“Even more with prevailing westerly winds,” he added.
“Please go on, Captain,” said Barrow.
“But really that is not as important as the other factors, sir,” said Hornblower.
It was easy to go on from there. A fleet blockading Ferrol had no friendly refuge to leeward. A fleet blockading Brest could run to Tor Bay in a westerly tempest — the strategy of the past fifty years had been based on that geographical fact. A fleet blockading Cadiz could rely on the friendly neutrality of Portugal, and had Lisbon on one flank and Gibraltar on the other. Nelson watching Toulon had made use of anchorages on the Sardinian coast. But off Ferrol it would be a different story. Westerly gales would drive a blockading fleet into the cul-de-sac of the Bay of Biscay whose shores were not merely hostile but wild and steep-to, with rain and fog. To keep watch over Villeneuve in Ferrol, particularly in winter, would impose an intolerable strain on the watcher, especially as the exits from Ferrol were far easier and more convenient than the single exit from Brest — the largest imaginable fleet could sortie from Ferrol in a single tide, which no large French fleet had ever succeeded in doing from Brest. He recalled what he had observed in Ferrol regarding the facilities for the prompt watering of a fleet, for berthing, for supply; the winds that were favourable for exit and the winds that made exit impossible; the chances of a blockader making furtive contact with the shore — as he himself had later done off Brest — and the facilities to maintain close observation over a blockaded force.
“You seem to have made good use of your time in Ferrol, Captain,” said Barrow.
Hornblower would have shrugged his shoulders, but restrained himself in time from indulging in so un-English a gesture. The memory of that desperately unhappy time came back to him in a flood and he was momentarily lost in retrospective misery. He came back into the present to find Barrow’s eyes still fixed on him with curiosity, and he realized, selfconciously, that for a moment he had allowed Barrow a glimpse into his inner feelings.
“At least I managed to learn to speak a little Spanish,” he said; it was an endeavour to bring a trace of frivolity into the conversation, but Barrow continued to treat the subject seriously.
“Many officers would not have taken the trouble,” he commented.
Hornblower shied away from this personal conversation like a skittish horse.
“There’s another aspect to the question of Ferrol,” he said, hurriedly.
“And what is that?”
“The town and its facilities as a naval base lay at the far end of long and difficult roads over mountain passes, whether by Betanzos or Villalba. To support a fleet there under blockade, to keep it supplied by road with the hundreds of tons of necessary stores, might be more than the Spaniards could manage.”
“You know something of these roads, Captain?”
“I was marched over them when I was a prisoner.”
“Boney’s Emperor now and the Dons are his abject slaves. If anyone could compel them to attend to their business it would be Boney.”
“That’s very likely, sir.” This was more a political question than a naval one, and it would be presumption on his part to make further comment.
“So we’re back,” said Barrow, half to himself, “to where we’ve been ever since ‘95, waiting for the enemy to come out and fight, and in your opinion in a worse situation than usual, Captain.”
“That’s only my opinion, sir,” said Hornblower hastily.
These were questions for Admirals, and it was not healthy for junior officers to become involved in them.
“If only Calder had thrashed Villeneuve thoroughly!” went on Barrow. “Half our troubles would be over.”
Hornblower had to make some reply or other, and he had to think fast for non-commital words that would not imply a criticism of an Admiral by a junior officer.
“Just possibly, sir,” he said.
He knew that as soon as the news of the battle of Cape Finisterre was released the British public would boil with rage. At Camperdown, at the Nile, and at Copenhagen victories of annihilation had been gained. The mob would never be satisfied with this mere skirmish, especially with Bonaparte’s army poised for embarkation on the Channel coast and Britain’s fate dependent on the efficient handling of her fleets. Calder might well experience the fate of Byng; he could be accused, like Byng, of not having done his utmost to destroy the enemy. A political upheaval might easily occur in the near future.
That led to the next thought; a political upheaval would sweep away the Cabinet, including the First Lord, and possibly even the Secretariat — this very man to whom he was talking might be looking for new employment (with a black mark against his name) within a month. It was a tricky situation, and Hornblower suddenly felt overwhelmingly desirous that the interview should be ended. He was horribly hungry and desperately fatigued. When the door opened to admit Dorsey he looked up with relief.
Dorsey halted at sight of Barrow.
“The Secretary is with His Lordship,” explained the latter. “What is it, Mr Dorsey?”
“I’ve opened the dispatch that Captain Hornblower captured, sir. It’s — it’s important, sir.”
Dorsey’s glance wavered over to Hornblower and back again.
“I think Captain Hornblower is entitled to see the results of his efforts,” said Barrow, and Dorsey came forward with relief and laid on the table the objects he was carrying.
First there were half a dozen discs of white wax laid out on a tray.
“I’ve reproduced the seals,” explained Dorsey. “Two copies of each. That seal-cutter in Cheapside can cut a seal from these so that Boney himself couldn’t tell the difference. And I’ve managed to lift the originals without damaging them too much — the hot knife method, you understand, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Barrow, examining the results. “So these are the new seals of the new Empire?”
“Indeed they are, sir. But the dispatch — It’s the greatest of prizes. See here, sir! And here!”
He stabbed excitedly at the paper with a gnarled finger. At the foot of the sheet, which was covered with paragraphs of careful handwriting, there was a crabbed signature. It had been written by a careless hand, and was surrounded by little ink blots as a result of the spluttering of a protesting pen. It was not really legible; Hornblower could read the first letters, ‘Nap—’ but the remainder was only a jagged line and a flourish.
“That’s the first signature of this sort which has come into our possession, sir,” explained Dorsey.
“Do you mean he has always signed ‘N. Bonaparte’ before?” asked Hornblower.
“Just ‘Bonaparte’,” said Dorsey. “We have a hundred, a thousand specimens, but not one like this.”
“He hasn’t adopted the Imperial style, all the same,” said Barrow, examining the letter. “Not yet at least. He calls himself ‘I’ and not ‘we’. See here, and here.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” said Dorsey, “not that I’m familiar with French. But here’s something else, sir. And here.”
The superscription said ‘Palais des Tuileries’ and ‘Cabinet Impériale’.
“These are new?” asked Barrow.
“Yes, indeed, sir. Until now he did not call it a palace, and it was the ‘Cabinet of the First Consul’.”
“I wonder what the letter says?” interposed Hornblower. So far only the technical details had occupied their attention, like people judging a book by its binding without a thought for its contents. He took it from Dorsey’s hand and began to read.
“You read French, sir?” asked Barrow.
“Yes,” said Hornblower, a little off-handedly as he concentrated on his reading. He had never read a letter from an Emperor before.
Monsieur le Général Lauriston, the letter began. The first paragraph was taken up with allusions to the instructions already sent by the Ministries of Marine and of War. The second dealt with the relative seniority of General Lauriston and of various subordinates. The final one was more flamboyant.