“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower knew how he liked his own officers to respond to his orders, and he matched his deportment with that mental model. Cornwallis went on, his eye still considering him.
“We took some reasonable claret out of a prize a month ago. I wonder if you would honour me by accepting a dozen, Hornblower?”
“With the greatest of pleasure, sir.”
“I’ll have it put in your boat.”
Cornwallis turned to give the order to his steward, who apparently had something to say in return in a low voice; Hornblower heard Cornwallis reply, “Yes, yes, of course,” before he turned back.
“Perhaps your steward would pass the word for my boat at the same time, sir?” said Hornblower, who was in no doubt that his visit had lasted long enough by Cornwallis’s standards.
It was quite dark when Hornblower went down the side into the boat, to find at his feet the case that held the wine, and by now the wind was almost moderate. The dark surface of Tor Bay was spangled with the lights of ships, and there were the lights of Torquay and of Paignton and Brixham visible as well. Maria was somewhere there, probably uncomfortable, for these little places were probably full of naval officers’ wives.
“Call me the moment the wind comes nor’west by west,” said Hornblower to Bush as soon as he reached the deck.
“Nor’west by west. Aye aye, sir. The hands managed to get liquor on board, sir.”
“Did you expect anything else?”
The British sailor would find liquor somehow at any contact with the shore; if he had no money he would give his clothes, his shoes, even his earrings in exchange.
“I had trouble with some of ‘em, sir, especially after the beer issue.”
Beer was issued instead of rum whenever it could be supplied.
“You dealt with ‘em?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Bush.”
A couple of hands were bringing the case of wine in from the boat, under the supervision of Doughty, and when Hornblower entered his cabin he found the case lashed to the bulkhead, occupying practically the whole of the spare deck space, and Doughty bending over it, having prized it open with a hand-spike.
“The only place to put it, sir,” explained Doughty, apologetically.
That was probably true in two senses; with the ship crammed with stores, even with raw meat hung in every place convenient and inconvenient, there could hardly be any space to spare, and in addition wine would hardly be safe from the hands unless it were here where a sentry constantly stood guard. Doughty had a large parcel in his arms, which he had removed from the case.
“What’s that?” demanded Hornblower; he had already observed that Doughty was a little disconcerted, so that when his servant hesitated he repeated the question more sharply still.
“It’s just a parcel from the Admiral’s steward, sir.”
“Show me.”
Hornblower expected to see bottles of brandy or some other smuggled goods.
“It’s only cabin stores, sir.”
“Show me.”
“Just cabin stores, sir, as I said.” Doughty examined the contents while exhibiting them in a manner which proved he had not been certain of what he would find. “This is sweet oil, sir, olive oil. And here are dried herbs. Marjoram, thyme, sage. And here’s coffee — only half a pound, by the look of it. And pepper. And vinegar. And …”
“How the devil did you get these?”
“I wrote a note, sir, to the Admiral’s steward, and sent it by your coxs’n. It isn’t right that you shouldn’t have these things sir. Now I can cook for you properly.”
“Does the Admiral know?”
“I’d be surprised if he did, sir.”
There was an assured superior expression on Doughty’s face as he said this, which suddenly revealed to Hornblower a world of which he had been ignorant until then. There might be Flag Officers and Captains, but under that glittering surface was an unseen circle of stewards, with its own secret rites and passwords, managing the private lives of their officers without reference to them.
“Sir!” This was Bush, entering the cabin with hurried step. “Wind’s nor’west by west, sir. Looks as if it’ll back further still.”
It took a moment for Hornblower to re-orient his thoughts, to switch from stewards and dried herbs to ships; and sailing orders. Then he was himself again, rapping his commands.
“Call all hands. Sway the topmasts up. Get the yards crossed. I want to be under way in twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The quiet of the ship was broken by the pipes and the curses of the petty officers, as they drove the hands to work. Heads bemused by beer and brandy cleared themselves with violent exercise and the fresh air of the chilly night breeze. Clumsy fingers clutched hoists and halliards. Men tripped and stumbled in the darkness and were kicked to their feet by petty officers goaded on by the master’s mates goaded on in turn by Bush and Prowse. The vast cumbersome sausages that were the sails were dragged out from where they had been laid away on the booms.
“Ready to set sail, sir,” reported Bush.
“Very well. Send the hands to the capstan. Mr Foreman, what’s the night signal for ‘Am getting under way’?”
“One moment, sir.” Foreman had not learned the night signal book as thoroughly as he should have done in seven months. “One blue light and one Bengal fire shown together, sir.”
“Very well. Make that ready. Mr Prowse, a course from the Start to Ushant, if you please.”
That would let the hands know what fate awaited them, if they did not guess already. Maria would know nothing at all until she looked out at Tor Bay tomorrow to find Hotspur‘s place empty. And all she had to comfort her was the curt note he had sent before dinner; cold comfort, that. He must not think of Maria, or of the child.
The capstan was clanking as they hove the ship up towards the best bower. They would have to deal with the extra weight of the boat carronade that backed that anchor; the additional labour was the price to be paid for the security of the past days. It was a clumsy, as well as a laborious operation.
“Shall I heave short on the small bower, sir?”
“Yes, if you please, Mr Bush. And you can get under way as soon as is convenient to you.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Make that signal, Mr Foreman.”
The quarter-deck was suddenly illuminated, the sinister blue light blending with the equally sinister crimson of the Bengal fire. The last splutterings had hardly died away before the answer came from the flagship, a blue light that winked three times as it was momentarily screened.
“Flagship acknowledges, sir!”
“Very well.”
And this was the end of his stay in harbour, of his visit to England. He had seen the last of Maria for months to come; she would be a mother when he saw her next.
“Sheet home!”
Hotspur was gathering way, turning on her heel with a fair wind to weather Berry Head. Hornblower’s mind played with a score of inconsequential thoughts as he struggled to put aside his overwhelming melancholy. He remembered the brief private conversation that he had witnessed between Cornwallis and the steward. He was quite sure that the latter had been telling his Admiral about the parcel prepared for transmission to Hotspur. Doughty was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. That conclusion called up a weak smile as Hotspur breasted the waters of the Channel, with Berry Head looming up on her starboard beam.
Chapter 15
Now it was cold, horribly cold; the days were short and the nights were very, very long. Along with the cold weather came easterly winds — the one involved the other — and a reversal of the tactical situation. For although with the wind in the east Hotspur was relieved of the anxiety of being on a lee shore her responsibilities were proportionately increased. There was nothing academic now about noting the direction of the wind each hour, it was no mere navigational routine. Should the wind blow from any one of ten points of the compass out of thirty-two it would be possible even for the lubberly French to make their exit down the Goulet and enter the Atlantic. Should they make the attempt it was Hotspur‘s duty to pass an instant warning for the Channel Fleet to form line of battle if the French were rash enough to challenge action, and to cover every exit — by the Raz, by the Iroise, by the Four — if, as would be more likely, they attempted merely to escape.