The need for summary action was not so apparent, nevertheless, Braun, languishing in the sick bay with a right hand he would never use again, and half dead with loss of blood, was certainly not going to start a mutiny among the hands, or set fire to the ship, or seduce the officers from their duty. But there must be the wildest tales flying round the lower deck already. Hornblower could not imagine how the hands would try to account for Braun being brought back from the Tsar’s palace badly wounded. There would be talk and gossip which sooner or later would reach the ears of Bonaparte’s agents, and Hornblower knew Bonaparte’s methods too well to doubt that he would make the utmost use of an opportunity to sow dissension between his enemies. Alexander would never forgive a country which had brought him within a hair’s breadth of assassination. When the authorities at home should come to know of the incident they would be furious, and it was he, Hornblower, who would be the object of their fury. Hornblower thought of the report locked in his desk, marked ‘Most Secret and Confidential’ in which he had put down the facts. He could imagine that report being put in as evidence against him at a court martial, and he could imagine what view his brother captains who would be his judges would take of it.
For a moment Hornblower toyed with the idea of concealing the incident altogether, making no report about it at all, but he put the motion aside as impractical. Someone would talk. On the other hand, there was the clause in his orders which bound him to make the freest use of Braun’s experience; that might cover him, and besides, the insertion of that clause implied that Braun had friends in authority who would be interested possibly in protecting him and certainly in protecting themselves, and who in consequence would not wish too public a scandal to be made. It was all very complex.
“Mr. Montgomery,” said Hornblower, harshly, “what sort of course do your quartermasters keep? Have ‘em steer smaller than that, or I shall want an explanation from you.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Montgomery.
At least he had done his part towards dragging Russia into war with Bonaparte—the last word he had received from Wychwood before leaving Kronstadt had been to the effect that Alexander had sent a defiant reply to Bonaparte’s latest demands. Should war result, Bonaparte’s main strength would have to be employed in the East for this summer, giving Wellington the opportunity to strike a blow in the South. But how much chance had Russia of withstanding the attack Bonaparte could launch against her? Every year for a dozen years had seen a great victory won by Bonaparte, one nation or another overthrown in a few weeks’ campaign. Next winter might well see Russia beaten and as subservient to Bonaparte as Austria or Prussia were already; and Downing Street, faced by Russian hostility, would remember her previous dubious neutrality with regret, especially as Bonaparte would undoubtedly take advantage of a Russian defeat to overrun Sweden. So then the whole of Europe, from North Cape to the Dardanelles, would be leagued against England; she would be driven from her meagre foothold in Spain, and left to face the alternatives of continuing a struggle in which there was no prospect of any relief, or making a still more dangerous peace with a tyrant whose malignant ill will could never be appeased. In that case it would not be to any man’s credit that he had contributed to the catastrophe of Russia’s entry into the war.
Bush had come on deck, clearly sent for by Montgomery as officer of the watch. He was reading the deck log which Montgomery had inscribed on the slate, and he was studying the traverse board. Now he came stumping over to the starboard side of the quarter-deck to touch his hat to Hornblower.
“Reval—Tallinn as those Swedish charts call it, sir—bears south-east twenty-five miles by my reckoning, sir. That point of land to port is the north cape of Naissaar island, however it’s pronounced.”
“Thank you, Captain Bush.”
Hornblower even felt the temptation to vent his ill temper on Bush; he could imagine keenly enough how Bush would wilt and the hurt look that would come into his face at a sarcastic gibe at his mispronouncing of foreign names and his self-consciousness regarding it. Bush was always an easy target, and a satisfactory one from the point of view of readily apparent results, Hornblower dallied with the temptation while Bush stood before him awaiting orders. It was even amusing to keep him waiting like this; Hornblower suspected that Bush was nervously wondering what devilment he had in mind. Then in a wave of reaction Hornblower felt contempt for himself. It was bad enough that Vickery’s unknown officer of the watch should at this moment be in trouble because his Commodore was worried about what to do with Braun; it was far worse that the faithful, capable Bush should be suffering mental unhappiness for the same reason.
“Lay a course for Königsberg, Captain Bush, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
So far did the reaction go that Hornblower went on to explain the motives that guided him in reaching this decision.
“Danzig and Königsberg and East Prussia are Bonaparte’s base of operations. The army he has gathered in Poland is supplied by river and canal from there—by the Vistula and the Pregel and the Memel. We’re going to see if we can put a spoke in Bonaparte’s wheel.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’ll put the squadron through general evolutions this morning.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush was simply beaming at this remarkable unbending of his unpredictable chief. He was a long-suffering individual; as second-in-command he would be justified in looking upon it as his right to be admitted to the Commodore’s secrets. After all, a stray bullet, a falling spar, a stroke of disease might easily put him in command of the whole force. Yet he remained grateful for any scraps of information which Hornblower condescended to throw to him.
Nonsuch came round on the port tack as Bush and the sailing master decided on what course to steer. She lay over under her pyramids of canvas, the taut weather-rigging harping sharply to the wind, and Hornblower moved over from the starboard side to port, the windward side, as was his right. He looked back at the rest of the squadron, each vessel bracing sharp up in succession, following in the leader’s wake, Lotus and Raven, Moth and Harvey. Clam was not with them—she had been kept at Kronstadt to follow with any news Wychwood might be able to pick up—but five vessels were quite enough to exercise at manoeuvres.
“Bring me the signal book,” ordered Hornblower.
Flags raced up the halliards, each signal a chain of black balls, like beads on a string, until it was broken out, but in the other ships keen eyes were watching through telescopes, reading the flags even before they were broken out, and anxious officers were ordering the replies to be bent on ready to hoist without a moment’s delay. The squadron tacked in succession, wore together on a line of bearing, came to the wind again in succession into line ahead. They reduced sail in conformity with the leader—every ship sending every possible hand aloft to get in courses or topgallants the moment Hornblower’s intentions became clear—and they made sail again. They reefed topsails, double-reefed them, shook them out again. They hove-to, hoisted out their boats manned with armed boarding parties, and hoisted the boats in again. Resuming their course they opened their ports, ran out their guns, secured them again, and then ran them out and secured them again. A fresh signal mounted Nonsuch’s halliards, headed by Raven’s number.