For this business of detecting the needle of the flota in the haystack of the Atlantic was a little more simple than might appear at first sight. The first point was that by the cumbrous law of Spain the flota had to discharge its cargo at Cadiz, and nowhere else. The second point was that the direction of the wind was a strong indication of the point of the compass from which the flota might appear. The third point was that the flota, after a long sea passage, was likely to be uncertain of its longitude; by sextant it could be reasonably sure of its latitude, and could be counted on to run the final stages of its course along the latitude of Cadiz—36° 30´ north—so as to make sure of avoiding the Portuguese coast on the one hand and the African coast on the other.
So that in the centre of the British line, squarely on latitude 36° 30´ north, lay the Commodore in the Indefatigable, with the other ships lying due north and due south of him. A flag signal by day or a rocket by night would warn every ship in the line of the approach of the flota, and it should not be difficult for the squadron to concentrate rapidly upon the signalling ship, a hundred and fifty miles out from Cadiz with plenty of time and space available to enforce their demands.
An hour before dawn Hornblower came out on deck, as he had done every two hours during the night—and every two hours during all the preceding nights as well. It had been a clear night and it was still clear now.
“Wind nor’east by north, sir,” reported Prowse. “St Vincent bearing due north about five leagues.”
A moderate breeze; all sail to the royals could be carried, although the Hotspur was under topsails, stealing along close-hauled on the port tack. Hornblower trained his telescope over the starboard beam, due south, in the direction where Medusa should be, next in line; Hotspur, as befitted her small importance, was the northernmost ship, at the point where it was least likely for the flota to appear. It was not quite light enough yet for Medusa to be visible.
“Mr. Foreman, get aloft, if you please, with your signal book.”
Of course every officer and man in Hotspur must be puzzled about this daily routine, this constant surveillance of a single stretch of water. Ingenious minds might even guess the true objective of the squadron. That could not be helped.
“There she is, sir!” said Prowse. “Beating sou’ by west. We’re a little ahead of station.”
“Back the mizzen tops’l, if you please.”
They might be as much as a couple of miles ahead of station—not too unsatisfactory after a long night. It was easy enough to drop back to regain the exact bearing, due north from Medusa.
“Deck, there!” Foreman was hailing from the main-topmast-head. “Medusa’s signalling. ‘Commodore to all ships’.”
Medusa was relaying the signal from Indefatigable out of sight to the southward.
“Wear ship,” went on Foreman. “Course west. Topsails.”
“Mr. Cheeseman, kindly acknowledge.”
Cheeseman was the second signal officer, learning his trade as Foreman’s deputy. “Send the hands to the braces, Mr. Prowse.”
It must be a gratifying experience for Moore to manoeuvre a line of ships sixty miles long by sending up and hauling down flags.
“Deck!” There was a different tone in Foreman’s voice, not the tone of matter of fact routine. “Sail in sight on the port bow, nearly to windward, sir. Coming down before the wind, fast.”
Hotspur was still waiting for Medusa’s signal to come down to indicate the exact moment to wear.
“What do you make of her, Mr. Foreman?”
“She’s a ship of war, sir. She’s a frigate. She looks French to me, sir. She might be the Felicite, sir.”
She might well be the Felicite, coming out from Cadiz. By now word could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea. Felicite would come out; she could warn, and divert, the flota, if she could get past the British line. Or she could hang about on the horizon until the flota should appear, and then interfere with the negotiations. Bonaparte could make great play in the Moniteur regarding the heroic French navy coming to the aid of an oppressed neutral fleet. And Felicite’s presence might have great weight in the scale should it come to a fight; a large French frigate and four large Spanish ones against one large British frigate, three small ones, and a sloop.
“I’ll get aloft and have a look at her myself, sir.” This was Bush, in the right place at the right time as usual. He ran up the ratlines with the agility of any seaman.
“Signal’s down, sir!” yelled Foreman.
Hotspur should put up her helm at this moment, for all five ships to wear together.
“No, Mr. Prowse. We’ll wait.”
On the horizon Medusa wore round. Now she was before the wind, increasing her distance rapidly from Hotspur on the opposite course.
“That’s Felicite for certain, sir!” called Bush.
“Thank you, Mr. Bush. Kindly come down at once. Drummer! Beat to quarters. Clear for action. Mr. Cheeseman, send this signal. ‘Have sighted French frigate to windward’.”
“Aye aye, sir. Medusa’s going out of sight fast.”
“Hoist it, anyway.”
Bush had descended like lightning, to exchange glances for one moment with Hornblower before hurrying off to supervise clearing for action. For that moment there was an inquiring look in his eye. He alone in the ship beside Hornblower knew the objective of the British squadron. If Hotspur was parted from the other ships when the flota should be sighted she would lose her share of the prize money. But prize money was only one factor; the flota was a primary objective. Hotspur would disregard Medusa’s signals and turn aside from the objective at her peril—at Hornblower’s peril. And Bush knew, too, the disparity of force between Hotspur and Felicite. A battle broadside to broadside could only end with half Hotspur’s crew dead and the other half prisoners of war.
“Medusa’s out of sight, sir. She hasn’t acknowledged.” This was Foreman, still aloft.
“Very well, Mr. Foreman. You can come down,”
“You can see her from the deck, sir,” said Prowse.
“Yes.” Right on the horizon the Frenchman’s topsails and topgallants were plainly in view. Hornblower found it a little difficult to keep them steady in the field of the telescope. He was pulsing with excitement; he could only hope that his face did not reveal him to be as anxious and worried as he felt.
“Cleared for action, sir,” reported Bush.
The guns were run out, the excited guns’ crews at their stations.
“She’s hauled her wind!” exclaimed Prowse.
“Ah!”
Felicite had come round on the starboard tack, heading to allow Hotspur to pass far astern of her. She was declining battle.
“Isn’t he going to fight?” exclaimed Bush.
Hornblower’s tensions were easing a little with this proof of the accuracy of his judgement. He had headed for Felicite with the intention of engaging in a scrambling long range duel. He had hoped to shoot away enough of the Felicite’s spars to cripple her so that she would be delayed in her mission of warning the flota. And the Frenchman had paralleled his thoughts. He did not want to risk injury with his mission not accomplished.