Hornblower and the Hotspur

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 a 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 you 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 Felicite, sir.”

She might well be the Felicite, coming out from Cadiz. By now word could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea. Felicite 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 Felicite’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 Felicite 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 inquiring 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 Felicite. 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!”

Felicite 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 Felicite with the intention of engaging in a scrambling long range duel. He had hoped to shoot away enough of the Felicite’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 Felicite’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 Felicite in her attempt to evade action. She would have to fight soon, and Hornblower was visualizing 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 difficult 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 Felicite was hull-up now, the long, long, line of guns along her side clearly visible, run out and ready for action. Her main-topsail was a-shiver, and she was rounding-to. Now she was challenging action, offering battle.

“Up helm, Mr. Prowse. Back the main-tops’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 Felicite 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.”

Felicite’s main-topsail 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. Felicite’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 Felicite’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 he unhappy at receiving this sort of punishment without hitting back.

“Look at that!” said Prowse.

Felicite’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 Felicite 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 Felicite 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 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 Felicite 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 Felicite’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 hapless enemy. Very long range, but some of those shots must have caused damage. Hornblower watched the bearing of Felicite 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 Felicite’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 Felicite 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 Felicite 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 three-quarters of a mile Felicite 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 relieved 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 Felicite 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. Felicite 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.