“Starboard a point,” he said to the quartermaster. That was the moment, like playing his King as third player to the first trick in hand of whist; it was the best thing to do, taking all chances into consideration, and so, the decision taken, there was no room for second thoughts.
The moderate breeze was holding; that meant not merely that he had Atropos under full command, but also that wavelets would be breaking at the foot of Kaia Rock and Sari Point, reflecting back the moonlight visibly to Turner’s night glass. He could see Ada Peninsula plainly enough. At this angle it looked as if there was no exit at all from the Bay; Atropos seemed to be gliding down, unhurried, as though to immolate herself upon an unbroken coast.
“Mr. Jones, hands to the braces and head sail sheets, if you please.”
The gunners on Ada would be able to see the ship plainly enough now, silhouetted against the moon; they would be waiting for her to turn. Passage Island and Sari Point were still blended together. He held on.
“Breakers on the port bow!”
That was Turner hailing from forward.
“Breakers ahead!” A long pause, and then Turner’s high, thin voice again, sharpened with anxiety. “Breakers ahead!”
“Mr. Jones, we’ll be wearing ship soon.”
He could see well enough. He carried the chart before his mental eyes, and could superimpose it upon the shadowy landscape before him.
“Breakers ahead!”
The closer he came the better. That shore was steep-to.
“Now, Mr. Jones. Quartermaster—hard a-starboard.”
She was coming round on her heel like a dancer. Too fast!
“Meet her! Steady!”
He must hold on for a moment; and it would be as well, too, for then Atropos could regain the way and handiness of which the sharp turn had deprived her.
“Breakers ahead! Breakers on the starboard bow! Breakers to port!”
A chain of long, bright flashes over port quarter; a thunder-roll of reports, echoing again from the hills.
“Hard a-starboard. Brace her up, Mr. Jones. Full and by!”
Coming round now, with Sari Point close alongside; not merely alongside but right ahead with the hollow curve of it.
“Keep your luff!”
“Sir—sir—”
The quartermaster at the wheel was croaking with anxiety; she would be in irons in a moment. The headsails were flapping. From the feel of her she was losing her way, sagging off to leeward; she would be aground before long.
“Port a little.”
That would keep her going for a moment. The black bulk of Kaia was plainly visible to port. Sari was ahead and to starboard, and the wind was in their teeth. They were creeping forward to destruction. But there must be—there must be—a back lash of wind from Sari Point. It could not be otherwise with that land formation. The headsails flapped again as the quartermaster at the wheel vacillated between going aground and being taken aback.
“Keep her going.”
“Sir—!”
It would be close under the land that air would be found if at all. Ah! Hornblower could feel the transition with the acute sensitivity of the seaman; the cessation of wind and then the tiny gentle breath on the other cheek. The headsails flapped again, but in a different mood from before; before Hornblower could speak the quartermaster was turning the wheel in agonized relief. It would only be a second or two that would be granted them, small enough time in which to gather steerage way to get the ship under command again, to gain distance from the cliffs.
“Stand by to go about!”
Steerage way so that the rudder would bite; that was what was wanted now. A flash and a roar from Passage Island—Kaia Rock nearly intercepted the flash; perhaps the shot was intercepted as well. That would be the first gun to be reloaded. The others would undoubtedly follow soon. Another flash, another roar, but no time to think about them, for Hornblower’s perceptions told him of the fresh alteration in the feel of the ship. They were passing out into the wind again.
“Headsail sheets!”
One moment more. Now!
“Hard a-starboard!”
He could feel the rudder bite. She was coming round. She would not miss stays. As she emerged into the wind she was on her new tack.
“Breakers right ahead!”
That was Kaia Rock, of course. But they must gather way again.
“Stand by to go about!”
They must hold on until the bowsprit was almost touching. Wait. Now!
“Hard over!”
The wheel spun. She was sluggish. Yes—no—yes. The fore staysail was drawing. She was coming round. The yards turned as the hands came aft with the lee-braces. One moment’s hesitation, and then she gathered way on the fresh tack, leaving Kaia close beside them, Sari Point ahead; no chance of weathering it on this tack.
“Stand by to go about!”
Hold on as far as possible; this would be the last tack that would be necessary. A howl close overhead. That was a cannon-ball from Passage Island.
“Stand by! Hard over!”
Round she came, the rocks at the foot of Sari Point clearly visible as she wheeled away from them. A flaw, an eddy in the wind again, but only a second’s hesitation as she caught the true breeze. Hold on for safety a moment more, with Kaia close abeam. Now all was safe.
“Mr. Jones! Course South by East.”
“Course South by East, sir!”
They were heading into the open sea, with Rhodes to starboard and Turkey left behind, and with a king’s ransom in the lazarette. They were leaving behind a prince’s ransom, so to speak, but Hornblower could think of that with hardly a twinge.
XIX
His Majesty’s sloop of war Atropos, admittedly, was the smallest ship in the British Navy. There were brigs of war smaller than she was, and schooners and cutters smaller still, but she was the smallest ship in the technical sense, with three masts and a captain in command, that King George owned, yet Hornblower was well content with her. There were times when he looked at the captains’ list, and saw below his name those of the fifty captains junior to him, and when he noted above his name the slowly dwindling number of captains senior to him—as captains died or attained flag rank—and it occurred to him that some day, with good fortune, he might be posted to a frigate or even a ship of the line, yet at the moment he was content.
He had completed a mission and was entering upon another one. He had discharged at Gibraltar two hundred thousand pounds sterling in gold and silver coin, and he had left there the unpleasant Mr. McCullum and his Ceylonese divers. The money was to await shipment to London, where it would constitute some part of the “British gold” that sustained the fainting spirits of England’s allies and against which Bonaparte raved so violently in his bulletins; McCullum and his men would wait for an opportunity to travel in the opposite direction, round Africa back to India. And Atropos was running before a heavy westerly gale in a third direction, back up the Mediterranean to rejoin Collingwood and the Mediterranean Fleet.
She seemed to be lightheartedly free of her encumbrances as she heaved and pitched on the quartering sea; after six months afloat, with hardly six hours on land, Hornblower’s seasickness was no longer apparent and he was lighthearted on that account too, along with his ship. Collingwood had seen fit to approve of his report on his proceedings at Marmorice before sending him on to Gibraltar with the treasure, and had given him, for his return journey, orders that an adventurous young captain would approve of. He was to scour the Mediterranean coast of southern Spain, disorganize the Spanish coasting trade, gather up any information he could by personal observation of the harbours, and then look in at Corsica before rejoining the Fleet off the Italian coast, where it was damming back, at the water’s edge, Bonaparte’s new flood of conquest. Naples had fallen, but Sicily was held intact; Bonaparte’s monstrous power ended when the salt water reached the saddle-girths of his horse. His armies could march where they would, but his ships cowered in port, or only
ventured forth on furtive raids, while the little Atropos, with her twenty-two tiny guns, had twice sailed the whole length of the Mediterranean, from Gibraltar to Marmorice and back again, without once seeing the tricolor flag.
No wonder Hornblower felt pleased with himself, standing on the plunging deck without a qualm, looking over at the serrated skyline which, in the clear Mediterranean air, indicated the mountains of Spain. He had sailed boldly in within gunshot of the harbours and roadsteads of the coast; he had looked into Malaga and Motril and Almeria; fishing boats and coasters had fled before him like minnows before a pike. He had rounded Cape de Gata and had clawed his way back to the coast again so as to look into Cartegena. Malaga and Almeria had sheltered no ships of war. That was negative information, but even negative information could be of value to Collingwood as he directed the activities of his enormous fleet, covering the ramifications of British commerce over two thousand miles of sea, with his finger on the pulse of a score of international enmities and alliances. Cartagena was the principal Spanish naval base. An examination of it would reveal whether the bankrupt Spanish government had made any effort to reconstitute the fleet shattered at Trafalgar. Perhaps a French ship or two would be sheltering there, on one stage of some adventurous cruise planned by Bonaparte to enable them to strike at British convoys.
Hornblower looked up at the straining rigging, felt the heave and plunge of the ship under his feet. There were two reefs in the topsails already—it was more than half a gale that was blowing. He considered, and then dismissed, the notion of a third reef. Atropos could carry that amount of canvas safely enough. Cape Cope lay on the port beam; his glass revealed that a little cluster of coasters had taken refuge in the shallows under its lee, and he looked at them longingly. But there were batteries to protect them, and this wind made any attempt on them quite impracticable—he could not send in boats in the teeth of half a gale. He gave an order to the helmsman and the Atropos went hurtling on towards Cartagena. It was exhilarating to stand here by the taffrail with the wind screaming round him and a creamy wake emerging from under the stern beneath his feet. He smiled to watch Mr. Turner’s navigation class at work; Turner had the midshipmen and master’s mates around him giving them instruction in coastwise navigation. He was trying to ballast their feather-brains with good solid mathematics about the “running fix” and “doubling the angle on the bow” and the “four-point bearing”, but it was a difficult task to retain their attention in these stimulating surroundings, with the wind setting the chart fluttering wildly in Turner’s hand and even making it hard for the young men to hold their slates steady as it caught their inclined surfaces.
“Mr. Turner,” said Hornblower. “Report any case of inattention to me at once and I will deal with it as it deserves.”
That steadied the young men to a noticeable extent and made them restrain their animal spirits. Smiley checked himself in the midst of a wink at the young Prince, and the Prince’s embryo guffaw was stillborn as a guilty grin. That boy was perfectly human now—it was a far cry from the stuffy German court into which he had been born to the windy deck of the Atropos. If ever he were restored to the throne of his fathers he would be free of the thraldom of a sextant, but perhaps he might remember these breezy days with regret. The great-nephew of King George—Hornblower looked at him pretending to study the equilateral triangle scrawled on his slate, and smiled to himself again, remembering Dr. Eisenbeiss’s horror at the suggestion that perhaps corporal punishment might come the way of a reigning Prince. It had not so far, but it might.
Four bells sounded, the sand glass was turned, the wheel was relieved, and Turner dismissed his class.
“Mr. Smiley! Mr. Horrocks!”
The released midshipmen turned to their captain.
“I want you at the mastheads now with your glasses.”
Sharp young eyes would be best for looking into Cartagena. Hornblower noticed the appeal in the Prince’s expression.
“Very well, Mr. Prince. You can go too. Fore topmast head with Mr. Smiley.”
It was a frequent punishment to send a young officer up to the discomforts of the masthead, but it was no punishment today, not with an enemy’s harbour to be examined, and reports made on the shipping inside. Cartagena was fast coming into sight; the castle and the towers of the churches were visible now beyond the sheltering island of La Escombrera. With this westerly wind it was simple enough to stand right in so that from the masthead a view could be had of the inner harbour.
“Deck, there! Captain, sir—”
Smiley was hailing down from the fore topmast head. Hornblower had to walk forward to hear what he had to say, for the wind was sweeping away his words.
“There’s a ship of war in the outer bay, sir! Spanish, she looks like. One of their big frigates. She’s got her yards across.”
That was likely to be the Castilla, one of the survivors of Trafalgar.
“There’s seven sail of coasters anchored close in, sir.”
They were safe enough from the Atropos in these conditions.
“What about the inner harbour?”
“Four—no five ships moored there, sir. And two hulks.”
“What d’you make of them?”
“Four of the line, sir, and a frigate. No yards across. Laid up in ordinary, I should say, sir.”
In past years the Spanish government had built fine ships, but under the corruption and inefficiency of Godoy they were allowed to rot at their moorings for want of crews and stores. Four of the line and a frigate laid up at Cartagena was what had last been reported there, so there was no change; negative information for Collingwood again, but useful.
“She’s setting sail!”
That was the prince’s voice, high-pitched and excited, screaming down. A moment later Horrocks and Smiley were supplementing the warning.
“The frigate, sir! She’s getting sail on her!”
“I can see her cross, sir!”
Spanish ships of war had the habit of hoisting huge wooden crosses at the mizzen peak when action seemed likely. The frigate must be intending to make a sortie, to chase away this inquisitive visitor. It was high time to beat a retreat. A big Spanish frigate such as the Castilla carried forty-four guns, just twice as many as Atropos, and with three times their weight of metal. If only over the horizon Atropos had a colleague to whom she could lure the Castilla! That was something to bear in mind and to suggest to Collingwood in any case; this Spanish captain was enterprising and energetic, and might be rash—he might be smouldering with shame after Trafalgar, and he might be lured out to his destruction.
“She’s under way, sir!”
“Fore tops’l set! Main tops’l set, sir!”
No sense in courting danger, even though with this wind Atropos had a clear run to safety.
“Keep her away a point,” said Hornblower to the helmsman, and Atropos turned a little to show a clean pair of heels to the Spaniard.
“She’s coming out, sir!” reported Horrocks from the main topmast head. “Reefed tops’ls. Two reefs, I think, sir.”
Hornblower trained his glass over the quarter. There it was, the white oblong just showing above the horizon as Atropos lifted—the reefed fore topsail of the Castilla.
“She’s pointing straight at us now, sir,” reported Smiley.
In a stern chase like this Atropos had nothing to fear, newly coppered as she was and with a pretty turn of speed. The high wind and the rough sea would favour the bigger ship, of course. The Castilla might contrive to keep the Atropos in sight even though she had no chance of over-taking her. It would be a useful object lesson to officers and men to see Atropos making the best use of her potentiality for speed. Hornblower looked up again at sails and rigging Certainly now there could be no question of taking in a third reef. He must carry all possible sail, just as the Castilla was doing.
Mr. Still, as officer of the watch, was touching his hat to Hornblower with a routine question.
“Carry on, Mr. St
ill.”
“Up spirits!”
With a powerful enemy plunging along behind her the life of the Atropos went on quite normally; the men had their grog and went to their dinners, the watch changed, the wheel was relieved. Palos Point disappeared over the port quarter as Atropos went flying on into the open Mediterranean, and still that white oblong kept its position on the horizon astern. The Castilla was doing Well for a Spanish frigate.
“Call me the moment there is any change, Mr. Jones,” said Hornblower, shutting his glass.
Jones was nervous—he might be imagining himself in a Spanish prison already. It would do him no harm to be left on deck with the responsibility, even though, down in his cabin, Hornblower found himself getting up from his dinner table to peer aft through the scuttle to make sure the Castilla was not gaining on them. In fact, Hornblower was not sorry when, with his dinner not yet finished, a knock at the door brought a messenger from the quarter-deck.