“Put the ship about, if you please, Mr. Prowse.”
Hotspur tacked like a machine.
“Full and bye!”
Now she headed to cross Felicite’s bows on a sharply converging course. The Frenchman, in declining battle, had it in mind to slip round the flank of the British line so as to escape in the open sea and join the Spaniards ahead of the British, and Hornblower was heading him off. Hornblower watched the topsails on the horizon, and saw them swing.
“He’s turning away!”
Much good that would do him. Far, far beyond the topsails was a faint blue line on the horizon, the bold coast of Southern Portugal.
“He won’t weather St. Vincent on that course,” said Prowse.
Lagos, St. Vincent, Sagres; all great names in the history of the sea, and that jutting headland would just baulk Felicite in her attempt to evade action. She would have to fight soon, and Hornblower was visualizing the kind of battle it would be.
“Mr. Bush!”
“Sir!”
“I want two guns to bear directly astern. You’ll have to cut away the transoms aft. Get to work at once.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bush.”
Sailing ships were always hampered in the matter of firing directly ahead or astern; no satisfactory solution of the difficult had ever been found. Guns were generally so useful on the broadside that they were wasted on the ends of the ship, and ship construction had acknowledged the fact. Now the cry for the carpenter’s crew presaged abandoning all the advantages that had been wrung from these circumstances by shipbuilders through the centuries. Hotspur was weakening herself in exchange for a momentary advantage in a rare situation. Under his feet Hornblower felt the crack of timber and the vibration of saws at work.
“Send the gunner aft. He’ll have to rig tackles and breechings before the guns are moved.”
The blue line of the coast was now much more sharply defined; the towering headland of St. Vincent was in plain view. And Felicite was hull-up now, the long, long, line of guns along her side clearly visible, run out and ready for action. Her main-topsail was a-shiver, and she was rounding-to. Now she was challenging action, offering battle.
“Up helm, Mr. Prowse. Back the main-tops’l.”
Every minute gained was of value. Hotspur rounded-to as well. Hornblower had no intention of fighting a hopeless battle; if the Frenchman could wait he could wait as well. With this gentle breeze and moderate sea Hotspur held an advantage over the bigger French ship which was not lightly to be thrown away. Hotspur and Felicite eyed each other like two pugilists just stepping into the ring. It was such a beautiful day of blue sky and blue sea; it was a lovely world which he might be leaving soon. The rumble of gun trucks told him that one gun-carriage at least was being moved into position, and yet at this minute somehow he thought of Maria and of little Horatio—madness; he put that thought instantly out of his mind.
The seconds crept by; perhaps the French captain was holding a council of war on his quarter-deck; perhaps he was merely hesitating, unable to reach a decision at this moment when the fate of nations hung in the balance.
“Message from Mr. Bush, sir. One gun run out ready for action, sir. The other one in five minutes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Orrock. Tell Mr. Bush to station the two best gun-layers there.”
Felicite’s main-topsail was filling again.
“Hands to the braces!”
Hotspur stood in towards her enemy. Hornblower would not yield an inch of sea room unnecessarily.
“Helm a-weather!”
That was very long cannon shot as Hotspur wore round. Felicite’s bow was pointing straight at her; Hotspur’s stern was turned squarely to her enemy, the ships exactly in line.
“Tell Mr. Bush to open fire!”
Even before the message could have reached him Bush down below had acted. There was the bang-bang of the guns, the smoke bursting out under the counter, eddying up over the quarter-deck with the following wind. Nothing visible to Hornblower’s straining eye at the telescope; only the beautiful lines of Felicite’s bows, her sharply-steeved bowsprit, her gleaming canvas. The rumble of the gun-trucks underfoot as the guns were run out again. Bang! Hornblower saw it. Standing right above the gun, looking straight along the line of flight, he saw the projectile, a lazy pencil mark against the white and blue, up and then down, before the smoke blew forward. Surely that was a hit. The smoke prevented his seeing the second shot.
The long British nine-pounder was the best gun in the service as far as precision went. The bore was notoriously true, and the shot could be more accurately cast than the larger projectiles. And even a nine-pounder shot, flying at a thousand feet a second, could deal lusty blows. Bang! The Frenchman would he unhappy at receiving this sort of punishment without hitting back.
“Look at that!” said Prowse.
Felicite’s fore-staysail was out of shape, flapping in the wind; it was hard to see at first glance what had happened.
“His fore-stay’s parted, sir,” decided Prowse.
That Prowse was correct was shown a moment later when Felicite took in the fore-staysail. The loss of the sail itself made little difference, but the fore-stay was a most important item in the elaborate system of checks and balances (like a French constitution before Bonaparte seized power) which kept a ship’s masts in position under the pressure of the sails.
“Mr. Orrock, run below and say ‘Well done’ to Mr. Bush.”
Bang! As the smoke eddied Hornblower saw Felicite round-to, and as her broadside presented itself to his sight it vanished in a great bank of leaping smoke. There was the horrid howl of a passing cannon-ball somewhere near; there were two jets of water from the surface of the sea, one on each quarter, and that was all Hornblower saw or heard of the broadside. An excited crew, firing from a wheeling ship, could not be expected to do better than that, even with twenty-two guns.
A ragged cheer went up from Hotspur’s crew, and Hornblower, turning, saw that every idle hand was craning out of the gun-ports, peering aft at the Frenchman. He could hardly object to that, but when he turned back to look at Felicite again he saw enough to set the men hurriedly at work. The Frenchman had not yawed merely to fire her broadside; she was hove-to, mizzen topsail to the mast, in order to splice the fore-stay. Lying like that, her guns would not bear. But not a second was to be lost, with Hotspur before the wind and the range increasing almost irretrievably.
“Stand by your guns to port! Hands to the braces! Hard-a-starboard!”
Hotspur wore sweetly round on to the port-tack. She was on Felicite’s port quarter where not a French gun would bear. Bush came running from aft to keep his eye on the port-side guns; he strode along from gun to gun, making sure by eye that elevation and training were correct as Hotspur fired her broadside into her hapless enemy. Very long range, but some of those shots must have caused damage. Hornblower watched the bearing of Felicite altering as Hotspur drew astern of her.
“Stand-by to go about after the next broadside!”
The nine guns roared out, and the smoke was still eddying in the waist as Hotspur tacked.
“Starboard side guns!”
Excited men raced across the deck to aim and train; another broadside, but Felicite’s mizzen topsail was wheeling round.
“Helm a-weather!”
By the time the harassed Frenchman had come before the wind again Hotspur had anticipated her; both ships were again in line and Bush was racing aft to supervise the fire of the stern chasers once more. This was revenge for the action with the Loire so long ago. In this moderate breeze and smooth sea the handy sloop held every advantage over the big frigate; what had gone on up to now was only a sample of what was to continue all through that hungry weary day of golden sun and blue sea and billowing powder smoke.