Hornblower proffered the suggestion that one of the two ships might push to the northward and begin the task of harassing the French and Spanish coast while the other stayed on the rendezvous awaiting the admiral.
“That’s a worthy suggestion,” said Bolton.
Hornblower shook off the lassitude occasioned by the heat and the vast meal inside him. He wanted the Sutherland to be despatched on this duty. The prospect of immediate action was stimulating. He could feel his pulse quickening at the thought, and the more he considered it the more anxious he was that the choice should fall on him. Days of dreary beating about on and off the rendezvous made no appeal to him at all. He could bear it if necessary—twenty years in the navy would harden anyone to waiting—but he did not want to have to. He did not want to.
“Who shall it be?” said Bolton. “You or me?” Hornblower took a grip of his eagerness.
“You are the senior officer on the station, sir,” he said. “It is for you to say.”
“Yes,” said Bolton, meditatively. “Yes.”
He looked at Hornblower with a considering eye.
“You’d give three fingers to go,” he said suddenly, “and you know it. You’re the same restless devil that you were in the Indefatigable. I remember beating you for it, in ‘93, or was it ‘94?”
Hornblower flushed hotly at the reminder. The bitter humiliation of being bent over a gun and beaten by the lieutenant of the midshipman’s berth rankled to this day when it was recalled to him. But he swallowed his resentment; he had no wish to quarrel with Bolton, especially at this juncture, and he knew he was exceptional in regarding a beating as an outrage.
“’93, sir,” he said. “I’d just joined.”
“And now you’re a post captain, and most noteworthy one in the bottom half of the list,” said Bolton. “God, how time flies. I’d let you go, Hornblower, for old times’ sake, if I didn’t want to go myself.”
“Oh,” said Hornblower. His evident disappointment made his expression ludicrous. Bolton laughed.
“Fair’s fair,” he said. “I’ll spin a coin for it. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hornblower, eagerly. Better an even chance than no chance at all.
“You’ll bear me no malice if I win?”
“No, sir. None.”
With maddening slowness Bolton reached into his fob and brought out his purse. He took out a guinea and laid it on the table, and then, with the same deliberation, while Hornblower wrestled with his eagerness, he replaced the purse. Then he took up the guinea, and poised it on his gnarled thumb and forefinger.
“King or spade?” he asked, looking across at Hornblower.
“Spade,” said Hornblower, swallowing hard.
The coin rang as Bolton spun it in the air; he caught it, and crashed it on to the table.
“Spade it is,” he said, lifting his hand.
Bolton went through all the motions once more of taking out his purse, putting the guinea back, and thrusting the purse into his fob, while Hornblower forced himself to sit still and watch him. He was cool again now, with the immediate prospect of action.
“Damn it, Hornblower,” he said. “I’m glad you won. You can speak the Dago lingo, which is more than I can. You’ve had experience with ‘em in the South Sea. It’s the sort of duty just made for you. Don’t be gone more than three days. I ought to put that in writing, in case his High Mightiness comes back. But I won’t trouble. Good luck to you, Hornblower, and fill your glass.”
Hornblower filled it two-thirds full—if he left a little in the bottom he would only have drunk half a glass more than he wanted then. He sipped, and leaned back in his chair, restraining his eagerness as long as possible. But it overcame him at last, and he rose.
“God damn it, man, you’re not going?” said Bolton. Hornblower’s attitude was unmistakable, but he could not believe the evidence of his eyes.
“If you would permit me, sir,” said Hornblower. “There’s a fair wind—”
Hornblower was actually stammering as he tried to make all his explanations at once. The wind might change; if it was worth while separating it was better to go now than later; if the Sutherland were to stand in towards the coast during the dark hours there was a chance that she might snap up a prize at dawn—every sort of explanation except the true one that he could not bear to sit still any longer with immediate action awaiting him just over the horizon.
“Have it your own way, then,” grumbled Bolton. “If you must, you must. You’re leaving me with a half empty bottle. Does that mean you don’t like my port?”
“No, sir,” said Hornblower, hastily.
“Another glass, then, while your boat’s crew is making ready. Pass the word for Captain Hornblower’s gig.”
The last sentence was bellowed towards the closed door of the cabin, and was immediately repeated by the sentry outside.
Boatswain’s pipes twittered as Hornblower went down the Caligula’s side, officers stood to attention, side boys held the lines. The gig rowed rapidly over the silver water in the fading evening; Coxswain Brown looked sidelong, anxiously, at his captain, trying to guess what this hurried and early departure meant. In the Sutherland there was similar anxiety; Bush and Gerard and Crystal and Rayner were all on the quarterdeck awaiting him—Bush had obviously turned out of bed at the news that the captain was returning.
Hornblower paid no attention to their expectant glances. He had made it a rule to offer no explanation—and there was a pleasurable selfish thrill in keeping his subordinates in ignorance of their future. Even as the gig came leaping up to the tackles he gave the orders which squared the ship away before the wind, heading back to the Spanish coast where adventure awaited them.
“Caligula’s signalling, sir,” said Vincent, “Good, luck.”
“Acknowledge,” said Hornblower.
The officers on the quarterdeck looked at each other, wondering what the future held in store for them for the commodore to wish them good luck. Hornblower noted the interchange of glances without appearing to see them.
“Ha-h’m,” he said, and walked with dignity below, to pore over his charts and plan his campaign. The timbers creaked faintly as the gentle wind urged the ship over the almost placid sea.
Chapter X
“Two bells, sir,” said Polwheal, waking Hornblower from an ecstatic dream. “Wind East by South, course Nor’ by East, an’ all sail set to the royal, sir. An’ Mr. Gerard says to say land in sight on the larboard beam.”
This last sentence jerked Hornblower from his cot without a moment’s more meditation. He slipped off his nightshirt and put on the clothes Polwheal held ready for him. Unshaved and uncombed he hurried up to the quarterdeck. It was full daylight now, with the sun half clear of the horizon and looking over the starboard quarter, and just abaft the port beam a grey mountain shape reflecting its light. That was Cape Creux, where a spur of the Pyrenees came jutting down to the Mediterranean, carrying the Spanish coast line out of its farthest easterly point.
“Sail ho!” yelled the lookout at the masthead. “Nearly right ahead. A brig, sir, standing out from the land on the starboard tack.”
It was what Hornblower had been hoping for; it was for this reason that he had laid his course so as to be on this spot at this moment. All the seaboard of Catalonia, as far south as Barcelona and beyond, was in the hands of the French, and a tumultuous French army—the ‘Account of the Present War in Spain’ estimated it at nearly eighty thousand men—was endeavouring to extend its conquests southwards and inland.
But they had Spanish roads to contend against as well as Spanish armies. To supply an army eight thousand strong, and a large civilian population as well, was impossible by land over the Pyrenean passes, even though Gerona had surrendered last December after a heroic defence. Food and siege materials and ammunition had to be sent by sea, in small craft which crept along the coast, from shore battery to shore battery, through the lagoons and the shallows of the coast of the Gulf of Lions, past the rocky capes of Spain, as far as Barcelona.