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.