Hornblower and the Hotspur

Chapter VIII

Hornblower lay stretched out on his cot waiting for the time to pass. He would have preferred to be asleep, but during the afternoon sleep had refused to come to him. It was better to go on lying here in any case, for he would need all his strength during the night to come, and if he followed his inclinations and went on deck he would not only tire himself but he would reveal his anxieties and tensions to his subordinates. So he lay as relaxed as he could manage, flat on his back with his hands behind his head; the sounds that he heard on deck told him of the progress of the ship’s routine. Just over his head the telltale compass which he had had fitted to the deckbeams was literally carrying out its functions and telling the tale of Hotspur’s small alterations of heading as she lay hove-to, and these could be correlated with the play of the beams of sunshine that came in through the stern windows. Those were now curtained, and the sunbeams came in around the curtains as they swayed gently with the ship’s motion. Most captains curtained—and furnished—their cabins with gay chintz, or even, if wealthy, with damask, but these curtains were of canvas. They were of the finest, No. 8, sailcloth to be found in the ship and had only hung there for the last two days. Hornblower thought about this pleasantly, for they had been a present to him from the wardroom; Bush and Prowse, and the surgeon, Wallis, and the purser, Huffnell, had made the presentation after a mysterious request from Bush that they should be allowed to enter his cabin for a moment in his absence. Hornblower had returned to the cabin to find the deputation there and the cabin transformed. There were curtains and cushions—stuffed with oakum—and a coverlet, all gay with red and blue roses and green leaves painted on with ship’s paint by some unknown artist in the ship’s company. Hornblower had looked round in astonishment that made it impossible to conceal his pleasure. There was no time to glower or look stern, as nine captains out of ten would have done at such an unwarrantable liberty on the part of the wardroom. He could do no more than thank them in halting phrases; and the greatest pleasure only came after later consideration, when he faced the situation realistically. They had not done this as a joke, or in a silly attempt to win his favour. He had to believe the unbelievable, and accept the fact that they had done it because they liked him. That showed their poor judgement; gratification warred with guilt in his mind, yet the fact that they had dared to do such a thing was a strange but undeniable confirmation that the Hotspur was welding herself into a fighting entity.

Grimes knocked at the door and entered. “They’re calling the watch, sir,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll come.” The squeals of the pipes and the bellowings of the petty officers echoing through the ship made Grimes’ words a little superfluous, but Hornblower had to act the part of a newly awakened man. He retied his neckcloth and pulled on his coat, slipped on his shoes and walked out on deck. Bush was there with paper and pencil in his hand.

“The semaphore’s been signalling, sir,” he reported. “Two long messages at fifteen minutes past four and four-thirty. Two short ones at—there they go again, sir.”

The long gaunt arms of the semaphore were jerkingly swinging out and up and back again.

“Thank you, Mr. Bush.” It was sufficient to know that the semaphore had been busy. Hornblower took the glass and trained it out to seaward. The Inshore Squadron was sharply silhouetted against the clear sky; the sun, just down on the horizon, was still so bright that he could not look towards it at all, but the squadron was well to the northward of it.

“Tonnant’s signalling again, sir, but it’s a ninety-one signal,” reported Foreman.

“Thank you.”

It had been agreed that all flag-signals from Tonnant preceded by the numerals ninety-one should be disregarded; Tonnant was only making them to deceive the French on Petit Minou into thinking some violent action was being planned by the inshore squadron.

“There goes Naiad, sir,” said Bush.

Under easy sail the frigate was creeping northward from her station to the south where she had been watching over Carnaret Bay, heading to join the big ships and the Doris. The sun was now touching the sea; small variations in the water content of the nearly clear air were causing strange freaks of refraction, so that the reddening disc was lightly out of shape as it sank.

“They’re heaving the long boat up out of its chocks, sir,” commented Bush.

“Yes.”

The sun was half-way down in the sea, the remaining half pulled by refraction into twice its normal length. There was still plenty of light for an observer with a good glass on Petit Minou—and undoubtedly there was one—to pick out the preparations going on on the Doris’s deck and in the big ships. The sun had gone. Above where it had sunk a small sliver of cloud shone brilliantly gold and then turned to pink as he looked. Twilight was closing in on them.

“Send the hands to the braces, if you please, Mr. Bush. Fill the main-tops’l and lay her on the starboard tack.”

“Starboard tack. Aye aye, sir.”

Hotspur crept northward through the growing night, following after Doris, heading towards the big ships and Point Matthew.

“There goes the semaphore again, sir.”

“Thank you.”

There was just light enough in the darkening sky to see the telegraphic arms silhouetted against it, as they spun round, signalling the latest move on the part of the British, this concentration towards the north—this relaxing of the hold of the British navy on the passages of the south.

“Only just keep her going,” said Hornblower to the quartermasters at the helm. “Don’t let the Frogs see what we’re up to.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower was feeling nervous; he did not want to leave the Toulinguet Passage too far behind him. He turned his glass towards the inshore squadron. Now there was a strip of red sky along the horizon behind it—the last light of day—and against it the sails of the ships of the line stood out in startling black. The red was fading rapidly, and above it Venus could be seen; Pellew over there was holding on to the last possible moment. Pellew was not only a man of iron nerve; he was a man who never underestimated his enemy. At last; the rectangles of the silhouetted topsails shortened, hesitated, and lengthened again.

“Inshore Squadron’s hauled its wind, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Already the topsails were out of sight with the complete fading of the sky. Pellew had timed the move perfectly. A Frenchman on Petit Minou could not help but think that Pellew, looking towards the night-covered east, had thought that his ships were now invisible, and had come to the wind without realizing that the move could still be seen by an observer looking towards the west. Hornblower stared round him. His eyes were aching, so that with his hands on the hammock netting he closed his eyes to rest them. Never had a minute seemed so long as that one. Then he opened them again. The light was all gone. Venus was shining where once the sun had shone. The figures about him were almost invisible. Now one or two of the brighter stars could be seen, and Hotspur must be lost to sight, to that unknown observer on Petit Minou. He gulped, braced himself, and plunged into action.

“Take in the tops’ls and topgallants!”

Hands rushed aloft. In the gentle night the vibration of the shrouds as fifty men ran up the ratlines could be distinctly heard.

“Now, Mr. Bush, wear the ship, if you please. Course sou’ by west.”

“Sou’ by west, sir.”

Soon it was time for the next order.

“Send the topgallant masts down!”

This was the time when drill and practice revealed their value. In the dark night what had once been a mere toilsome exercise was performed without a hitch.

“Set the fore and main topmast stays’ls. Get the fores’l in.”

Hornblower walked over to the binnacle.

“How does she handle under this sail?”

There was a pause while the almost invisible figure at the wheel spun it tentatively this way and that. “Well enough, sir.”

“Very well.”

Hornblower had altered the silhouette of the Hotspur as entirely as he could. With only her fore and aft sails and her main course set, and her topgallant masts sent down, even an experienced seaman on this dark night would have to look twice or thrice to recognize what he saw. Hornblower peered at the chart in the faint light of the binnacle. He concentrated on it, to find the effort unnecessary. For two days now he had been studying it and memorizing this particular section; it was fixed in his mind and it seemed as if he would be able to visualize it to his dying day—which might be today. He looked up, to find, as he expected, that exposure to that faint light had temporarily made his eyes quite blind in the darkness. He would not do it again.

“Mr. Prowse! You can keep your eye on the chart from now on when you think it necessary. Mr. Bush! Choose the best two hands you know with the lead and send them aft to me.” When the two dark figures reported Hornblower gave them curt orders. “Get into the main chains on each side. I don’t want you to make a sound more than you can help. Don’t make a cast unless I order it. Haul your lines in and then let ‘em out to four fathoms. We’re making three knots through the water, and when the flood starts we’ll be making next to nothing over the ground. Keep your fingers on your lines and pass the word quietly about what you feel. I’ll station hands to pass the word. Understand?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Four bells struck to mark the end of the second dog watch.

“Mr. Bush, that’s the last time I want the bell to strike. Now you may clear for action. No, wait a moment, if you please. I want the guns loaded with two rounds of shot each and run out. Have the coigns in and the guns at extreme depression. And as soon as the men are at their quarters I don’t want to hear another sound. Not a word, not a whisper. The man who drops a hand-spike on the deck will get two dozen. Not the slightest sound.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Bush. Carry on.”

There was a roar and a rattle as the hands went to their quarters, as the gun-ports opened and the guns were run out. Then silence closed in upon the ship. Everything was ready, from the gunner down in the magazine to the look-out in the foretop, as the Hotspur reached silently down to the southward with the wind one point abaft the beam.

“One bell in the first watch, sir,” whispered Prowse, turning the sand-glass by the binnacle. An hour ago the flood tide had started to make. In another half-hour the clustered coasters to the southward, huddled under the shelter of the batteries at Camaret, would be casting off; no, they would be doing that at this moment, for there should be just enough water for them. They would be sweeping and hedging out, to run with the flood up the dangerous Toulinguet Passage, round the point and up the Goulet. They would hope to reach the Little Girls and safety, as the tide carried them into Brest Roads where the provisions and the cordage and the canvas with which they were laden were so eagerly awaited by the French fleet. To the north, back at the Petit Minou, Hornblower could imagine the bustle and the excitement. The movements of the Inshore Squadron must have been noted. Sharp eyes on the French shore had told anxious minds of the insufficiently concealed preparations for a concentration of force and a heavy blow. Four ships of the line and two big frigates could muster a landing force—even without drawing on the main fleet—of a thousand men or more. There were probably twice as many French infantry and artillery-men along the coast there, but, spread out along five miles, they were vulnerable to a sharp attack launched at an unexpected point on a dark night. There was a large accumulation of coasting vessels there as well, sheltering under the batteries on the far side of Cape Matthew. They had crept from battery to battery for hundreds of miles—spending weeks in doing so—and now were huddled in the little creeks and bays waiting for a chance to complete the last and most dangerous run into Brest. The menacing approach of the inshore squadron would make them nervous in case the British meditated some new attack, a cutting-out expedition, or fireships, or bombvessels, or even these newfangled rockets. But at least this concentration of the British strength to the north left the south unwatched, as the signal station of Petit Minou would report. The coasters round Camaret—chasse-marees, tide-chasers—would be able to take advantage of the tide run through the horribly dangerous Toulinguet Passage up into the Goulet. Hornblower was hoping, in fact he was confident, that Hotspur had not been seen to turn back to stop this bolt hole. She drew six feet of water less than any frigate, hardly more than the big chasse-marees, and were she boldly handled her arrival among the rocks and shoals of Toulinguet would be totally unexpected.

“Two bells, sir,” whispered Prowse. This was the moment when the tide would be running at its fastest, a four knot tide, rising a full thirty feet, racing up through Toulinguet Passage and round the Council Rocks into the Goulet. The hands were behaving well; only twice had restless individuals started skylarking in the darkness, to be instantly suppressed by stern mutterings from the petty officers.

“Touching bottom to starboard, sir,” came a whisper from the gangway, and instantly afterwards, “Touching bottom to port.”

The hands at the leads had twenty-four feet of line out between the leads and the surface of the water, but with the ship moving gently in this fashion even the heavy leads trailed behind to some extent. There must be some sixteen feet only—five feet to spare.

“Pass the word. What bottom do you feel?”

In ten seconds the answer came back. “Sandy bottom, sir.”

“That must be well off Council Rocks, sir,” whispered Prowse.

“Yes. Quartermaster, one point to starboard.”

Hornblower stared through the night-glass. There was the shadowy shore-line just visible. Yes, and there was a gleam of white, the gentlest of surfs breaking on Council Rocks. A whisper from the gangway.

“Rocky bottom now, sir, shoaling a little.”

“Very well.”

On the starboard bow he could see faint whiteness too. That was the surf on all the wild tangle of rocks and shoals outside the Passage—Corbin, Trepieds, and so on. The tiny night breeze was still holding steady.

“Pass the word. What bottom?”

The question awaited an answer for some time, as the chain of communication broke down and the answer had to be repeated. At last it came.

“Rocky bottom, sir. But we’re hardly moving over the ground.”

So Hotspur was now stemming the rising tide, hanging suspended in the darkness, less than a yard of water under her keel, the tide rushing past her, the wind thrusting her into it. Hornblower worked out problems in his head.

“Quartermaster, two points to port.”

It called for nice calculation, for now Hotspur was braced sharp up—twice the staysails had flapped in warning—and there was leeway to be allowed for as Hotspur crept crabwise across the tide.

“Mr. Bush, go for’ard to the port side main chains and come back to report.”

What a lovely night it was, with this balmy air sighing through the rigging, the stars shining and the gentle sound of the surf.

“We’re moving over the ground, sir,” whispered Bush. “Rocky bottom, and the port side lead’s under the ship.”

Hotspur’s crabwise motion would produce that effect.

“Three bells, sir,” reported Prowse.

There would be water enough now for the coasters to negotiate the shoals off Rougaste and to have entered into the channel. It could not be long now, for the tide flowed for no more than four and a half hours and the coasters could not afford to waste time—or so he had calculated when he had made his suggestion to Pellew, for this moonless night with the tide making at this particular moment. But it might of course all end in a ridiculous fiasco, even if Hotspur did not touch on one of the menacing rocks that beset her course.

“Look, sir! Look!” whispered Bush urgently. “One point before the beam!”

Yes. A shadowy shape, a darker nucleus on the dark surface. More than that; the splash of a sweep at work. More than that; other dark shapes beyond. There had been fifty coasters, by the last intelligence, at Camaret, and the chances were they would try the run all together.

“Get down to the starboard battery, Mr. Bush. Warn the guns’ crews. Wait for my order, and then make every shot tell.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Despite the precautions he had taken, Hotspur would be far more visible than the coasters; she should have been observed from them by now; except that the Frenchmen would be preoccupied with their problems of navigation. Ah! There was a yell from the nearest coaster, a whole series of hails and shouts and warnings.

“Open fire, Mr. Bush!”

A red glare in the darkness, an ear-splitting bang, the smell of powder smoke. Another glare, another bang. Hornblower fumbled for the speaking-trumpet, ready to make himself heard through the firing. But Bush was behaving admirably, and the gunners were keeping their heads, with the guns going off singly as the captains made sure of their targets. With the guns depressed the two round-shot hurtling from each would sweep the smooth surface of the sea. Hornblower thought he could hear shrieks from the stricken coasters, but the guns were firing at only the briefest intervals. The gentle wind swept the smoke along the ship, clouds of it billowing in dark waves round Hornblower. He leaned out to keep clear of it. The din was continuous now, as guns fired, as the carriage-trucks rumbled over the deck, as gun-captains bellowed orders. The flash of a gun illuminated something close overside—a sinking coaster, deck level with the water. Her frail side must have been beaten in by half a dozen round-shot. A yell from the main chains cut through the din.

“Here’s one of ‘em coming aboard!”

Some desperate swimmer had reached the Hotspur; Hornblower could leave Bush to deal with prisoners of that sort. There were more dark shapes to starboard, more targets presenting themselves. The mass of the coasters was being hurried along by the three-knot tide which Hotspur was stemming by the aid of the wind. Tug at their sweeps as they might, the French crews could not possibly counter the tide. They could not turn back; to turn aside was possible—but on one side were the Council Rocks, on the other were Corbin and Trepieds and the whole tangle of reefs roundabout them. Hotspur was having experiences like those of Gulliver; she was a giant compared with these Lilliputian coasters after having been a dwarf in her encounter with the Brobdingnagian Loire.

Fine on the port bow Hornblower caught sight of half a dozen pin-points of fire. That would be the battery on Toulinguet, two thousand yards away. At that range they were welcome to try their luck, firing at Hotspur’s gun flashes. Hotspur, still travelling slowly over the ground, was a moving target, and the French would be disturbed in their aim through fear of hitting the coasters. Night-firing in those conditions was a waste of powder and shot. Foreman was yelling, wild with excitement, to the crew of the quarter-deck carronade.

“She’s aground! Drop it—dead ‘un!”

Hornblower swung round to look; the coaster there was undoubtedly on the rocks and consequently not worth firing at. He mentally gave a mark of approval to Foreman, who despite his youth and his excitement was keeping his head, even though he made use of the vocabulary of the rat-killing pit.

“Four bells, sir,” reported Prowse amid the wild din. That was an abrupt reminder to Hornblower that he must keep his head, too. It was hard to think and to calculate, harder still to recall his visualization of the chart, and yet he had to do so. He realized that Hotspur could have nothing to spare over on the landward side.

“Wear the ship—Mr. Prowse,” he said; he remembered just too late to use the formal address completely naturally. “Get her over on the port tack.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Prowse seized the speaking-trumpet and somewhere in the darkness disciplined men hurried to sheets and braces. As Hotspur swung about another dark shape came down at her from the channel.

“Je me rends! Je me rends!” a voice was shouting from it.

Someone in that coaster was trying to surrender before Hotspur’s broadside could blow her out of the water. She actually bumped against the side as the current took her round, and then she was free—her surrender had been premature, for now she was past Hotspur and vanishing in the farther darkness.

“Main chains, there,” yelled Hornblower. “Take a cast of the lead.”

“Two fathoms!” came the answering cry. There was only six inches under Hotspur’s keel, but now she was drawing away from the perils on one side and approaching those on the other.

“Man the port-side guns! Keep the lead going on the starboard!”

Hotspur was steady on her new course as another unhappy coaster loomed up. In the momentary stillness Hornblower could hear Bush’s voice as he called the port-side guns’ crews to attention, and then came the crash of the firing. The smoke billowed round, and through the clouds came the cry of the leadsman.

“By the mark three!”

The smoke and the lead told conflicting stories.

“And a half three!”

“Wind must be backing, Mr. Prowse. Keep your eye on the binnacle.”

“Aye aye, sir. And it’s five bells, sir.”

The tide was almost at its height; another factor to be remembered. At the port-side quarter-deck carronade the crew were slewing their weapon round to the limit of its arc, and Hornblower, looking over the quarter, could see a coaster escaping past Hotspur’s stern. Two flashes from the dark shape, and a simultaneous crash under Hornblower’s feet. That coaster had guns mounted, and was firing her pop-gun broadside, and at least one shot had told. A pop-gun broadside perhaps, but even a four-pounder could smash a hole in Hotspur’s frail side. The carronade roared out in reply.

“Luff a little,” said Hornblower to the quartermasters; his mind was simultaneously recording the cries of the men at the leads. “Mr. Bush! Stand by with the port-side guns as we luff.”

Hotspur came to the wind; on the main-deck there were creakings and groanings as the guns’ crews laboured with handspike and crowbar to train their weapons round.

“Take your aim!” shouted Bush, and after some pregnant seconds, “Fire!”

The guns went off almost together, and Hornblower thought—although he was sure he was wrong—that he could hear instantly afterwards the crash of the shot upon the coasters’ hulls. Certainly after that he heard shouts and cries from that direction while the smoke blinded him, but he had no time to spare for that. There was only half an hour of floodtide left. No more coasters could be coming along the channel, for if they did they would not be able to round the Council Rocks before the ebb set in. And it was full time to extricate Hotspur from the reefs and shoals that surrounded her. She needed what was left of the flood to carry her out, and even at half-tide she was likely to touch bottom and be left ignominiously stranded, helpless in daylight under the fire of the Toulinguet battery.

“Time to say good-bye,” he said to Prowse. He realized with a shock that he was on the edge of being lightheaded with strain and excitement, for otherwise he would not have said such a ridiculous thing. He must keep himself under control for a long while to come. It would be far more dangerous to touch bottom on a falling tide than on a rising one. He gulped and steadied himself, regaining his self-command at the cost of one more fierce effort.

“I’ll handle the ship, Mr. Prowse.” He raised the trumpet.

“Hands to the braces! Hands wear ship.”

A further order to the wheel brought the ship round on the other tack, with Prowse at the binnacle calling her heading. Now he had to thread his way out through the perils that encompassed her. The hands, completely carefree, were inclined to show their elation by noisy skylarking, but one single savage reproof from Bush silenced them, and Hotspur fell as quiet as a church as she crept out.

“Wind’s backed three points since sunset, sir,” reported Prowse.

“Thank you.”

With the wind just abaft the beam Hotspur handled easily, but by this time instinct had to take the place of calculation. Hornblower had come in to the very limit of safety at high water over shallows hardly covered at high tide. He had to feel his way out, by the aid of the lead, by what could be seen of the shore and the shoals. The wheel spun over and back again as the ship nosed her way out. For a few perilous seconds she was sailing by the lee, but Hornblower was able to order the helm over again in the nick of time.

“Slack water now, sir,” reported Prowse.

“Thank you.”

Slack water, if any of the incalculable factors had not intervened. The wind had been slight but steady for several days from the southeastward. He had to bear that in mind along with all the other factors.

“By the mark five!” called the leadsman.

“Thank God!” mustered Prowse.

For the first time Hotspur had nearly twenty feet of water under her keel, but there were still some outlying pinnacles of rock to menace her.

“Starboard a point,” ordered Hornblower.

“Deep six!”

“Mr. Bush!” Hornblower must stay steady and calm. He must betray no relief, no human feelings, although within him the desire to laugh like an idiot welled up in combat with the frightful exhaustion he felt. “Kindly secure the guns. Then you may dismiss the hands from general quarters.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I must thank you, Mr. Prowse, for your very able assistance.”

“Me, sir?” Prowse went on in incoherent self-depreciation. Hornblower could imagine the lantern-jaws working in surprise, and he ignored the mumblings.

“You may heave the ship to, Mr. Prowse. We don’t want dawn to find us under the guns of Petit Minou.”

“No, sir, of course not, sir.”

All was well. Hotspur had gone in and come out again. The coasters from the south had received a lesson they would not forget for a long time. And now it was apparent that the night was not so dark; it was not a question of eyes becoming habituated to the darkness, but something more definite than that. Faces were now a blur of white, visible across the deck. Looking aft Hornblower could see the low hills of Quelern standing out in dark relief against a lighter sky, and while he watched a grain of silver became visible over their summits. He had actually forgotten until this moment that the moon was due to rise now; that had been one of the factors he had pointed out in his letter to Pellew. The gibbous moon rose above the hilltops and shone serenely down upon the Gulf. The topgallant masts were being sent up, topsails were being set, staysails got in.

“What’s that noise?” asked Hornblower, referring to a dull thumping somewhere forward.

“Carpenter plugging a shot hole, sir,” explained Bush. “That last coaster holed us just above the waterline on the starboard side right forward.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well.”

His questions and his formal termination of the conversation were the result of one more effort of will.

“I can trust you not to lose your way now, Mr. Bush,” he said. He could not help being jocular, although he knew it sounded a false note. The hands at the braces were backing the main-topsail, and Hotspur could lie hove-to in peace and quiet. “You may set the ordinary watches, Mr. Bush. And see that I am called at eight bells in the middle watch.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There were four and a half hours of peace and quiet ahead of him. He yearned with all his weary mind and body for rest—for oblivion, rather than rest. An hour after dawn, at the latest, Pellew could expect him to send in his report on the events of the evening, and it would take an hour to compose it. And he must take the opportunity to write to Maria so that the letter could be sent to Tonnant along with the report and so have a chance to reach the outside world. It would take him longer to write to Maria than to Pellew. That reminded him of something else. He had to make one more effort.

“Oh, Mr. Bush!”

“Sir?”

‘I’ll be sending a boat to Tonnant during the morning watch. If any officer—or if any of the men—wish to send letters that will be their opportunity.’

“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

In his cabin he faced one further effort to pull off his shoes, but the arrival of Grimes saved him the trouble. Grimes took off his shoes, eased him out of his coat, unfastened his neckcloth. Hornblower allowed him to do it; he was too weary even to be self-conscious. For one moment he luxuriated in allowing his weary feet free play in his stockings, but then he fell spreadeagled on to his cot, half-prone, half on his side, his head on his arms, and Grimes covered him up and left him.

That was not the most sensible attitude to adopt, as he discovered when Grimes shook him awake. He ached in every joint, it seemed, while to dash cold sea water on his face did little enough to clear his head. He had to struggle out of the after-effects of a long period of strain as other men had to struggle out of the after-effects of a drinking bout. But he had recovered sufficiently to move his left-handed pen when he sat down and began his report.

He had to leave the last paragraph until the coming of daylight should reveal what he should write in it, and he laid the letter aside and took another sheet. He had to bite the end of his pen before he could even write the salutation in this second letter, and when he had written ‘My dear Wife’ he had to bite it again before he could continue. It was something of a relief to have Grimes enter at last.

“Mr. Bush’s compliments, sir, and it’s not far off daylight.”

That made it possible to conclude the letter.

‘And now, my dearest—’ Hornblower glanced at Maria’s letter to select an endearment—‘Angel, my duty calls me once more on deck, so that I must end this letter with—’ another reference—‘fondest love to my dear Wife, the loved Mother of the Child to be.

Your affectionate Husband,

Horatio.’

Daylight was coming up fast when he arrived on deck.

“Brace the maintops’l round, if you please, Mr. Young. We’ll stand to the s’uth’ard a little. Good morning, Mr. Bush.”

“Good morning, sir.”

Bush was already trying to see to the southward through his telescope. Increasing light and diminishing distance brought rapid results.

“There they are, sir! God, sir—one, two, three—and there are two others over on the Council Rocks. And that looks like a wreck right in the fairway—that’s one we sunk, I’ll wager, sir.”

In the glittering dawn the half-tide revealed wrecks littering the shoals and the shore, black against the crystal light, the coasters which had paid the penalty of trying to run the blockade.

“They’re all holed and waterlogged, sir,” said Bush. “Not a hope of salvage.”

Hornblower was already composing in his mind the final paragraph of his report.

“I have reason to believe that not less than ten sail of coasters were sunk or forced to run aground during this encounter. This happy result…”

“That’s a fortune lost, sir,” grumbled Bush. “That’s a tidy sum in prize money over on those rocks.”

No doubt, but in those decisive moments last night there could have been no question of capture. Hotspur’s duty had been to destroy everything possible, and not to fill her captain’s empty purse by sending boats to take possession, at the cost of allowing half the quarry to escape. Hornblower’s reply was cut off short, as the smooth water on the starboard beam suddenly erupted in three successive jets of water. A cannon-ball had come skipping towards them over the surface, to make its final plunge a cable’s length away. The sound of gunfire reached their ears at the same moment, and their instantly elevated telescopes revealed a cloud of smoke engulfing the Toulinguet battery.

“Fire away, Monseer le Frog,” said Bush. “The damage is done.”

“We may as well make sure we’re out of range,” said Hornblower. “Put the ship about, if you please.”

He was trying as best he could to reproduce Bush’s complete indifference under fire. He told himself that he was only being sensible, and not cowardly, in making certain that there was no chance of Hotspur’s being hit by a salvo of twenty-four-pounders, but he was inclined to sneer at himself, all the same.

Yet there was one source of self-congratulation. He had held his tongue when the subject of prize money had come up in the conversation. He had been about to burst out condemning the whole system as pernicious, but he had managed to refrain. Bush thought him a queer character in any case, and if he had divulged his opinion of prize money—of the system by which it was earned and paid—Bush would have thought him more than merely eccentric. Bush would think him actually insane, and liberal-minded, revolutionary, subversive and dangerous as well.