“Here’s one of ‘em coming aboard!”
Some desperate swimmer had reached the Hotspur; Hornblower could leave Bush to deal with prisoners of that sort. There were more dark shapes to starboard, more targets presenting themselves. The mass of the coasters was being hurried along by the three-knot tide which Hotspur was stemming by the aid of the wind. Tug at their sweeps as they might, the French crews could not possibly counter the tide. They could not turn back; to turn aside was possible — but on one side were the Council Rocks, on the other were Corbin and Trepieds and the whole tangle of reefs roundabout them. Hotspur was having experiences like those of Gulliver; she was a giant compared with these Lilliputian coasters after having been a dwarf in her encounter with the Brobdingnagian Loire.
Fine on the port bow Hornblower caught sight of half a dozen pin-points of fire. That would be the battery on Toulinguet, two thousand yards away. At that range they were welcome to try their luck, firing at Hotspur‘s gun flashes. Hotspur, still travelling slowly over the ground, was a moving target, and the French would be disturbed in their aim through fear of hitting the coasters. Night-firing in those conditions was a waste of powder and shot. Foreman was yelling, wild with excitement, to the crew of the quarter-deck carronade.
“She’s aground! Drop it — dead ‘un!”
Hornblower swung round to look; the coaster there was undoubtedly on the rocks and consequently not worth firing at. He mentally gave a mark of approval to Foreman, who despite his youth and his excitement was keeping his head, even though he made use of the vocabulary of the rat-killing pit.
“Four bells, sir,” reported Prowse amid the wild din. That was an abrupt reminder to Hornblower that he must keep his head, too. It was hard to think and to calculate, harder still to recall his visualization of the chart, and yet he had to do so. He realized that Hotspur could have nothing to spare over on the landward side.
“Wear the ship — Mr Prowse,” he said; he remembered just too late to use the formal address completely naturally. “Get her over on the port tack.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Prowse seized the speaking-trumpet and somewhere in the darkness disciplined men hurried to sheets and braces. As Hotspur swung about another dark shape came down at her from the channel.
“Je me rends! Je me rends!” a voice was shouting from it.
Someone in that coaster was trying to surrender before Hotspur‘s broadside could blow her out of the water. She actually bumped against the side as the current took her round, and then she was free — her surrender had been premature, for now she was past Hotspur and vanishing in the farther darkness.
“Main chains, there,” yelled Hornblower. “Take a cast of the lead.”
“Two fathoms!” came the answering cry. There was only six inches under Hotspur‘s keel, but now she was drawing away from the perils on one side and approaching those on the other.
“Man the port-side guns! Keep the lead going on the starboard!”
Hotspur was steady on her new course as another unhappy coaster loomed up. In the momentary stillness Hornblower could hear Bush’s voice as he called the port-side guns’ crews to attention, and then came the crash of the firing. The smoke billowed round, and through the clouds came the cry of the leadsman.
“By the mark three!”
The smoke and the lead told conflicting stories.
“And a half three!”
“Wind must be backing, Mr Prowse. Keep your eye on the binnacle.”
“Aye aye, sir. And it’s five bells, sir.”
The tide was almost at its height; another factor to be remembered. At the port-side quarter-deck carronade the crew were slewing their weapon round to the limit of its arc, and Hornblower, looking over the quarter, could see a coaster escaping past Hotspur‘s stern. Two flashes from the dark shape, and a simultaneous crash under Hornblower’s feet. That coaster had guns mounted, and was firing her pop-gun broadside, and at least one shot had told. A pop-gun broadside perhaps, but even a four-pounder could smash a hole in Hotspur‘s frail side. The carronade roared out in reply.
“Luff a little,” said Hornblower to the quartermasters; his mind was simultaneously recording the cries of the men at the leads. “Mr Bush! Stand by with the port-side guns as we luff.”
Hotspur came to the wind; on the main-deck there were creakings and groanings as the guns’ crews laboured with handspike and crowbar to train their weapons round.
“Take your aim!” shouted Bush, and after some pregnant seconds, “Fire!”
The guns went off almost together, and Hornblower thought — although he was sure he was wrong — that he could hear instantly afterwards the crash of the shot upon the coasters’ hulls. Certainly after that he heard shouts and cries from that direction while the smoke blinded him, but he had no time to spare for that. There was only half an hour of floodtide left. No more coasters could be coming along the channel, for if they did they would not be able to round the Council Rocks before the ebb set in. And it was full time to extricate Hotspur from the reefs and shoals that surrounded her. She needed what was left of the flood to carry her out, and even at half-tide she was likely to touch bottom and be left ignominiously stranded, helpless in daylight under the fire of the Toulinguet battery.
“Time to say good-bye,” he said to Prowse. He realized with a shock that he was on the edge of being lightheaded with strain and excitement, for otherwise he would not have said such a ridiculous thing. He must keep himself under control for a long while to come. It would be far more dangerous to touch bottom on a falling tide than on a rising one. He gulped and steadied himself, regaining his self-command at the cost of one more fierce effort.
“I’ll handle the ship, Mr Prowse.” He raised the trumpet.
“Hands to the braces! Hands wear ship.”
A further order to the wheel brought the ship round on the other tack, with Prowse at the binnacle calling her heading. Now he had to thread his way out through the perils that encompassed her. The hands, completely carefree, were inclined to show their elation by noisy skylarking, but one single savage reproof from Bush silenced them, and Hotspur fell as quiet as a church as she crept out.
“Wind’s backed three points since sunset, sir,” reported Prowse.
“Thank you.”
With the wind just abaft the beam Hotspur handled easily, but by this time instinct had to take the place of calculation. Hornblower had come in to the very limit of safety at high water over shallows hardly covered at high tide. He had to feel his way out, by the aid of the lead, by what could be seen of the shore and the shoals. The wheel spun over and back again as the ship nosed her way out. For a few perilous seconds she was sailing by the lee, but Hornblower was able to order the helm over again in the nick of time.
“Slack water now, sir,” reported Prowse.
“Thank you.”
Slack water, if any of the incalculable factors had not intervened. The wind had been slight but steady for several days from the southeastward. He had to bear that in mind along with all the other factors.
“By the mark five!” called the leadsman.
“Thank God!” mustered Prowse.
For the first time Hotspur had nearly twenty feet of water under her keel, but there were still some outlying pinnacles of rock to menace her.