The exultation even remained when he quitted the deck and descended into the cabin. Here the prospect was cheerless in the extreme. He had mortified his flesh after he had come on board his ship at Deptford. His conscience had nagged at him for the scanty hours he had wasted with his wife and children; and he had never left his ship again for a moment after he had reported her ready for sea. No farewell to Maria lying in childbed, no last parting from little Horatio and little Maria. And no purchase of cabin equipment. The furniture about him was what the ship’s carpenter had made for him, canvas chairs, a roughandready table, a cot whose frame was strung with cordage to support a coarse canvas mattress stuffed with straw. A canvas pillow, strawfilled, to support his head; coarse Navy blankets to cover his skinny body. There was no carpet on the deck under his feet; the light came from a swinging and odorous ship’s lantern. A shelf with a hole in it supported a tin washbasin; on the bulkhead above it hung the scrap of polished steel mirror from Hornblower’s meagre canvas dressingroll. The most substantial articles present were the two sea chests in the corners; apart from them a monk’s cell could hardly have been more bare.
But there was no selfpity in Hornblower’s mind as he crouched under the low deck beams unhooking his stock preparatory to going to bed. He expected little from this world, and he could lead an inner life of the mind that could render him oblivious to discomfort. And he had saved a good deal of money by not furnishing his cabin, money which would pay the midwife’s fee, the long bill at the “George,” and the fare for the carrier’s cart which would convey Maria and the children to lodge with her mother at Southsea. He was thinking about them—they must be well on their way now as he drew the clammy blankets over himself and rested his cheek on the rough pillow. Then he had to forget Maria and the children as he reminded himself that as the Atropos’ junction with the fleet was so imminent he must exercise the midshipmen and the signal ratings in signalling. He must devote a good many hours to that, and there would not be much time to spare, for the creaking of the timbers, the heave of the ship, told him that the wind was holding steady.
The wind continued to hold fair. It was at noon on the sixth day that the lookout hailed the deck.
“Sail ho! Dead to loo’ard.”
“Bear down on her, Mr. Jones, if you please. Mr. Smiley! Take a glass and see what you make of her.”
This was the second of the rendezvous which Collingwood had named in his orders. Yesterday’s had been barren, off Cape Carbomara. Not a sail had been sighted since leaving Gibraltar. Collingwood’s frigates had swept the sea clear of French and Spanish shipping, and the British Levant convoy was not due for another month. And no one could guess what was going on in Italy at this moment.
“Captain, sir! She’s a frigate. One of ours.”
“Very well. Signal midshipman! Be ready with the private signal and our number.”
Thank Heaven for all the signaling exercise he had been giving during the last few days.
“Captain, sir! I can see mastheads beyond her. Looks like a fleet.”
“Very well, Mr. Jones, I’ll have the gunner make ready to salute the flag, if you please.”
There was the Mediterranean Fleet, a score of ships of the line, moving slowly in two columns over the blue sea under a blue sky.
“Frigate’s Maenad, 28, sir.”
“Very well.”
Reaching out like the tentacles of a sea monster, the scouting frigates lay far ahead of the main body of the fleet, four of them, with a fifth far to windward whence most likely would appear ships hostile or friendly. The air was clear; Hornblower on the quarterdeck with his glass to his eye could see the double column of topsails of ships of the line, close hauled, every ship exactly the same distance astern of her predecessor. He could see the viceadmiral’s flag at the foremast of the leader of the weather line.
“Mr. Carslake! Have the mailbags ready for sending off.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His own packet of despatches for Collingwood was handy in his cabin.
“Signal midshipman! Can’t you see the flagship’s making a signal?”
“Yes, sir, but the flags are blowing straight away from us. I can’t make them out.”
“What do you think the repeating frigate’s for? Use your eyes.”
“General signal, sir. Number 41. That is ‘tack’, sir.”
“Very well.”
As Atropos had not yet officially joined the Mediterranean squadron a general signal could not apply to her. Down came the signal from the flagship’s yardarm; that was the executive moment. Round came the flagship’s yards; round came the yards of the scouting frigates, and of the leader of the lee column. One by one, at precise intervals, the succeeding ships in the columns came round in order; Hornblower could see the momentary backing and filling of the mizzentopsails which maintained the ships so exactly spaced. It was significant that the drill was being carried out under all plain sail, and not merely under the “fighting sails.” There was something thrilling in the sight of this perfection of drill; but at the same time something a little disturbing. Hornblower found himself wondering, with a qualm of doubt, if he would be able to maintain Atropos so exactly in station now that the time had come to join the fleet.
The manoeuvre was completed now; on its new tack the fleet was steadily plunging forward over the blue sea. There was more bunting fluttering at the flagship’s yardarm.
“General signal, sir. ‘Hands to dinner.’”
“Very well.”
Hornblower felt a bubbling of excitement within him as he stood and watched. The next signal would surely be for him.
“Our number, sir! Flag to Atropos. Take station to windward of me at two cables’ lengths.”
“Very well. Acknowledge.”
There were eyes turned upon him everywhere on deck. This was the moment of trial. He had to come down past the screening frigates, cross ahead of what was now the weather column, and come to the wind at the right moment and at the right distance. And the whole fleet would be watching the little ship. First he had to estimate how far the flagship would progress towards his starboard hand while he was running down to her. But there was nothing for it but to try; there was some faint comfort in being an officer in a fighting service where an order was something that must be obeyed.
“Quartermaster! Port a little. Meet her. Steady as you go! Keep her at that! Mr. Jones!”
“Aye aye, sir.”
No need for an order to Jones. He was more anxious—at least more apparently anxious—than Hornblower was. He had the hands at the braces trimming the yards already. Hornblower looked up at yards and commission pendant to assure himself that the bracing was exact. They had left the Maenad behind already; here they were passing Amphion, one of the central frigates in the screen. Hornblower could see her lying over as she thrashed to windward, the spray flying from her bows. He turned back to look at the flagship, nearly hull up, at least two of her three rows of checkered gunports visible.