“Handsomely, now,” he growled to the hands at the wheel. “Put your wheel down.”
There was a brief interval before Hotspur answered. Now her bow was turning.
“Helm’s alee!” shouted Hornblower.
Headsail sheets and bowlines were handled, with Hornblower watching the behaviour of the ship like a tiger stalking its prey.
“Tacks and sheets!” and then turning back to the wheel. “Now! Hard over!”
She was coming rapidly into the wind.
“Mains’l haul!” The hands were keyed up with the excitement of the moment. Bowlines and braces were cast off and the yards came ponderously round at the exact moment that Hotspur was pointing directly into the wind.
“Now! Meet her! Hard over!” snapped Hornblower to the wheel. Hotspur was turning fast, and still carrying so much way that the rudder could bite effectively, checking the swing before she could turn too far.
“Haul off all!”
The thing was done; Hotspur had gone from one tack to the other without the unnecessary loss of a second or a yard, thrashing along now with her starboard bow butting into the waves. But there was no time to feel relief or pleasure; Hornblower hurried to the port quarter to train his glass on the Loire. She was tacking naturally; the mathematics of the theory of the pursuit to windward demanded that the pursuer should tack at the same moment as the pursued. But she was bound to be a little late; her first inkling that Hotspur was about to tack would be when she saw her fore-topsail shiver, and even if Loire had all hands at their stations for going about the Hotspur would have two minutes’ grace. And she was far slower in stays. Even now, when Hotspur was settled on the new tack with every inch of sail drawing, the Loire‘s fore-topsail was still shivering, her bows were still turning. The longer she took to go about the more distance she would lose in the race to windward.
“We’ve weathered on her, sir,” said Prowse, watching through his glass. “Now we’re head reaching on her.”
Hotspur had won back some of her precious lead, and Hornblower’s second line of defence was proving at least stronger than his first.
“Take the bearing again,” ordered Hornblower.
Once settled on the new tack the Loire‘s natural advantages asserted themselves once more. She showed her extra speed and extra weatherliness; she drew up again from Hotspur‘s quarter to her beam; then she could luff up briefly and gain a little more to windward on the Hotspur. The minutes passed like seconds, an hour like a minute, as the Hotspur plunged along, with every man braced on the heeling deck and the wind shrieking.
“Time to go about again, sir?” asked Bush, tentatively and greatly daring, but the theoretically correct moment was passing.
“We’ll wait a little longer,” said Hornblower. “We’ll wait for that squall.”
It was hurtling down wind upon them, and as it reached them the world was blotted out with driving rain. Hornblower turned from the hammock netting over which he was peering and climbed up the steep deck to the wheel. He took the speaking-trumpet.
“Stand by to go about.”
In the gusts that were blowing the crew could hardly hear what he said, but every eye was on him, everyone was alert, and, drilled as they were, they could not mistake his orders. It was a tricky business to tack while the squall prevailed, because the gusts were liable to veer a point or two, unpredictably. But the Hotspur was so handy — as long as the manoeuvre was well timed — that she had a good deal to spare for emergencies. The slight change in the wind’s direction which threatened to take her aback was defeated because she still had sufficient steerage way and command to keep her swinging. The gust died away and the blinding chilly rain ceased while the hands were trimming all sharp, and the last of the squall drove off to leeward, still hiding the Loire from view.
“That’s done him!” said Bush with satisfaction. He was revelling in the mental picture of the Loire still thrashing along on the one tack while the Hotspur was comfortably on the other and the gap between the two ships widening rapidly.
They watched the squall travelling over the foam-flecked grey water, shrieking towards France. Then in the thickness they saw a more solid nucleus take shape; they saw it grow sharper in outline.
“God —” exclaimed Bush; he was too disconcerted, too dumb founded, to finish the oath. For there was Loire emerging from the squall, comfortably on the same tack as Hotspur, plunging along in her relentless pursuit with the distance in no way diminished.
“That’s a trick we won’t try a second time,” said Hornblower. He was forcing a smile, tight-lipped.
The French captain was no fool, evidently. He had observed the Hotspur delaying past the best moment for tacking, he had seen the squall engulfing her, and had anticipated her action. He must have tacked at the very same moment. In consequence he had lost little while tacking, and that little had been regained by the time the two ships were in sight of each other once more. Certainly he was a dangerous enemy. He must be one of the more able captains that the French navy possessed. There were several who had distinguished themselves in the last war; true, in consequence of the over-powering British naval strength, most of them had ended the war as prisoners, but the Peace of Amiens had set them free.
Hornblower turned away from Bush and Prowse and tried to pace the heeling deck, to think out all the implications. This was a dangerous situation, as dangerous as the worst he had envisaged. Inexorably wind and wave were forcing Hotspur closer to the Loire. Even as he tried to pace the deck he felt her shudder and lurch, out of the rhythm of her usual pitch and roll. That was the ‘rogue wave’, generated by some unusual combination of wind and water, thumping against Hotspur‘s weather side like a battering ram. Every few seconds rogue waves made themselves felt, checking Hotspur‘s way and pushing her bodily to leeward; Loire was encountering exactly similar rogue waves, but with her greater size she was not so susceptible to their influence. They played their part along with the other forces of nature in closing the gap between the two ships.
Supposing he were compelled to fight a close action? No, he had gone through that before. He had a good ship and well-trained crew, but on this tossing sea that advantage would be largely discounted by the fact that the Loire provided a steadier gun platform. Odds of four to one in weight of metal were greater than it was advisable to risk. Momentarily Hornblower saw himself appearing in the written history of the future. He might have the distinction of being the first British captain in the present war to fall a victim of the French navy. What a distinction! Then even in the cold gale blowing round him he could feel the blood hot under his skin as he pictured the action. Horrors presented themselves in endless succession to the crack of doom like the kings in Macbeth. He thought of death. He thought of being a prisoner of war; he had experienced that already in Spain and only by a miracle he had achieved release. The last war had gone on for ten years; this one might do the same. Ten years in prison! Ten years during which his brother officers would be gaining fame, distinguishing themselves, making fortunes in prize money while he would fret himself to pieces in prison, emerging at the end a cranky eccentric, forgotten by all his world — forgotten even by Maria, he fancied. He would rather die, just as he would rather die than be mutilated; or so he thought (he told himself brutally) until the choice should be more imminently presented to him. Then he might well flinch, for he did not want to die. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid of death, that he merely regretted the prospect of missing all the interesting and amusing things that life held in store for him, and then he found himself sneering at himself for not facing the horrid truth that he was afraid.