The seaman beside him interrupted his report.
“Breakers on the lee bow!”
“That’s the Parquette,” said Hornblower.
The Black Stones on the one side, the Parquette on the other, and, farther up, the Little Girls in the middle, marked off the passage into Brest. On a clear day like this, with a gentle wind, they were no menace, but lives by the hundred had been lost on them during storms. Prowse was pacing restlessly back and forward to the binnacle taking bearings. Hornblower was carefully gauging the direction of the wind. If the French squadron had no ship of the line ready for sea there was no need to take risks. A shift in the wind might soon find Hotspur embayed on a lee shore. He swept his glass round the wild coast that had grown up round his horizon.
“Very well, Mr Prowse. We’ll wear ship now, while we can still weather the Parquette.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Priowse’s relief was obvious. His business was to keep the ship out of danger, and he clearly preferred a wide margin of safety. Hornblower looked around at the officer of the watch.
“Mr Poole! Wear the ship, if you please.”
The pipes shrilled and the orders were passed. Hands went to the braces as the helm was put up while Hornblower scanned the shore warily.
“Steady as you go!”
Hotspur settled sweetly on her new course. Hornblower was growing intimate with her ways, like a bridegroom learning about his bride. No, that was an unlucky simile, to be discarded instantly. He hoped that he and Hotspur were better suited to each other than he and Maria. And he must think about something else.
“Mr Bush! Mr Orrock! You will please come down when you are sure you will see nothing more useful.”
The ship was alive with a new atmosphere; Hornblower was sensitively aware of it as the hands went about their duties. Everyone on board was conscious that they were bearding Boney in his den, that they were boldly looking into the principal naval base of France, proclaiming the fact that England was ready to meet any challenge at sea. High adventure was looming up in the near future. Hornblower had the gratifying feeling, that during these past days he had tempered a weapon ready for his hand, ship and ship’s company ready for any exploit, like a swordsman knowing well the weight and balance of his sword before entering upon a duel.
Orrock appeared, touching his hat, and Hornblower listened to his report. It was fortunate that Bush in the mizzentop still had a view up the Goulet and had not descended; reports should be made independently, each officer out of the hearing of the other, but it would have been tactless to ask Bush to stand aside. Bush did not descend for several more minutes; he had methodically taken notes with paper and pencil, but Orrock could hardly be blamed for not having done so. The thirteen or fourteen ships of the line at anchor in the Roads were none of them ready for sea and three of them were missing at least one mast each. There were six frigates, three with their topmasts sent up and one with her yards crossed and sails furled.
“That will be the Loire,” commented Hornblower to Bush.
“You know about her, sir?” asked Bush.
“I know she’s there,” answered Hornblower. He would gladly have explained further, but Bush was going on with his report, and Hornblower was content to have something more added to his reputation for omniscience.
On the other hand, there was considerable activity in the roadstead. Bush had seen lighters and tenders moving about, and believed he had identified a sheer hulk, a vessel rigged solely for the purpose of putting new masts into large ships.
“Thank you, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. “That is excellent. We must look in like this every day if possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Constant observations would increase their information in geometrical progression — ships changing anchorage, ships sending up topmasts, ships setting up their rigging. The changes would be more significant than anything that could be deduced from a single inspection.
“Now let’s find some more fishing boats,” went on Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
Bush trained his glass out towards the Parquette, whose sullen black rocks, crowned by a navigation beacon, seemed to rise and fall as the Atlantic swell surged round them.
“There’s one in the lee of the reef there, sir,” said Bush.
“What’s he doing there?”
“Lobster pots, sir,” reported Bush. “Getting in his catch, I should say, sir.”
“Indeed?”
Twice in his life Hornblower had eaten lobster, both occasions being during those bleak bitter days when under the compulsion of hunger and cold he had acted as a professional gambler in the Long Rooms. Wealthy men there had called for supper, and had tossed him an invitation. It was a shock to realize that it was only a fortnight ago that that horrible period in his life had ended.
“I think,” said Hornblower, slowly, “I should like lobster for my supper tonight. Mr Poole! Let her edge down a little towards the reef. Mr Bush, I would be obliged if you would clear away the quarter-boat ready for launching.”
The contrast between these days and those was quite fantastic. These were golden April days; a strange limbo between peace and war. They were busy days, during which Hornblower had friendly chats with fishing boats’ captains and dispensed gold pieces in exchange for a small portion of their catch. He could drill his crew and he could take advantage of those exercises to learn all he could about the behaviour of the Hotspur. He could peep up the Goulet and measure the preparation of the French fleet for sea. He could study this Gulf of Iroise — the approaches to Brest, in other words — with its tides and its currents. By observing the traffic there he could obtain an insight into the difficulties of the French naval authorities in Brest.
Brittany was a poor province, neither productive nor well-populated, at the extremity of France, and by land the communications between Brest and the rest of the country were most inferior. There were no navigable rivers, no canals. The enormously ponderous materials to equip a fleet could never be brought to Brest by road. The artillery for a first-rate weighed two hundred tons; guns and anchors and shot could only be brought by sea from the foundries in Belgium round to the ships in Brest. The mainmast of a first-rate was a hundred feet long and three feet thick; only ships could transport those, in fact only ships specially equipped.
To man the fleet that lay idle in Brest would call for twenty thousand men. The seamen — what seaman there were — would have to march hundreds of miles from the merchant ports of Le Havre and Marseille if they were not sent round by sea. Twenty thousand men needed food and clothing, and highly specialized food and clothing moreover. The flour to make biscuit, the cattle and pigs and the salt to salt them down, and the barrel-staves in which to store them — where were they to come from? And provisioning was no day-to-day, hand-to-mouth operation, either. Before going to sea the ships would need rations for a hundred days — two million rations to be accumulated over and above daily consumption. Coasting vessels by the hundred were needed — Hornblower observed a constant trickle of them heading into Brest, rounding Ushant from the north and the Pointe du Raz from the south. If war should come — when war should come — it would be the business of the Royal Navy to cut off this traffic. More particularly it would be the business of the light craft to do this — it would be Hotspur‘s business. The more he knew about all these conditions the better.
These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower’s mind as Hotspur stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The wind was south-easterly this afternoon, and Hotspur was running free — creeping along under topsails — with her look-outs posted at her mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzenmast came two successive hails.