Hornblower and the Hotspur

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:

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 selfconfidence 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 seasickness 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 in 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 realize that Hornblower intended the inter view to be at an end, “Aye aye, sir.”

The temptation to tease Bush was a very strong one, Hornblower realized 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 unreeling 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 than 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 water-line.

“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 chose 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’ard, 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 he 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 quarterdeck 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 visualized 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 weltering 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 Freres, 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 Freres, 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 realized 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’amitie des nations. What was the French for ‘dinghy?’ Chaloupe, he fancied. He expanded on his invitations 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 Freres; 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 pleasure 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 he 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 regime 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.”