“Sir,” said Doughty, coming into the cabin after what seemed to be one minute’s interval but which, his watch told him, was two hours. “Mr Prowse sent me. It’s snowing, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll come.”
How often had he said those words? Every time the weather had thickened he had taken Hotspur up the Goulet, enduring the strain of advancing blind up into frightful danger, watching wind and tide, making the most elaborate calculations, alert for any change in conditions, ready to dash out again at the first hint of improvement, not only to evade the fire of the batteries, but also to prevent the French from discovering the close watch that was being maintained over them.
“It’s only just started to snow, sir,” Doughty was saying. “But Mr Prowse says it’s set in for the night.”
With Doughty’s assistance Hornblower had bundled himself automatically into his deck clothing without noticing what he was doing. He went out into a changed world, where his feet trod a thin carpet of snow on the deck, and where Prowse loomed up in the darkness shimmering in the white coating of snow on his oilskins.
“Wind’s nor’ by east, sir, moderate. An hour of flood still to go.”
“Thank you. Turn the hands up and send them to quarters, if you please. They can sleep at the guns.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Five minutes from now I don’t want to hear a sound.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
This was only regular routine. The less the distance one could see the readier the ship had to be to open fire should an enemy loom up close alongside. But there was no routine about his own duties; every time he took the ship up conditions were different, the wind blowing from a different compass point and the tide of a different age. This was the first time the wind had been so far round to the north. Tonight he would have to shave the shallows off Petit Minou as close as he dared, and then, close-hauled, with the last of the flood behind him, Hotspur could just ascend the northern channel, with the Little Girls to starboard.
There was spirit left in the crew; there were jokes and cries of surprise when they emerged into the snow from the stinking warmth of the ‘tween deck, but sharp orders suppressed every sound. Hotspur was deadly quiet, like a ghost ship when the yards had been trimmed and the helm orders given and she began to make her way through the impenetrable night, night more impenetrable than ever with the air full of snowflakes silently dropping down upon them.
A shuttered lantern at the taffrail for reading the log, although the log’s indications were of minor importance, when speed over the ground could be so different — instinct and experience were more important. Two hands in the port-side main-chains with the lead. Hornblower on the weather side of the quarter-deck could hear quite a quiet call, even though there was a hand stationed to relay it if necessary. Five fathoms. Four fathoms. If his navigation were faulty they would strike before the next cast. Aground under the guns of Petit Minou, ruined and destroyed; Hornblower could not restrain himself from clenching his gloved hands and tightening his muscles. Six and a half fathoms. That was what he had calculated upon, but it was a relief, nevertheless — Hornblower felt a small contempt for himself at feeling relieved, at his lack of faith in his own judgement.
“Full and bye,” he ordered.
They were as close under Petit Minou as possible, a quarter of a mile from those well-known hills, but there was nothing visible at all. There might be a solid black wall a yard from Hornblower’s eyes whichever way he turned them. Eleven fathoms; they were on the edge of the fairway now. The last of the flood, two days after the lowest neaps, and wind north by east; the current should be less than a knot and the eddy off Mengam non-existent.
“No bottom!”
More than twenty fathoms; that was right.
“A good night this for the Frogs, sir,” muttered Bush beside him; he had been waiting for this moment.
Certainly it was a good night for the French if they were determined to escape. They knew the times of ebb and flood as well as he did. They would see the snow. Comfortable time for them to up anchor and get under weigh, and make the passage of the Goulet with a fair wind and ebb tide. Impossible for them to escape by the Four with this wind; the Iroise was guarded — he hoped — by the Inshore Squadron, but on a night as black as this they might try it in preference to the difficult Raz du Sein.
Nineteen fathoms; he was above the Little Girls, and he could be confident of weathering Mengam. Nineteen fathoms.
“Should be slack water now, sir,” muttered Prowse, who had just looked at his watch in the light of the shaded binnacle.
They were above Mengam now; the lead should record a fairly steady nineteen fathoms for the next few minutes, and it was time that he should plan out the next move — the next move but one, rather. He conjured up the chart before his mental eye.
“Listen!” Bush’s elbow dug into Hornblower’s ribs with the urgency of the moment.
“Avast there at the lead!” said Hornblower. He spoke in a normal tone to make sure he was understood; with the wind blowing that way his voice would not carry far in the direction he was peering into.
There was the sound again; there were other noises. A long drawn monosyllable borne by the wind, and Hornblower’s straining senses picked it up. It was a Frenchman calling “Seize,” sixteen. French pilots still used the old-fashioned toise to measure depths, and the toise was slightly greater than the English fathom.
“Lights!” muttered Bush, his elbow at Hornblower’s ribs again. There was a gleam here and there — the Frenchman had not darkened his ship nearly as effectively as the Hotspur. There was enough light to give some sort of indication. A ghost ship sweeping by within biscuit toss. The topsails were suddenly visible — there must be a thin coating of snow on the after surfaces whose gleaming white could reflect any light there was. And then —
“Three red lights in a row on the mizzen tops’l yard,” whispered Bush.
Visible enough now; shaded in front, presumably, with the light directed aft to guide following ships. Hornblower felt a surge of inspiration, of instant decision, plans for the moment, plans for the next five minutes, plans for the more distant future.
“Run!” he snapped at Bush. “Get three lights hoisted the same way. Keep ‘em shaded, ready to show.”
Bush was off at the last word, but the thoughts had to come more rapidly like lightning. Hotspur dared not tack; she must wear.
“Wear ship!” he snapped at Prowse — no time for the politenesses he usually employed.
As Hotspur swung round he saw the three separated red lights join together almost into one, and at the same moment he saw a blue glare; the French ship was altering course to proceed down the Goulet and was burning a blue light as an indication to the ships following to up helm in succession. Now he could see the second French ship, a second faint ghost — the blue light helped to reveal it.
Pellew in the old Indefatigable, when Hornblower was a prisoner in Ferrol, had once confused a French squadron escaping from Brest by imitating the French signals, but that had been in the comparatively open waters of the Iroise. It had been in Hornblower’s mind to try similar tactics, but here in the narrow Goulet there was a possibility of more decisive action.