motion. As each wave crest reached her, and she began to put her
bows down, there was a sudden dull noise and momentary little shock
through the fabric of the ship, to be repeated when she had completed
her descent and began to rise again. Twice for every wave this happened,
so that ear and mind came to expect it at each rise and fall. It was the
fished main-yard, splinted between the two spare studding sail booms.
However tightly the frapping was strained that held the joint together,
a little play remained, and the ponderous yardarms settled backward and
forward with a thump, twice with every wave, until mind and ear grew
weary of its ceaseless monotony.

It was on the second day that Bailey provided a moment's distraction for
Hornblower while _Hotspur_ still reached out into the Atlantic to gain
her offing.

'This was in the pocket of your nightshirt, sir. I found it when I was
going to wash it.'

It was a folded piece of paper with a note written on it, and that note
must have been written the evening that _Hotspur_ lay in Cadiz
Bay--Bailey clearly did not believe in too frequent washing of
nightshirts.

    'Sir--

    The Cabin Stores are short of Capers and Cayenne.

    Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

                                   Your Humble obedient Servant
                                                     J. Doughty.'

Hornblower crumpled the paper in his hand. It was painful to be reminded
of the Doughty incident. This must be the very last of it.

'Did you read this, Bailey?'

'No, sir. I'm no scholard, sir.'

That was the standard reply of an illiterate in the Royal Navy, but
Hornblower was not satisfied until he had taken a glance at the ship's
muster rolls and seen the 'X' against Bailey's name. Most Scotsmen could
read and write--it was fortunate that Bailey was an exception.

So _Hotspur_ continued close-hauled, first on the starboard tack and
then on the port, carrying sail very tenderly on her wounded main-yard,
while she made her way northward over the grey Atlantic until at last
she weathered Finisterre and could run two points free straight for
Ushant along the hypotenuse of the Bay of Biscay. It snowed on New
Year's Eve just as it had snowed last New Year's Eve when _Hotspur_ had
baulked Bonaparte's attempted invasion of Ireland. It was raining and
bleak, and thick weather closely limited the horizon when _Hotspur_
attained the latitude of Ushant and groped her way slowly forward in
search of the Channel Fleet. The _Thunderer_ loomed up in the mist and
passed her on to the _Majestic_, and the _Majestic_ passed her on until
the welcome word '_Hibernia_' came back in reply to Bush's hail. There
was only a small delay while the news of _Hotspur's_ arrival was
conveyed below to the Admiral before the next hail came; Collins's
voice, clearly recognisable despite the speaking-trumpet.

'Captain Hornblower?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Would you kindly come aboard?'

Hornblower was ready this time, so closely shaved that his cheeks were
raw, his best coat on, two copies of his report in his pocket.

Cornwallis was shivering, huddled in a chair in his cabin, a thick shawl
over his shoulders and another over his knees, and presumably with a hot
bottle under his feet. With his shawls and his wig he looked like some
old woman until he looked up with his china blue eyes.

'Now what in the world have you been up to this time, Hornblower?'

'I have my report here, sir.'

'Give it to Collins. Now tell me.'

Hornblower gave the facts as briefly as he could.

'Moore was furious at your parting company, but I think he'll excuse you
when he hears about this. _Medusa_ never acknowledged your signal?'

'No, sir.'

'You did quite right in hanging on to _Flicit_. I'll endorse your
report to that effect. Moore ought to be glad that there was one ship
fewer to share his prize money.'

'I'm sure he didn't give that a thought, sir.'

'I expect you're right. But you, Hornblower. You could have turned a
blind eye to the _Flicit_--there's a precedent in the Navy for turning
a blind eye. Then you could have stayed with Moore and shared the prize
money.'

'If _Flicit_ had escaped round Cape St Vincent there might not have
been any prize money, sir.'

'I see. I quite understand.' The blue eyes had a twinkle. 'I put you in
the way of wealth and you disdain it.'

'Hardly that, sir.'

It was a sudden revelation to Hornblower that Cornwallis had
deliberately selected him and _Hotspur_ to accompany Moore and share the
prize money. Every ship must have been eager to go; conceivably this was
a reward for months of vigilance in the Goulet.

Now Collins entered the conversation.

'How are your stores?'

'I've plenty, sir. Food and water for sixty more days on full rations.'

'What about your powder and shot?' Collins tapped his finger on
Hornblower's report, which he had been reading.

'I've enough for another engagement, sir.'

'And your ship?'

'We've plugged the shot holes, sir. We can carry sail on the main-yard
as long as it doesn't blow too strong.'

Cornwallis spoke again.

'Would it break your heart if you went back to Plymouth?'

'Of course not, sir.'

'That's as well, for I'm sending you in to refit.'

'Aye aye, sir. When shall I sail?'

'You're too restless even to stay to dinner?'

'No, sir.'

Cornwallis laughed outright. 'I wouldn't like to put you to the test.'

He glanced up at the tell-tale wind-vane in the deck-beams above. Men
who had spent their whole lives combating the vagaries of the wind all
felt alike in that respect; when a fair wind blew it was sheer folly to
waste even an hour on a frivolous pretext.

'You'd better sail now,' went on Cornwallis. 'You know I've a new second
in command?'

'No, sir.'

'Lord Gardner. Now that I have to fight the Dons as well as Boney I need
a vice-admiral.'

'I'm not surprised, sir.'

'If you sail in this thick weather you won't have to salute him. That
will save the King some of his powder that you're so anxious to burn.
Collins, give Captain Hornblower his orders.'

So he would be returning once more to Plymouth. Once more to Maria.




                              CHAPTER XXIV


'It really was a magnificent spectacle,' said Maria.

The _Naval Chronicle_, at which Hornblower was glancing while conversing
with her, used those identical words 'magnificent spectacle.'

'I'm sure it must have been, dear.'

Under his eyes was a description of the landing of the Spanish treasure
at Plymouth from the frigates captured by Moore's squadron. Military
precautions had of course been necessary when millions of pounds in gold
and silver had to be piled into wagons and dragged through the streets
up to the Citadel, but the fanfare had exceeded military necessity. The
Second Dragoon Guards had provided a mounted escort, the Seventy-First
Foot had marched with the waggons, the local militia had lined the
streets, and every military band for miles round had played patriotic
airs. And when the treasure was moved on to London troops had marched
with it and their bands had marched with them, so that every town
through which the convoy passed had been treated to the same magnificent
spectacle. Hornblower suspected that the government was not averse to
calling the attention of as many people as possible to this increase in
the wealth of the country, at a moment when Spain had been added to the
list of England's enemies.

'They say the captains will receive hundreds of thousands of pounds
each,' said Maria. 'I suppose it will never be our good fortune to win
anything like that, dear?'

'It is always possible,' said Hornblower.

It was astonishing, but most convenient, that Maria was quite unaware of
any connection between _Hotspur's_ recent action with _Flicit_ and
Moore's capture of the _flota_. Maria was shrewd and sharp, but she was
content to leave naval details to her husband, and it never occurred to
her to inquire how it had come about that _Hotspur_, although attached
to the Channel Fleet off Ushant, had found herself off Cape St Vincent.
Mrs Mason might have been more inquisitive, but she, thank God, had
returned to Southsea.

'What happened to that Doughty?' asked Maria.

'He deserted,' answered Hornblower; luckily, again, Maria was not
interested in the mechanics of desertion and did not inquire into the
process.

'I'm not sorry, dear,' she said. 'I never liked him. But I'm afraid you
miss him.'

'I can manage well enough without him,' said Hornblower. It was useless
to buy capers and cayenne during this stay in Plymouth; Bailey would not
know what to do with them.

'Perhaps one of these days I'll be able to look after you instead of
these servants,' said Maria.

There was the tender note in her voice again, and she was drawing
nearer.

'No one could do that better than you, my darling,' answered Hornblower.
He had to say it. He could not hurt her. He had entered into this
marriage voluntarily, and he had to go on playing the part. He put his
arm round the waist that had come within reach.

'You are the kindest husband, darling,' said Maria. 'I've been so happy
with you.'

'Not as happy as I am when you say that,' said Hornblower. That was the
base intriguer speaking again, the subtle villain--the man who had
plotted Doughty's escape from justice. No; he must remember that his
conscience was clear now in that respect. That self-indulgence had been
washed away by the blood that had poured over the decks of _Flicit_.

'I often wonder why it should be,' went on Maria, with a new note in her
voice. 'I wonder why you should be so kind to me, when I think
about--you, darling--and me.'

'Nonsense,' said Hornblower, as bluffly as he could manage. 'You must
always be sure of my feelings for you, dear. Never doubt me.'

'My very dearest,' said Maria, her voice changing again, the note of
inquiry dying out and the tenderness returning. She melted into his
arms. 'I'm fortunate that you have been able to stay so long in Plymouth
this time.'

'That was my good fortune, dear.'

Replacing the transoms which Bush had so blithely cut away in
_Hotspur's_ stern for the fight with _Flicit_ had proved to be a
laborious piece of work--_Hotspur's_ stern had had to be almost rebuilt.

'And the Little One has been sleeping like a lamb all the evening,' went
on Maria; Hornblower could only hope that this did not involve his
crying all night.

A knock at the door made Maria tear herself away from Hornblower's
embracing arm.

'Gentleman to see you,' said the landlady's voice.

It was Bush, in pea jacket and scarf, standing hesitating on the
threshold.

'Good evening, sir. Your servant, ma'am. I hope I don't intrude.'

'Of course not,' said Hornblower, wondering what shift of wind or
politics could possibly have brought Bush here, and very conscious that
Bush's manner was a little odd.

'Come in, man. Come in. Let me take your coat--unless your news is
urgent?'

'Hardly urgent, sir,' said Bush rather ponderously, allowing himself,
with embarrassment, to be relieved of his coat. 'But I felt you would
like to hear it.'

He stood looking at them both, his eyes not quite in focus, yet
sensitive to the possibility that Maria's silence might be a sign that
to her he was unwelcome; but Maria made amends.

'Won't you take this chair, Mr Bush?'

'Thank you, ma'am.'

Seated, he looked from one to the other again; it was quite apparent to
Hornblower by now that Bush was a little drunk.

'Well, what is it?' he asked.

Bush's face split into an ecstatic grin.

'Droits of Admiralty, sir,' he said.

'What do you mean?'

'Moore and the frigates--I mean Captain Moore, of course, begging your
pardon, sir.'

'What about them?'

'I was in the coffee-room of the Lord Hawke, sir--I often go there of an
evening--and last Wednesday's newspapers came down from London. And
there it was, sir. Droits of Admiralty.'

Wrecks; stranded whales; flotsam and jetsam; Droits of Admiralty dealt
with things of this sort, appropriating them for the Crown, and, despite
the name, they were of no concern to Their Lordships. Bush's grin
expanded into a laugh.

'Serves 'em right, doesn't it, sir?' he said.

'You'll have to explain a little further.'

'All that treasure they captured in the _flota_, sir. It's not prize
money at all. It goes to the Government as Droits of Admiralty. The
frigates don't get a penny. You see, sir, it was time of peace.'

Now Hornblower understood. In the event of war breaking out with another
country, the ships of that country which happened to be in British ports
were seized by the Government as Droits of Admiralty; prize money came
under a different category, for prizes taken at sea in time of war were
Droits of the Crown, and were specifically granted to the captors by an
order in Council which waived the rights of the Crown.

The government was perfectly justified legally in its action. And
however much that action would infuriate the ships' companies of the
frigates, it would make the rest of the navy laugh outright, just as it
had made Bush laugh.

'So we didn't lose anything, sir, on account of your noble action.
Noble--I've always wanted to tell you it was noble, sir.'

'But how could you lose anything?' asked Maria.

'Don't you know about that, ma'am?' asked Bush, turning his wavering
gaze upon her. Wavering or not, and whether he was drunk or not, Bush
could still see that Maria had been left in ignorance of the opportunity
that _Hotspur_ had declined, and he still was sober enough to make the
deduction that it would be inadvisable to enter into explanations.

'What was it that Captain Hornblower did that was so noble?' asked
Maria.

'Least said soonest mended, ma'am,' said Bush. He thrust his hand into
his side pocket and laboriously fished out a small bottle. 'I took the
liberty of bringing this with me, ma'am, so that we could drink to the
health of Captain Moore an' the _Indefatigable_ an' the Droits of
Admiralty. It's rum, ma'am. With hot water an' lemon an' sugar, ma'am,
it makes a suitable drink for this time o' day.'

Hornblower caught Maria's glance.

'It's too late tonight, Mr Bush,' he said. 'We'll drink that health
tomorrow. I'll help you with your coat.'

After Bush had left (being helped on with his coat by his captain
flustered him sufficiently to make him almost wordless) Hornblower
turned back to Maria.

'He'll find his way back to the ship all right,' he said.

'So you did something noble, darling,' said Maria.

'Bush was drunk,' replied Hornblower. 'He was talking nonsense.'

'I wonder,' said Maria. Her eyes were shining. 'I always think of you as
noble, my darling.'

'Nonsense,' said Hornblower.

Maria came forward to him, putting her hands up to his shoulders, coming
close so that he could resume the interrupted embrace.

'Of course you must have secrets from me,' she said. 'I understand.
You're a King's officer, as well as my darling husband.'

Now that she was in his arms she had to put her head far back to look up
at him.

'It's no secret,' she went on, 'that I love you, my dear, noble love.
More than life itself.'

Hornblower knew it was true. He felt his tenderness towards her surging
up within him. But she was still speaking.

'And something else that isn't a secret,' went on Maria. 'Perhaps you've
guessed. I think you have.'

'I thought so,' said Hornblower. 'You make me very happy, my dear wife.'

Maria smiled, her face quite transfigured. 'Perhaps this time it will be
a little daughter. A sweet little girl.'

Hornblower had suspected it, as he said. He did not know if he was happy
with his knowledge, although he said he was. It would only be a day or
two before he took _Hotspur_ to sea again, back to the blockade of
Brest, back to the monotonous perils of the Goulet.




                              CHAPTER XXV


_Hotspur_ lay in the Iroise, and the victualler was heaving-to close
alongside, to begin again the toilsome labour of transferring stores.
After sixty days of blockade duty there would be much to do, even though
the pleasant sunshine of early summer would ease matters a little. The
fend-offs were over the side and the first boat was on its way from the
victualler bringing the officer charged with initiating the
arrangements.

'Here's the post, sir,' said the officer, handing Hornblower the small
package of letters destined for the ship's company. 'But here's a letter
from the Commander-in-Chief, sir. They sent it across to me from the
_Hibernia_ as I passed through the Outer Squadron.'

'Thank you,' said Hornblower.

He passed the packet to Bush to sort out. There would be letters from
Maria in it, but a letter from the Commander-in-Chief took precedence.
There was the formal address:

    Horatio Hornblower, Esq.
    Master and Commander
    H.M. Sloop _Hotspur_

The letter was sealed with an informal wafer, instantly broken.

    'My dear Captain Hornblower,

    I hope you can find it convenient to visit me in _Hibernia_, as
    I have news for you that would best be communicated personally.
    To save withdrawing _Hotspur_ from her station, and to save you
    a long journey by boat, you might find it convenient to come in
    the victualler that brings this letter. You are therefore
    authorised to leave your First Lieutenant in command, and I will
    find means for returning you to your ship when our business is
    completed. I look forward with pleasure to seeing you.

                                           Your ob'd't servant,
                                                 Wm. Cornwallis.'

Two seconds of bewilderment, and then a moment of horrid doubt which
made Hornblower snatch the other letters back from Bush and hurriedly
search through them for those from Maria.

'Best communicated personally'--Hornblower had a sudden secret fear that
something might have happened to Maria and that Cornwallis had assumed
the responsibility of breaking the news to him. But here was a letter
from Maria only eight days old, and all was well with her and with
little Horatio and the child to be. Cornwallis could hardly have later
news than that.

Hornblower was reduced to re-reading the letter and weighing every word
like a lover receiving his first love letter. The whole letter appeared
cordial in tone, until Hornblower forced himself to admit that if it was
summons to a reprimand it might be worded in exactly the same way.
Except for the opening word 'My'; that was a departure from official
practice--yet it might be a mere slip. And the letter concerned itself
with 'news'--but Cornwallis would call official information 'news' too.
Hornblower took a turn up the deck and forced himself to laugh at
himself. He really was behaving like a love-lorn youth. If after all
these years of service he had not learned to wait patiently through a
dull hour for an inevitable crisis the Navy had not taught him even his
first lesson.

The stores came slowly on board; there were the receipts to sign, and of
course there were the final hurried questions hurled at him by people
afraid of accepting responsibility.

'Make up your own mind about that,' snapped Hornblower, and, 'Mr Bush'll
tell you what to do, and I hope he'll put a flea in your ear.'

Then at last he was on a strange deck, watching with vast curiosity the
handling of a different ship as the victualler sailed away and headed
out of the Iroise. The victualler's captain offered him the comfort of
his cabin and suggested sampling the new consignment of rum, but
Hornblower could not make himself accept either offer. He could only
just manage to make himself stand still, aft by the taffrail, as they
gradually left the coast behind, and picked their way through the
Inshore Squadron and set a course for the distant topsails of the main
body of the Channel Fleet.

The huge bulk of the _Hibernia_ loomed up before them, and Hornblower
found himself going up the side and saluting the guard. Newton, the
captain of the ship, and Collins, the Captain of the Fleet, both
happened to be on deck and received him cordially enough; Hornblower
hoped they did not notice his gulp of excitement as he returned their
'Good afternoons.' Collins prepared to show him to the Admiral's
quarters.

'Please don't trouble, sir. I can find my own way,' protested
Hornblower.

'I'd better see you past all the Cerberuses that guard these nether
regions,' said Collins.

Cornwallis was seated at one desk, and his flag-lieutenant at another,
but they both rose at his entrance, and the flag-lieutenant slipped
unobtrusively through a curtained door in the bulkhead while Cornwallis
shook Hornblower's hand--it could hardly be a reprimand that was coming,
yet Hornblower found it difficult to sit on more than the edge of the
chair that Cornwallis offered him. Cornwallis sat with more ease, yet
bolt upright with his back quite flat as was his habit.

'Well?' said Cornwallis.

Hornblower realised that Cornwallis was trying to conceal his mood, yet
there was--or was there not?--a twinkle in the china blue eyes; all
these years as Commander-in-Chief still had not forged the Admiral into
the complete diplomat. Or perhaps they had. Hornblower could only wait;
he could think of nothing to say in reply to that monosyllable.

'I've had a communication about you from the Navy Board,' said
Cornwallis at length, severely.

'Yes, sir?' Hornblower could find a reply to this speech; the Navy Board
dealt with victualling and supplies and such like matters. It could be
nothing vital.

'They've called my attention to the consumption of stores by the
_Hotspur_. You appear to have been expensive, Hornblower. Gunpowder,
shot, sails, cordage--you've been using up these things as if _Hotspur_
were a ship of the line. Have you anything to say?'

'No, sir.' He need not offer the obvious defence, not to Cornwallis.

'Neither have I.' Cornwallis smiled suddenly as he said that, his whole
expression changing. 'And that is what I shall tell the Navy Board. It's
a naval officer's duty to shoot and be shot at.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'I've done all I need to do in transmitting this information.'

The smile died away from Cornwallis's face, and was replaced by
something bleak, something a little sad. He looked suddenly much older.
Hornblower was making ready to rise from his chair; he could see that
Cornwallis had sent for him so that this censure from the Navy Board
should be deprived of all its sting. In the Service anticipated crises
sometimes resolved themselves into anti-climaxes. But Cornwallis went on
speaking; the sadness of his expression was echoed in the sadness of the
tone of his voice.

'Now we can leave official business,' he said, 'and proceed to more
personal matters. I'm hauling down my flag, Hornblower.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.' Those might be trite, mechanical words,
but they were not. Hornblower was genuinely, sincerely sorry, and
Cornwallis could hardly think otherwise.

'It comes to us all in time,' he went on. 'Fifty-one years in the Navy.'

'Hard years, too, sir.'

'Yes. For two years and three months I haven't set foot on shore.'

'But no one else could have done what you have done, sir.'

No one else could have maintained the Channel Fleet as a fighting body
during those first years of hostilities, thwarting every attempt by
Bonaparte to evade its crushing power.

'You flatter me,' replied Cornwallis. 'Very kind of you, Hornblower.
Gardner's taking my place, and he'll do just as well as me.'

Even in the sadness of the moment Hornblower's ever observant mind took
notice of the use of that name without the formal 'Lord' or 'Admiral';
he was being admitted into unofficial intimacy with a
Commander-in-Chief, albeit one on the point of retirement.

'I can't tell you how much I regret it, all the same, sir,' he said.

'Let's try to be more cheerful,' said Cornwallis. The blue eyes were
looking straight through Hornblower, extraordinarily penetrating.
Apparently what they observed was specially gratifying. Cornwallis's
expression softened. Something appeared there which might almost be
affection.

'Doesn't all this mean anything to you, Hornblower?' he asked.

'No, sir,' replied Hornblower, puzzled. 'Only what I've said. It's a
great pity that you have to retire, sir.'

'Nothing else?'

'No, sir.'

'I didn't know such disinterestedness was possible. Don't you remember
what is the last privilege granted a retiring Commander-in-Chief?'

'No, sir.' That was true when Hornblower spoke; realisation came a
second later. 'Oh, of course--'

'Now it's beginning to dawn on you. I'm allowed three promotions.
Midshipman to Lieutenant. Lieutenant to Commander. Commander to
Captain.'

'Yes, sir.' Hornblower could hardly speak those words; he had to swallow
hard.

'It's a good system,' went on Cornwallis. 'At the end of his career a
Commander-in-Chief can make those promotions without fear or favour. He
has nothing more to expect in this world, and so he can lay up store for
the next, by making his selections solely for the good of the service.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Do I have to go on? I'm going to promote you to Captain.'

'Thank you, sir. I can't--' Very true. He could not speak.

'As I said, I have the good of the service in mind. You're the best
choice I can make, Hornblower.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Mark you, this is the last service I can do for you. A fortnight from
now I'll be nobody. You've told me you have no friends in high places?'

'Yes, sir. No, sir.'

'And commands still go by favour. I hope you find it, Hornblower. And I
hope you have better luck in the matter of prize money. I did my best
for you.'

'I'd rather be a captain and poor than anyone else and rich, sir.'

'Except perhaps an Admiral,' said Cornwallis; he was positively
grinning.

'Yes, sir.'

Cornwallis rose from his chair. Now he was a Commander-in-Chief again,
and Hornblower knew himself dismissed. Cornwallis raised his voice in
the high-pitched carrying hail of the Navy.

'Pass the word for Captain Collins!'

'I must thank you, sir, most sincerely.'

Don't thank me any more. You've thanked me enough already. If ever you
become an admiral with favours to give you'll understand why.'

Collins had entered and was waiting at the door.

'Good-bye, Hornblower.'

'Good-bye, sir.'

Only a shake of the hand; no further word, and Hornblower followed
Collins to the quarter-deck.

I've a water-hoy standing by for you,' said Collins. 'In a couple of
tacks she'll fetch _Hotspur_.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You'll be in the Gazette in three weeks' time. Plenty of time to make
your arrangements.'

'Yes, sir.'

Salutes, the squealing of pipes, and Hornblower went down the side and
was rowed across to the hoy. It was an effort to be polite to the
captain. The tiny crew had hauled up the big lugsails before Hornblower
realised that this was an interesting process which he would have done
well to watch closely. With the lugsails trimmed flat and sharp the
little hoy laid herself close to the wind and foamed forward towards
France.

Those last words of Collins' were still running through Hornblower's
mind. He would have to leave the _Hotspur_; he would have to say
good-bye to Bush and all the others, and the prospect brought a sadness
that quite took the edge off the elation that he felt. Of course he
would have to leave her; _Hotspur_ was too small to constitute a command
for a Post Captain. He would have to wait for another command; as the
junior captain on the list he would probably receive the smallest and
least important sixth rate in the navy. But for all that he was a
Captain. Maria would be delighted.






[End of Hornblower and the Hotspur, by C. S. Forester]
