“She’s in irons, sir. She’s all a-back.”
That was the very thing Hornblower had hoped for. He had believed it likely that he would be able to effect his escape to leeward, perhaps after an exchange of broadsides; this present situation had appeared possible but too good to materialize. The Loire was hanging helpless in the wind. Her captain had noted Hotspur‘s manoeuvre just too late. Instead of going round on the other tack, getting his ship under command, and then tacking once more in pursuit, he had tried to follow Hotspur‘s example and revert to his previous course. But with an unskilled crew and without a carefully prepared plan the improvisation had failed disastrously. While Hornblower watched he saw Loire yaw off the wind and then swing back again, refusing obstinately, like a frightened horse, to do the sensible thing. And Hotspur, dead before the wind, was rushing down upon her. Hornblower measured the dwindling gap with a calculating eye all the keener for his excited condition.
“We’ll render passing honours, Mr Bush!” he yelled — no trumpet needed with the wind behind him. “You gunners! Hold your fire until her mainmast comes into your sights. Quartermaster! Starboard a little. We’ll pass her close.”
‘Pistol shot’ was the ideal range for firing a broadside according to old tradition, or even ‘half pistol shot’, twenty yards or ten yards. Hotspur was passing Loire starboard side to starboard side, but on the starboard side Hotspur had her guns run out, manned, and ready, while Loire presented to his gaze a line of blank ports — no wonder, with the ship in her present state of confusion.
They were level with her. No. 1 gun went off with a crash; Bush was standing beside it and gave the word, and apparently he intended to walk along the battery firing each gun in turn but Hotspur with the wind behind her was going far too fast for him. The other guns went off in a straggling roll. Hornblower saw the splinters fly from the Frenchman’s side, saw the holes battered in it. With the wind behind her Hotspur was hardly rolling at all; she was pitching, but any cool-headed gun captain could make sure of hitting his mark at fifteen yards. Hornblower saw a single gun-port open in Loire‘s side — they were trying to man the guns, minutes too late. Then he was level with the Loire‘s quarter-deck. He could see the bustling crowd there; for a moment he thought he distinguished the figure of the French captain, but at that moment the carronade beside him went off with a crash that took him by surprise so that he almost leaped from the deck.
“Canister on top of the round-shot, sir,” said the gun captain turning to him with a grin. “That’ll learn ‘em.”
A hundred and fifty musket bullets in a round of canister would sweep the Loire‘s quarter-deck like a broom. The marines posted on the deck were all biting fresh cartridges and plying their ramrods — they must have been firing too, without Hornblower perceiving it. Bush was back beside him.
“Every shot told!” he spluttered. “Every single shot, sir!”
It was amazing and interesting to see Bush so excited, but there was still no time for trifles. Hornblower looked back at the Loire; she was still in irons — that broadside must have thrown her crew into complete disorder again. And over there was Ushant, grim and black.
“Port two points,” he said to the men at the wheel. A sensible man would conserve all the sea room available.
“Shall we come to the wind and finish her off, sir?” asked Bush.
“No.”
That was the sensible decision, reached in spite of his fighting madness. Despite the advantage gained by firing an unanswered broadside Hotspur was far too weak to enter voluntarily into a duel with Loire. If Loire had lost a mast, if she had been disabled, he would have tried it. The ships were already a mile apart; in the time necessary to beat back to his enemy she would recover and be ready to receive him. There she was; now she had swung, she had come under control again. It simply would not do.
The crew were chattering like monkeys, and like monkeys they were dancing about the deck in their excitement. Hornblower took the speaking-trumpet to magnify his order.
“Silence!”
At his bellow the ship instantly fell silent, with every eye turned towards him. He was impervious to that, strangely. He paced across the quarter-deck and back again, judging the distance of Ushant, now receding over the starboard quarter, and of the Loire, now before the wind. He waited, almost reached his decision, and then waited again, before he gave his orders.
“Helm a-weather! Mr Prowse, back the maintops’l, if you please.”
They were in the very mouth of the English Channel now, with Loire to windward and with an infinite avenue of escape available to leeward. If Loire came down upon him he would lure her up-channel. In a stern chase and with night coming on he would be in little enough danger, and the Loire would be cutting herself off from safety with every prospect of encountering powerful units of the British Navy. So he waited, hove-to, on the faint chance that the Frenchman might not resist temptation. Then he saw her yards swing, saw her come about, on to the starboard tack. She was heading for home, heading to keep Brest under her lee. She was acting conservatively and sensibly. But to the world, to everyone in Hotspur — and to everyone in the Loire, for that matter — Hotspur was challenging her to action and she was running for safety with her tail between her legs. At the sight of her in flight the Hotspur‘s crew raised an undisciplined cheer; Hornblower took the speaking-trumpet again.
“Silence!”
The rasp in his voice came from fatigue and strain, for reaction was closing in upon him in the moment of victory. He had to stop and think, he had to prod his mind into activity before he could give his next orders. He hung the speaking-trumpet on its becket and turned to Bush; the two unplanned gestures took on a highly dramatic quality in the eyes of the ship’s company, who were standing watching him and expecting some further speech.
“Mr Bush! You can dismiss the watch below, if you would be so kind.” Those last words were the result of a considerable effort.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Secure the guns, and dismiss the men from quarters.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr Prowse!” Hornblower gauged by a glance at Ushant the precious distance they had lost to leeward. “Put the ship on the port tack close-hauled, if you please.”
“Close-hauled on the port tack. Aye aye, sir.”
Strictly speaking, that was the last order he need give at this moment. He could abandon himself to his fatigue now, this very second. But a few words of explanation were at least desirable, if not quite necessary.
“We shall have to beat back. Call me when the watch is changed.” As he said those words he could form a mental picture of what they implied. He would be able to fall across his cot, take the weight off his weary legs, let the tensions drain out of him, abandon himself to his fatigue, close his aching eyes, revel in the thought that no further decisions would be demanded of him for an hour or two. Then he recalled himself in momentary surprise. Despite those visions he was still on the quarter-deck with all eyes on him. He knew what he had to say; he knew what was necessary — he had to make an exit, like some wretched actor leaving the stage as the curtain fell. On these simple seamen it would have an effect that would compensate them for their fatigue, that would be remembered and quoted months later, and would — this was the only reason for saying it — help to reconcile them to the endless discomforts of the blockade of Brest. He set his tired legs in motion towards his cabin, and paused at the spot where the greatest number of people could hear his words to repeat them later.