Smugness and vintage port combined to dull his awareness of all the implications at first, and then suddenly everything changed. The new thought sent him sliding down an Avernus of depression. It brought about an actual physical sensation in the pit of his stomach, like the one he felt when Hotspur, close hauled, topped a wave and went slithering and rolling down the farther side. Maria! He had written so cheerfully saying he would be seeing her soon. There were only fifty days’ provisions and water left in Hotspur; fresh food would eke out the provisions, but little enough could be done (he had thought) regarding water. He had been confident that Hotspur would be making periodic calls at Plymouth for food and water and firewood. Now Maria would never have the comfort of his presence during her pregnancy. Nor would he himself (and the violence of this reaction surprised him) have the pleasure of seeing her during her pregnancy. And one more thing; he would have to write to her and tell her that he would not be keeping his promises, that there was no chance of their meeting. He would be causing her terrible pain, not only because her idol would be revealed to her as a man who could not, or perhaps even would not, keep his word.
He was recalled suddenly from these thoughts, from these mental pictures of Maria, by hearing his name spoken during the conversation round the table. Nearly everyone present was looking at him, and he had to ferret hurriedly through his unconscious memory to recapture what had been said. Someone — it must have been Cornwallis himself — had said that the information he had gathered from the French coast had been satisfactory and illuminating. But for the life of him Hornblower could not recall what had next been said, and now here he was, with every eye on him, gazing round the table with a bewilderment that he tried to conceal behind an impassive countenance.
“We are all interested in your sources of information, Hornblower,” prompted Cornwallis, apparently repeating something already said.
Hornblower shook his head in decisive negation; that was his instant reaction, before he could analyse the situation, and before he could wrap up a blunt refusal in pretty words.
“No,” he said, to back up the shaking of his head.
There were all these people present; nothing would remain a secret if known to so large a group. The pilchard fishermen and lobster-pot men with whom he had been having furtive dealings and on whom he had been lavishing British gold — French gold, to be exact — would meet with short shrift if their activities became known to the French authorities. Not only would they die, but they would never be able to supply him with any further news. He was passionately anxious for his secrets to remain secrets, yet he was surrounded by all these senior officers any one of whom might have an influence on his career. Luckily he was already committed by the curt negative that had been surprised out of him — nothing could commit him more deeply than that, and that was thanks to Maria. He must not think about Maria, yet he must find some way of softening his abrupt refusal.
“It’s more important than a formula for fattening chickens, sir,” he said, and then, with a bright further inspiration he shifted the responsibility. “I would not like to disclose my operations without a direct order.”
His sensibilities, keyed to the highest pitch, detected sympathy in Cornwallis’s reaction.
“I’m sure there’s no need, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis, turning back to the others. Now, before he turned, was it true that the eyelid of his left eye, nearest to Hornblower, flickered a trifle? Was it? Hornblower could not be sure.
As the conversation reverted to a discussion of future operations Hornblower’s sense, almost telepathic, became aware of something else in the past atmosphere which called up hot resentment in his mind. These fighting officers, these captains of ships of the line, were content to leave the dirty details of the gathering of intelligence to a junior, to someone hardly worthy of their lofty notice. They would not sully their aristocratic white hands; if the insignificant Commander of an insignificant sloop chose to do the work they would leave it to him in tolerant contempt.
Now the contempt was in no way one-sided. Fighting captains had their place in the scheme of things, but only an insignificant place, and anyone could be a fighting captain, even if he had to learn to swallow down the heart from his mouth and master the tensions that set his limbs a-tremble. Hornblower was experiencing symptoms not unlike these at this moment, when he was in no danger at all. Vintage port and a good dinner, thoughts of Maria and resentment against the captains, combined within him in a witches’ brew that threatened to boil over. Luckily the bubbling mixture happened to distil off a succession of ideas, first one and then another. They linked themselves in a logical chain. Hornblower, along with his agitation, could feel the flush of blood under his skin that foretold the development of a plan, in the same way that the witch in Macbeth could tell the approach of something wicked by the pricking in her thumbs. Soon the plan was mature, complete, and Hornblower was left calm and clearheaded after his spiritual convulsion; it was like the clearness of head that follows the crisis of an attack of fever — possibly that was exactly what it was.
The plan called for a dark night, and for half-flood an hour before dawn; nature would supply those sooner or later, following her immutable laws. It called for some good fortune, and it would call for resolution and promptitude of action, but those were accessory ingredients in every plan. It included possibilities of disaster, but was there ever a plan that did not? It also called for the services of a man who spoke perfect French, and Hornblower, measuring his abilities with a cold eye, knew that he was not that man. The penniless noble French refugee who in Hornblower’s boyhood had instructed him, with fair success, in French and Deportment (and, totally unsuccessfully, in Music and Dancing), had never managed to confer a good accent upon his tone-deaf pupil. His grammar and his construction were excellent, but no one would ever mistake him for a Frenchman.
Hornblower had reached every necessary decision by the time the party began to break up, and he made it his business to take his stand, casually, beside Collins at the moment the Admiral’s barge was called.
“Is there anyone in the Channel Fleet who speaks perfect French, sir?” he asked.
“You speak French yourself,” replied Collins.
“Not well enough for what I have in mind, sir,” said Hornblower, more struck by the extent of Collins’ knowledge than flattered. “I might find a use for a man who speaks French exactly like a Frenchman.”
“There’s Côtard,” said Collins, meditatively rubbing his chin. “Lieutenant in the Marlborough. He’s a Guernsey-man. Speaks French like a native — always spoke it as a child, I believe. What do you want him to do?”
“Admiral’s barge coming alongside, sir,” reported a breathless messenger to Pellew.
“Hardly time to tell you now, sir,” said Hornblower. “I can submit a plan to Sir Edward. But it’ll be no use without someone speaking perfect French.”