“What in God’s name?” said Bush, training his glass on them.
It might be a ruse to gain time. Hornblower looked round again at the spars of Blanchefleur above the sandspit. She had furled everything and was riding at anchor.
“White above yellow and blue, sir,” said Bush, still watching the approaching boats. “That’s Swedish colours under a flag of truce.”
Hornblower turned his glass on the leader and confirmed Bush’s decision.
“The next one, sir —” Bush laughed apologetically at his own innocence, “I know it’s strange, sir, but it looks just like the British ens’n under a flag of truce.”
It was hard to believe; and it was easy to make a mistake in identifying a small boat’s flag at that distance. But Hornblower’s glass seemed to show the same thing.
“What do you make of that second boat, Mr Hurst?”
“British colours under white, sir,” said Hurst without hesitation.
The third boat was some long way astern, and her colours were not so easy to make out.
“French, I think, sir,” said Hurst, but the leading boat was approaching fast now.
It was a tall portly gentleman who was swung up on to the deck in the bos’un’s chair, clinging to his cocked hat. He wore a blue coat with gold buttons and epaulettes, and he hitched his sword and his stock into position before laying the hat — a fore-and-aft one with a white plume and a Swedish cockade — across his chest in a sweeping bow.
“Baron Basse,” he said.
Hornblower bowed.
“Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, Commodore commanding this squadron.”
Basse was a heavily jowled man with a big hook-nose and a cold grey eye; and it was obvious that he could only guess faintly at what Hornblower said.
“You fight?” he asked, with an effort.
“I am in pursuit of a privateer under French colours,” said Hornblower, and then, realizing the difficulty of making himself understood when he had to pick his words with diplomatic care: “Here, where’s Mr Braun?”
The interpreter came forward with a brief explanation of himself in Swedish, and Hornblower watched the interplay of glances between the two. They were clearly the deadliest political enemies, meeting here on the comparatively neutral ground of a British man-o’-war. Basse brought out a letter from his breast pocket and passed it to Braun, who glanced at it and handed it to Hornblower.
“That is a letter from the Governor-General of Swedish Pomerania,” he explained, “saying that this gentleman, the Baron Basse, has his full confidence.”
“I understand,” said Hornblower.
Basse was already talking rapidly to Braun.
“He says,” explained Braun, “that he wants to know what you will do.”
“Tell him,” said Hornblower, “that that depends on what the Swedes do. Ask him if Sweden is neutral.”
Obviously the reply was not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Basse offered a lengthy explanation.
“He says that Sweden only wants to be at peace with all the world,” said Braun.
“Tell him that that means neutrality, then, and neutrality has obligations as well as privileges. There is a ship-of-war under French colours there. She must be warned that her presence in Swedish waters can only be tolerated for a limited time, and I must be informed of what the time-limit is.”
Basse’s heavy face showed considerable embarrassment at Braun’s translation of Hornblower’s demand. He worked his hands violently as he made his reply.
“He says he cannot violate the laws of international amity,” said Braun.
“Say that that is exactly what he is doing. That ship cannot be allowed to use a Swedish port as a base of operations. She must be warned to leave, and if she will not, then she must be taken over and a guard put in her to make sure she does not slip away.”
Basse positively wrung his hands as Braun spoke to him, but any reply he was going to make was cut short by Bush’s salute to Hornblower.
“The French flag of truce is alongside, sir. Shall I allow them to send someone on board?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hornblower testily.
The new figure that came in through the entry-port was even more decorative than Basse, although a much smaller man.
Across his blue coat lay the watered red silk ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and its star glittered on his breast. He, too, swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.
“The Count Joseph Dumoulin,” he said, speaking French, “Consul-General in Swedish Pomerania of His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Republic.”
“Captain Hornblower,” said Hornblower. He was suddenly excessively cautious, because his government had never recognized those resounding titles which Dumoulin had just reeled off. In the eyes of King George and his ministers, Napoleon, Emperor of the French, was merely General Bonaparte in his personal capacity, and Chief of the French Government in his official one. More than once British officers had found themselves in serious trouble for putting their names to documents — cartels and the like — which bore even incidental references to the Empire.
“Is there anyone who can speak French?” asked Dumoulin politely, “I regret bitterly my complete inability to speak English.”
“You can address yourself to me, sir,” said Hornblower, “and I should be glad of an explanation of your presence in this ship.”
“You speak admirable French, sir,” said Dumoulin. “Ah, of course, I remember. You are the Captain Hornblower who made the sensational escape from France a year ago. It is a great pleasure to meet a gentleman of such renown.”
He bowed again. It gave Hornblower a queer self-conscious pleasure to find that his reputation had preceded him even into this obscure corner of the Baltic, but it irritated him at the same time, as having nothing to do with the urgent matter in hand.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I am still waiting for an explanation of why I have the honour of this visit.”
“I am here to support M. le Baron in his statement of the belligerent position of Swedish Pomerania.”
Braun interpreted, and Basse’s embarrassment perceptibly increased.
“Boat with English colours alongside, sir,” interrupted Bush.
The man who came on board was immensely fat, and dressed in a sober black civilian suit.
“Hauptmann,” he said, bending himself at the waist; he spoke English with a thick German accent. “His Britannic Majesty’s consular agent at Stralsund.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Hauptmann?” asked Hornblower, trying not to allow himself to grow bewildered.
“I have come,” said Hauptmann — actually what he said was “I haf gome” — “to help explain to you the position here in Swedish Pomerania.”
“I see no need for explanation,” said Hornblower. “If Sweden is neutral, then that privateer must be either forced to leave or taken into custody. If Sweden is a belligerent, then my hands are free and I can take whatever steps I think proper.”
He looked round at his audience. Braun began to translate into Swedish.
“What was it you said, Captain?” asked Dumoulin.
Desperately Hornblower plunged into a French translation, and the curse of Babel descended upon the Nonsuch. Everyone tried to speak at once; translation clashed with expostulation. Clearly, what Basse wanted was the best of both worlds, to make both France and England believe Sweden was friendly. What Dumoulin wanted was to make sure that Blanchefleur would be enabled to continue her depredations among British shipping. Hornblower looked at Hauptmann.
“Come with me for a minute, please,” said Hauptmann. He put his fat hand on Hornblower’s shrinking arm and led him across the quarter-deck out of earshot.
“You are a young man,” said Hauptmann, “and I know you naval officers. You are all headstrong. You must be guided by my advice. Do nothing in a hurry, sir. The international situation here is tense, very tense indeed. A false move may mean ruin. An insult to Sweden might mean war, actual war instead of pretending war. You must be careful what you do.”