“French ensign, sir? No, sir.”
“Then make one. I’ll give you twenty minutes, Potter.”
Hornblower continued to rotate under the jet of the pump, rejoicing in its refreshing impact on this hot morning. The chances were that no Frenchman had observed the capture of the Amelie from Cape Creux, and that was the only land in sight at the time. Even if someone had done so, it would take many hours to warn all the coast line of the presence of a British ship of the line. Having taken the French by surprise, the right game to play was to go on exploiting that surprise to the utmost, making use of every device that would make the blow effective. He went back to his cabin and put on refreshing clean linen, still turning over in his mind the details of his plans which were now losing their nebulousness of the night before and growing more and more clear cut.
“Breakfast, sir?” asked Polwheal, tentatively.
“Bring me some coffee on the quarterdeck,” said Hornblower. He could not bear the thought of food—perhaps because of his present excitement, perhaps because of his vast dinner of the night before.
From the quarterdeck could be seen shadowy blue masses on the horizon right ahead—the peaks of the Pyrenees; between them and the sea crawled the road from France to Spain. The sailmaker’s mate came running aft with his arms full of a vast bundle.
“Mr. Vincent,” said Hornblower. “I’ll have this flag hoisted instead of our own.”
The officers of the quarterdeck eyed the strange tricolour as it rose to the peak, and they looked from the flag to their captain, whispering among themselves. Grouped on the lee side, not one of them dared to try to open a conversation with Hornblower on the weather side. Hornblower exulted both in their excitement and their silence.
“Send the hands to quarters as soon as they have breakfasted, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “Clear for action, but keep the ports shut, I want the long boat and launch ready to be hoisted out at a moment’s notice.”
The hands came tumbling up from breakfast in a perfect babble of sound—the order to clear for action, the tricolour at the peak, the mountains of Spain ahead, the morning’s capture, all combining to work them up into wild excitement.
“Keep those men silent on the maindeck, there!” bellowed Hornblower. “It sounds like Bedlam turned loose.”
The noise dwindled abruptly, the men creeping about like children in a house with an irascible father. The bulkheads came down, the galley fire was tipped overside. The boys were running up with powder for the guns; the shot garlands between the guns were filled with the black iron spheres ready for instant use.
“Cleared for action, sir,” said Bush.
“H-h’m,” said Hornblower. “Captain Morris, if I send away the long boat and launch, I want twenty marines in each. Have your men told off ready.”
Hornblower took his glass and studied once more the rapidly nearing coast line. There were cliffs there, and the coast road wound at the foot of them, at the water’s edge, and the shore was steep-to, according to his charts. But it would be a sensible precaution to start the lead going soon. He was taking a risk in approaching a lee shore guarded by heavy batteries—the Sutherland might be badly knocked about before she could beat to windward out of range again. Hornblower was counting not merely on the disguise he had adopted, but on the very fact that the French would not believe that an English ship could take that risk.
To the French in the batteries the presence of a French ship of the line off that coast was susceptible of explanation—she might have ventured forth from Toulon, or have come in from the Atlantic, or she might be a refugee from some Ionian island attacked by the British, seeking refuge after long wanderings. He could not believe that they would open fire without allowing time for explanation.
At a word from Hornblower the Sutherland turned on a course parallel with the shore, heading northward with the wind abeam. She was creeping along now, in the light breeze, only just out of gunshot of the shore. The sun was blazing down upon them, the crew standing silently at their stations, the officers grouped on the quarterdeck, Hornblower with the sweat running down his face, sweeping the coast with his glass in search of an objective. The little wind was calling forth only the faintest piping from the rigging; the rattle of the blocks to the gentle roll of the ship sounded unnaturally loud in the silence as did the monotonous calling of the man at the lead. Suddenly Savage hailed from the foretop.
“There’s a lot of small craft, sir, at anchor round the point, there. I can just see ‘em from here, sir.”
A dark speck danced in the object glass of Hornblower’s telescope. He lowered the instrument to rest his aching eye, and then he raised it again. The speck was still there; it was a tricolour flag waving lazily in the wind from a flagstaff on the point. That was what Hornblower had been seeking. A French battery perched on the top of the cliff. Forty-two pounders, probably, sited with a good command, probably with furnaces for heating the shot—no ship that floated could fight them. Clustered underneath, a little coasting fleet, huddling there for shelter at the sight of a strange sail.
“Tell your men to lie down,” said Hornblower to Morris. He did not want the red coats of the marines drawn up on the quarterdeck to reveal his ship prematurely for what she was.
The Sutherland crept along, the grey cliffs growing more clearly defined as at Hornblower’s order she was edged closer in shore. Beyond the cliffs mountain peaks were revealing themselves with startling suddenness whenever Hornblower’s rigid concentration on the battery relaxed. He could see the parapets now in his glass, and he almost thought he could see the big guns peeping over them. At any moment now the battery might burst into thunder and flame and smoke, and in that case he would have to turn and fly, baffled. They were well within gunshot now. Perhaps the French had guessed the Sutherland’s identity, and were merely waiting to have her well within range. Every minute that the Sutherland approached meant another minute under fire when she tried to escape. The loss of a mast might mean in the end the loss of the ship.
“Mr. Vincent,” said Hornblower, without shifting his gaze from the battery. “Hoist MV.”
The words sent a stir through the group of officers. They could be certain now of what plan Hornblower had in mind. The trick increased the risk of detection at the same time as, if it were successful, it gave them more opportunity of approaching the battery. If MV were the French recognition signal, and was being correctly employed, well and good. If not—the battery would soon tell them so. Hornblower, his heart thumping in his breast, judged that at any rate it might confuse the issue for the officer in the battery and induce him to delay a little longer. The signal rose up the halliards, and the battery still stayed silent. Now a signal hoist soared up the battery’s flagstaff.
“I can’t read that, sir,” said Vincent. “One of ‘em’s a swallowtail we don’t use.”
But the mere fact of the battery’s signalling in reply meant that they were at least doubtful of the Sutherland’s identity—unless it were part of the plan to lure her closer in. Yet if the battery delayed much longer it would be too late.
“Mr. Bush, do you see the battery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will take the long boat. Mr. Rayner will take the launch, and you will land and storm the battery.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I will give you the word when to hoist out.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Quarter less eight,” droned the leadsman—Hornblower had listened to each cast subconsciously; now that the water was shoaling he was compelled to give half his attention up to the leadsman’s cries while still scrutinising the battery. A bare quarter of a mile from it now; it was time to strike.