Hornblower and the Hotspur

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 main-topsails, 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 winds 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 epitomized 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 haplessly 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 ships 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, closehauled, 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 over-powering 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 of 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 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 penalize 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 sea water 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 light-hearted, 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 balance 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 seasickness 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 shoreline 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 brief 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 portside 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 sheets. 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 materialize. 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.”