“A frigate!” said Hornblower.
Everybody knew of Pellew’s reputation and success. Distinction, promotion, prize money — an officer under Pellew’s command could hope for all these. Competition for nomination to the Indefatigable must be intense, and this was the chance of a lifetime. Hornblower was on the point of making a glad acceptance, when further considerations restrained him.
“That is very good of you, sir,” he said. “I do not know how to thank you. But you accepted me as a midshipman here, and of course I must stay with you.”
The drawn, apprehensive face relaxed into a smile.
“Not many men would have said that,” said Keene. “But I am going to insist on your accepting the offer. I shall not live very much longer to appreciate your loyalty. And this ship is not the place for you — this ship with her useless captain — don’t interrupt me — and her worn-out first lieutenant and her old midshipmen. You should be where there may be speedy opportunities of advancement. I have the good of the service in mind, Mr Hornblower, when I suggest you accept Captain Pellew’s invitation — and it might be less disturbing for me if you did.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower.
CHAPTER TWO — THE CARGO OF RICE
The wolf was in among the sheep. The tossing grey water of the Bay of Biscay was dotted with white sails as far as the eye could see, and although a strong breeze was blowing every vessel was under perilously heavy canvas. Every ship but one was trying to escape; the exception was His Majesty’s frigate Indefatigable, Captain Sir Edward Pellew. Farther out in the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away, a great battle was being fought, where the ships of the line were thrashing out the question as to whether England or France should wield the weapon of sea power; here in the Bay the convoy which the French ships were intended to escort was exposed to the attack of a ship of prey at liberty to capture any ship she could overhaul. She had come surging up from leeward, cutting off all chance of escape in that direction, and the clumsy merchant ships were forced to beat to windward; they were all filled with the food which revolutionary France (her economy disordered by the convulsion through which she was passing) was awaiting so anxiously, and their crews were all anxious to escape confinement in an English prison. Ship after ship was overhauled; a shot or two, and the newfangled tricolour came fluttering down from the gaff, and a prize-crew was hurriedly sent on board to conduct the captive to an English port while the frigate dashed after fresh prey.
On the quarterdeck of the Indefatigable Pellew fumed over each necessary delay. The convoy, each ship as close to the wind as she would lie, and under all the sail she could carry, was slowly scattering, spreading farther and farther with the passing minutes, and some of these would find safety in mere dispersion if any time was wasted. Pellew did not wait to pick up his boat; at each surrender he merely ordered away an officer and an armed guard, and the moment the prize-crew was on its way he filled his main-topsail again and hurried of after the next victim. The brig they were pursuing at the moment was slow to surrender. The long nine-pounders in the Indefatigable‘s bows bellowed out more than once; on that heaving sea it was not so easy to aim accurately and the brig continued on her course hoping for some miracle to save her.
“Very well,” snapped Pellew. “He has asked for it. Let him have it.”
The gunlayers at the bow chasers changed their point of aim, firing at the ship instead of across her bows.
“Not into the hull, damn it,” shouted Pellew — one shot had struck the brig perilously close to her waterline. “Cripple her.”
The next shot by luck or by judgement was given better elevation. The slings of the foretopsail yard were shot away, the reefed sail came down, the yard hanging lopsidedly, and the brig came up into the wind for the Indefatigable to heave to close beside her, her broadside ready to fire into her. Under that threat her flag came down.
“What brig’s that?” shouted Pellew through his megaphone.
“Marie Galante of Bordeaux,” translated the officer beside Pellew as the French captain made reply. “Twenty-four days out from New Orleans with rice.”
“Rice!” said Pellew. “That’ll sell for a pretty penny when we get her home. Two hundred tons, I should say. Twelve of a crew at most. She’ll need a prize-crew of four, a midshipman’s command.”
He looked round him as though for inspiration before giving his next order.
“Mr Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“Take four men of the cutter’s crew and board that brig. Mr Soames will give you our position. Take her into any English port you can make, and report there for orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower was at his station at the starboard quarterdeck carronades — which was perhaps how he had caught Pellew’s eye — his dirk at his side and a pistol in his belt. It was a moment for fast thinking, for anyone could see Pellew’s impatience. With the Indefatigable cleared for action, his sea chest would be part of the surgeon’s operating table down below, so that there was no chance of getting anything out of it. He would have to leave just as he was. The cutter was even now clawing up to a position on the Indefatigable‘s quarter, so he ran to the ship’s side and hailed her, trying to make his voice sound as big and as manly as he could, and at the word of the lieutenant in command she turned her bows in towards the frigate.
“Here’s our latitude and longitude, Mr Hornblower,” said Soames, the master, handing a scrap of paper to him.
“Thank you,” said Hornblower, shoving it into his pocket.
He scrambled awkwardly into the mizzen-chains and looked down into the cutter. Ship and boat were pitching together, almost bows on to the sea, and the distance between them looked appallingly great; the bearded seaman standing in the bows could only just reach up to the chains with his long boat-hook. Hornblower hesitated for a long second; he knew he was ungainly and awkward — book learning was of no use when it came to jumping into a boat — but he had to make the leap, for Pellew was fuming behind him and the eyes of the boat’s crew and of the whole ship’s company were on him. Better to jump and hurt himself, better to jump and make an exhibition of himself, than to delay the ship. Waiting was certain failure, while he still had a choice if he jumped. Perhaps at a word from Pellew the Indefatigable‘s helmsman allowed the ship’s head to fall off from the sea a little. A somewhat diagonal wave lifted the Indefatigable‘s stern and then passed on, so that the cutter’s bows rose as the ship’s stern sank a trifle. Hornblower braced himself and leaped. His feet reached the gunwale and he tottered there for one indescribable second. A seaman grabbed the breast of his jacket and he fell forward rather than backward. Not even the stout arm of the seaman, fully extended, could hold him up, and he pitched headforemost, legs in the air, upon the hands on the second thwart. He cannoned onto their bodies, knocking the breath out of his own against their muscular shoulders, and finally struggled into an upright position.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped to the men who had broken his fall.
“Never you mind, sir,” said the nearest one, a real tarry sailor, tattooed and pigtailed. “You’re only a featherweight.”
The lieutenant in command was looking at him from the sternsheets.