Hornblower thought of the keen clean air of the Atlantic and felt his lungs would burst. He did his best with his dinner, but it was a poor best.
“You’re not making a very good dinner, Horatio,” said Mrs Mason, peering suspiciously at his plate.
“I suppose I’m not very hungry.”
“Too much of Doughty’s cooking, I expect,” said Mrs Mason.
Hornblower knew already, without a word spoken, that the women were jealous of Doughty and ill at ease in his presence. Doughty had served the rich and the great; Doughty knew of fancy ways of cooking; Doughty wanted money to bring the cabin stores of the Hotspur up to his own fastidious standards; Doughty (in the women’s minds, at least) was probably supercilious about Driver’s Alley and the family his captain had married into.
“I can’t abide that Doughty,” said Maria — the word spoken now.
“He’s harmless enough, my dear,” said Hornblower.
“Harmless!” Mrs Mason said only that one word, but Demosthenes could not have put more vituperation into a whole Philippic; and yet, when the landlady came in to clear the table, Mrs Mason contrived to be at her loftiest.
As the landlady left the room Hornblower’s instincts guided him into an action of which he was actually unconscious. He threw up the window and drew the icy evening air deep into his lungs.
“You’ll give him his death!” said Maria’s voice, and Hornblower swung round, surprised.
Maria had snatched up little Horatio from his cradle and stood clasping him to her bosom, a lioness defending her cub from the manifest and well-known perils of the night air.
“I beg your pardon, dear,” said Hornblower. “I can’t imagine what I was thinking of.”
He knew perfectly well that little babies should be kept in stuffy heated rooms, and he was full of genuine contrition regarding little Horatio. But as he turned back and pulled the window shut again his mind was dwelling on the Blackstones and the Little Girls, on bleak harsh days and dangerous nights, on a deck that he could call his own. He was ready to go to sea again.
Chapter 18
With the coming of spring a new liveliness developed in the blockade of Brest. In every French port during the winter there had been much building of flat-bottomed boats. The French army, two hundred thousand strong, was still poised on the Channel coast, waiting for its chance to invade, and it needed gun-boats by the thousand to ferry it over when that chance should come. But the invasion coast from Boulogne to Ostend could not supply one-tenth, one-hundredth of the vessels needed; these had to be built whenever there were facilities, and then had to be moved along the coast to the assembling area.
To Hornblower’s mind Bonaparte — the Emperor Napoleon, as he was beginning to call himself — was displaying a certain confusion of ideas in adopting this course of action. Seamen and shipbuilding materials were scarce enough in France; it was absurd to waste them on invasion craft when invasion was impossible without a covering fleet, and when the French navy was too small to provide such a fleet. Lord St Vincent had raised an appreciative smile throughout the Royal Navy when he had said in the House of Lords regarding the French army, ‘I do not say they cannot come. I only say they cannot come by sea.’ The jest had called up a ludicrous picture in everyone’s mind of Bonaparte trying to transport an invading army by Montgolfier balloons, and the impossibility of such an attempt underlined the impossibility of the French building up a fleet strong enough to command the Channel even long enough for the gun-boats to row across.
It was only by the time summer was far advanced that Hornblower fully understood Bonaparte’s quandary. Bonaparte had to persist in this ridiculous venture, wasting the substance of his empire on ships and landing-craft even though a sensible man might well write off the whole project and devote his resources to some more profitable scheme. But to do so would be an admission that England was impregnable, could never be conquered, and such an admission would not only hearten his potential Continental enemies but would have a most unsettling effect on the French people themselves. He was simply compelled to continue along this road, to go on building his ships and his gun-boats to make the world believe there was a likelihood that England would soon be overthrown, leaving him dominant everywhere on earth, lord of the whole human race.
And there was always chance, even if it were not one chance in ten or one chance in a hundred, but one in a million. Some extraordinary, unpredictable combination of good fortune, of British mismanagement, of weather, and of political circumstances might give him the week he needed to get his army across. If the odds were enormous at least the stakes were fantastic. In itself that might appeal to a gambler like Bonaparte even without the force of circumstance to drive him on.
So the flat-bottomed boats were built at every little fishing-village along the coast of France, and they crept from their pieces of origin towards the great military camp of Boulogne, keeping to the shallows, moving by oar more than by sail, sheltering when necessary under the coastal batteries, each boat manned by fifty soldiers and a couple of seamen. And because Bonaparte was moving these craft, the Royal Navy felt bound to interfere with the movement as far as possible.
That was how it came about that Hotspur found herself momentarily detached from the Channel Fleet and forming a part of a small squadron under the orders of Chambers of the Naiad operating to the northward of Ushant, which was doing its best to prevent the passage of half a dozen gun-boats along the wild and rocky shore of Northern Brittany.
“Signal from the Commodore, sir,” reported Foreman.
Chambers spent a great deal of time signalling to his little squadron.
“Well?” asked Hornblower; Foreman was referring to his signal book.
“Take station within sight bearing east nor’east, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Foreman. Acknowledge. Mr Bush, we’ll square away.”
A pleasant day, with gentle winds from the south east, and occasional white clouds coursing over a blue sky. Overside the sea was green and clear, and two miles off on the beam was the coast with its white breakers; the chart showed strange names, Aber Wrack and Aber Benoit, which told of the relationship between the Breton tongue and Welsh. Hornblower divided his attention between the Naiad and the coast as Hotspur ran down before the wind, and he experienced something of the miser’s feeling at some depletion of his gold. It might be necessary to go off like this to leeward, but every hour so spent might call for a day of beating back to windward. The decisive strategical point was outside Brest where lay the French ships of the line, not here where the little gun-boats were making their perilous passage.
“You may bring-to again, Mr Bush.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
They were now so far from Naiad that it would calf for a sharp eye and a good glass to read her signals.
“We’re the terrier at the rat hole, sir,” said Bush, coming back to Hornblower as soon as Hotspur had lain-to with her main-topsail to the mast.
“Exactly,” agreed Hornblower.
“Boats are cleared away ready to launch, sir.”
“Thank you.”
They might have to dash in to attack the gun-boats when they came creeping along, just outside the surf.
“Commodore’s signalling, sir,” reported Foreman again. “Oh, it’s for the lugger, sir.”
“There she goes!” said Bush.
The small armed lugger was moving in towards the shore.
“That’s the ferret going down the hole, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, unwontedly conversational.
“Yes, sir. There’s a gun! There’s another!”