“We will make sail, if you please, Mr Bush.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower gave the course, and he knew as he gave it that it might be quite the wrong one. He might have completely miscalculated. Every yard that the Lydia was sailing now might be in a direction away from the Natividad. Crespo might at this very moment be heading past him to safety. He might never destroy the Natividad at all if she fortified herself in the Gulf of Fonseca. There would be some who would attribute his failure to incompetence, and there would be not a few who would call it cowardice.
Chapter XVII
From the Lydia’s masthead, in the clear daylight of the Pacific, a ship might be seen at a distance of as much as twenty miles, perhaps. A circle of twenty miles’ radius, therefore, covered the extent of sea over which she had observation. It kept Hornblower occupied, during the remaining hours of darkness, to calculate the size of the circle in which the Natividad would necessarily be found next morning. She might be close at hand; she might be as much as a hundred and fifty miles away. That meant that if pure chance dictated the positions of the ships at dawn, it was almost exactly fifty to one against the Natividad being in sight; fifty to one on the ruin of Hornblower’s professional reputation and only his professional abilities to counterbalance those odds. Only if he had guessed his enemy’s plans correctly would he stand justified, and his officers knew it as well as he. Hornblower was conscious that Gerard was looking at him with interest through the darkness, and the consciousness caused him to hold himself rigid and immobile on the deck, neither walking up and down nor fidgeting, even though he could feel his heart beating faster each time he realised that dawn was approaching.
The blackness turned to grey. Now the outlines of the ship could be ascertained. The main topsail could be seen clearly. So could the fore topsail. Astern of them now the faintest hint of pink began to show in the greyness of the sky. Now the bulk of the grey waves overside could be seen as well as their white edges. Overhead by now the stars were invisible. The accustomed eye could pierce the greyness for a mile about the ship. And then astern, to the eastward, as the Lydia lifted on a wave, a grain of gold showed over the horizon, vanished, returned, and grew. Soon it became a great slice of the sun, sucking up greedily the faint mist which hung over the sea. Then the whole disk lifted clear, and the miracle of the dawn was accomplished.
“Sail ho!” came pealing down from the masthead; Hornblower had calculated aright.
Dead ahead, and ten miles distant, she was wallowing along, her appearance oddly at contrast with the one she had presented yesterday morning. Something had been done to give her a jury rig. A stumpy topmast had been erected where her foremast had stood, raked far back in clumsy fashion; her main topmast had been replaced by a slight spar — a royal mast, presumably — and on this jury rig she carried a queer collection of jibs and foresails and spritsails all badly set — “Like old Mother Brown’s washing on the line,” said Bush — to enable her to keep away from the wind with main course and mizzen topsail and driver set.
At sight of the Lydia she put her helm over and came round until her masts were in line, heading away from the frigate.
“Making a stern chase of it,” said Gerard, his glass to his eye. “He had enough yesterday, I fancy.”
Hornblower heard the remark. He could understand Crespo’s psychology better than that. If it were profitable to him to postpone action, and it undoubtably was, he was quite right to continue doing so, even at the eleventh hour. At sea nothing was certain. Something might prevent the Lydia’s coming into action; a squall of wind, the accidental carrying away of a spar, an opportune descent of mist — any one of the myriad things which might happen at sea. There was still a chance that the Natividad might get clear away, and Crespo was exploiting that chance to the last of his ability. That was logical though unheroic, exactly as one might expect of Crespo.
It was Hornblower’s duty to see that the chance did not occur. He examined the Natividad closely, ran his eyes over the Lydia’s sails to see that every one was drawing, and bethought himself of his crew.
“Send the hands to breakfast,” he said — every captain of a king’s ship took his men into action with full bellies if possible.
He remained, pacing up and down the quarterdeck, unable to keep himself still any longer. The Natividad might be running away, but he knew well that she would fight hard enough when he caught her up. Those smashing twenty-four pounders which she carried on her lower deck were heavy metal against which to oppose the frail timbers of a frigate. They had wrought enough damage yesterday — he could hear the melancholy clanking of the pumps keeping down the water which leaked through the holes they had made; that clinking sound had continued without a break since yesterday. With a jury mizzen mast, and leaking like a sieve despite the sail under her bottom, with sixty-four of her attenuated crew hors de combat, the Lydia was in no condition to fight a severe battle. Defeat for her and death for him might be awaiting them across the strip of blue sea.
Polwheal suddenly appeared beside him on the quarterdeck, a tray in his hand.
“Your breakfast, sir,” he said, “seeing as how we’ll be in action when your usual time comes.”
As he proffered the tray Hornblower suddenly realised how much he wanted that steaming cup of coffee. He took it eagerly and drank thirstily before he remembered that he must not display human weakness of appetite before his servant.
“Thank you, Polwheal,” he said, sipping discreetly.
“An’ ‘er la’ships’s compliments, sir, an’ please may she stay where she is in the orlop when the action is renooed.”
“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower, staring at him, thrown out of his stride by this unexpected question. All through the night he had been trying to forget the problem of Lady Barbara, as a man tries to forget an aching tooth. The orlop meant that Lady Barbara would be next to the wounded, separated from them only by a canvas screen — no place for a woman. But for that matter neither was the cable tier. The obvious truth was that there was no place for a woman in a frigate about to fight a battle.
“Put her wherever you like as long as she is not in reach of shot,” he said, irritably.
“Aye aye, sir. An’ ‘er la’ship told me to say that she wished you the best of good fortune today, sir, an’ — an’ — she was confident that you would meet with the success you — you deserve, sir.”
Polwheal stumbled over this long speech in a manner which revealed that he had not been quite as successful in learning it fluently as he wished.
“Thank you, Polwheal,” said Hornblower, gravely. He remembered Lady Barbara’s face as she looked up at him from the main deck yesterday. It was clean cut and eager — like a sword, was the absurd simile which came up in his mind.
“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower angrily. He was aware that his expression had softened, and he feared lest Polwheal should have noticed it, at a moment when he knew about whom he was thinking. “Get below and see that her ladyship is comfortable.”
The hands were pouring up from breakfast now; the pumps were clanking with a faster rhythm now that a fresh crew was at work upon them. The guns’ crews were gathered about their guns, and the few idlers were crowded on the forecastle eagerly watching the progress of the chase.
“Do you think the wind’s going to hold, sir?” asked Bush, coming on to the quarterdeck like a bird of ill omen. “Seems to me as if the sun’s swallowing it.”
There was no doubting the fact that as the sun climbed higher in the sky the wind was diminishing in force. The sea was still short, steep, and rough, but the Lydia’s motion over it was no longer light and graceful. She was pitching and jerking inelegantly deprived of the steady pressure of a good sailing wind. The sky overhead was fast becoming of a hard metallic blue.