It must be a gratifying experience for Moore to manoeuvre a line of ships sixty miles long by sending up and hauling down flags.
“Deck!” There was a different tone in Foreman’s voice, not the tone of matter of fact routine. “Sail in sight on the port bow, nearly to windward, sir. Coming down before the wind, fast.”
Hotspur was still waiting for Medusa‘s signal to come down to indicate the exact moment to wear.
“What do you make of her, Mr Foreman?”
“She’s a ship of war, sir. She’s a frigate. She looks French to me, sir. She might be the Félicité, sir.”
She might well be the Félicité, coming out from Cadiz. By now word could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea. Félicité would come out; she could warn, and divert, the flota, if she could get past the British line. Or she could hang about on the horizon until the flota should appear, and then interfere with the negotiations. Bonaparte could make great play in the Moniteur regarding the heroic French navy coming to the aid of an oppressed neutral fleet. And Félicité‘s presence might have great weight in the scale should it come to a fight; a large French frigate and four large Spanish ones against one large British frigate, three small ones, and a sloop.
“I’ll get aloft and have a look at her myself, sir.” This was Bush, in the right place at the right time as usual. He ran up the ratlines with the agility of any seaman.
“Signal’s down, sir!” yelled Foreman.
Hotspur should put up her helm at this moment, for all five ships to wear together.
“No, Mr Prowse. We’ll wait.”
On the horizon Medusa wore round. Now she was before the wind, increasing her distance rapidly from Hotspur on the opposite course.
“That’s Félicité for certain, sir!” called Bush.
“Thank you, Mr Bush. Kindly come down at once. Drummer! Beat to quarters. Clear for action. Mr Cheeseman, send this signal. ‘Have sighted French frigate to windward’.”
“Aye aye, sir. Medusa‘s going out of sight fast.”
“Hoist it, anyway.”
Bush had descended like lightning, to exchange glances for one moment with Hornblower before hurrying off to supervise clearing for action. For that moment there was an inquiring look in his eye. He alone in the ship beside Hornblower knew the objective of the British squadron. If Hotspur was parted from the other ships when the flota should be sighted she would lose her share of the prize money. But prize money was only one factor; the flota was a primary objective. Hotspur would disregard Medusa‘s signals and turn aside from the objective at her peril — at Hornblower’s peril. And Bush knew, too, the disparity of force between Hotspur and Félicité. A battle broadside to broadside could only end with half Hotspur‘s crew dead and the other half prisoners of war.
“Medusa‘s out of sight, sir. She hasn’t acknowledged.” This was Foreman, still aloft.
“Very well, Mr Foreman. You can come down,”
“You can see her from the deck, sir,” said Prowse.
“Yes.” Right on the horizon the Frenchman’s topsails and topgallants were plainly in view. Hornblower found it a little difficult to keep them steady in the field of the telescope. He was pulsing with excitement; he could only hope that his face did not reveal him to be as anxious and worried as he felt.
“Cleared for action, sir,” reported Bush.
The guns were run out, the excited guns’ crews at their stations.
“She’s hauled her wind!” exclaimed Prowse.
“Ah!”
Félicité had come round on the starboard tack, heading to allow Hotspur to pass far astern of her. She was declining battle.
“Isn’t he going to fight?” exclaimed Bush.
Hornblower’s tensions were easing a little with this proof of the accuracy of his judgement. He had headed for Félicité with the intention of engaging in a scrambling long range duel. He had hoped to shoot away enough of the Félicité‘s spars to cripple her so that she would be delayed in her mission of warning the flota. And the Frenchman had paralleled his thoughts. He did not want to risk injury with his mission not accomplished.
“Put the ship about, if you please, Mr Prowse.”
Hotspur tacked like a machine.
“Full and bye!”
Now she headed to cross Félicité‘s bows on a sharply converging course. The Frenchman, in declining battle, had it in mind to slip round the flank of the British line so as to escape in the open sea and join the Spaniards ahead of the British, and Hornblower was heading him off. Hornblower watched the topsails on the horizon, and saw them swing.
“He’s turning away!”
Much good that would do him. Far, far beyond the topsails was a faint blue line on the horizon, the bold coast of Southern Portugal.
“He won’t weather St Vincent on that course,” said Prowse.
Lagos, St Vincent, Sagres; all great names in the history of the sea, and that jutting headland would just baulk Félicité in her attempt to evade action. She would have to fight soon, and Hornblower was visualizing the kind of battle it would be.
“Mr Bush!”
“Sir!”
“I want two guns to bear directly astern. You’ll have to cut away the transoms aft. Get to work at once.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush.”
Sailing ships were always hampered in the matter of firing directly ahead or astern; no satisfactory solution of the difficult had ever been found. Guns were generally so useful on the broadside that they were wasted on the ends of the ship, and ship construction had acknowledged the fact. Now the cry for the carpenter’s crew presaged abandoning all the advantages that had been wrung from these circumstances by shipbuilders through the centuries. Hotspur was weakening herself in exchange for a momentary advantage in a rare situation. Under his feet Hornblower felt the crack of timber and the vibration of saws at work.
“Send the gunner aft. He’ll have to rig tackles and breechings before the guns are moved.”
The blue line of the coast was now much more sharply defined; the towering headland of St Vincent was in plain view. And Félicité was hull-up now, the long, long, line of guns along her side clearly visible, run out and ready for action. Her main-topsail was a-shiver, and she was rounding-to. Now she was challenging action, offering battle.
“Up helm, Mr Prowse. Back the main-tops’l.”
Every minute gained was of value. Hotspur rounded-to as well. Hornblower had no intention of fighting a hopeless battle; if the Frenchman could wait he could wait as well. With this gentle breeze and moderate sea Hotspur held an advantage over the bigger French ship which was not lightly to be thrown away. Hotspur and Félicité eyed each other like two pugilists just stepping into the ring. It was such a beautiful day of blue sky and blue sea; it was a lovely world which he might be leaving soon. The rumble of gun trucks told him that one gun-carriage at least was being moved into position, and yet at this minute somehow he thought of Maria and of little Horatio — madness; he put that thought instantly out of his mind.
The seconds crept by; perhaps the French captain was holding a council of war on his quarter-deck; perhaps he was merely hesitating, unable to reach a decision at this moment when the fate of nations hung in the balance.