“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.