‘From the rapidity with which you reached the rendezvous, it appears that your passage was even quicker than ours,’ said Bolton, and the conversation lapsed into technicalities, which endured even after dinner was served.
And clearly Bolton had little idea of what kind of dinner to offer in this scorching heat. There was pea soup, excellent, but heavy. Red mullet – a last minute purchase in Port Mahon at the moment of sailing. A saddle of mutton. Boiled cabbage. A Stilton cheese, now a little past its best. A syrupy port which was not to Hornblower’s taste. No salad, no fruit, not one of the more desirable products of the Minorca Bolton had just left.
‘Minorquin mutton, I fear,’ said Bolton, carvers in hand. ‘My last English sheep died mysteriously at Gibraltar and provided dinner for the gunroom. But you will take a little more, sir?’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Hornblower. He had eaten manfully through a vast helping, and, gorged with mutton fat, was sitting sweating now in the sweltering cabin. Bolton pushed the wine back to him, and Hornblower poured a few drops into his half empty glass. A lifetime of practice had made him adept at appearing to drink level with his host while actually drinking one glass to three. Bolton emptied his own glass and refilled it.
‘And now,’ said Bolton, ‘we must await in idleness the arrival of Sir Mucho Pomposo, Rear Admiral of the Red.’
Hornblower looked at Bolton quite startled. He himself would never have risked speaking of his superior officer as Mucho Pomposo to anyone. Moreover, it had not occurred to him to think of Sir Percy Leighton in that fashion. Criticism of a superior who had yet to demonstrate to him his capacity one way or the other was not Hornblower’s habit; and possibly he was specially slow to criticise a superior who was Lady Barbara’s husband.
‘Mucho Pomposo, I said,’ repeated Bolton. He had drunk one glass more of port than was quite wise, and was pouring himself out another one. ‘We can sit and polish our backsides while he works that old tub of a Pluto round from Lisbon. Wind’s sou’easterly. So it was yesterday, too. If he didn’t pass the Straits two days back it’ll be a week or more before he appears. And if he doesn’t leave all the navigation to Elliott he’ll never arrive at all.’
Hornblower looked up anxiously at the skylight. If any report of his conversation were to reach higher quarters it would do Bolton no good. The latter interpreted the gesture correctly.
‘Oh, never fear,’ he said. ‘I can trust my officers. They don’t respect an admiral who’s no seaman any more than I do. Well, what have you to say?’
Hornblower proffered the suggestion that one of the two ships might push to the northward and begin the task of harassing the French and Spanish coast while the other stayed on the rendezvous awaiting the admiral.
‘That’s a worthy suggestion,’ said Bolton.
Hornblower shook off the lassitude occasioned by the heat and the vast meal inside him. He wanted the Sutherland to be despatched on this duty. The prospect of immediate action was stimulating. He could feel his pulse quickening at the thought, and the more he considered it the more anxious he was that the choice should fall on him. Days of dreary beating about on and off the rendezvous made no appeal to him at all. He could bear it if necessary – twenty years in the navy would harden anyone to waiting – but he did not want to have to. He did not want to.
‘Who shall it be?’ said Bolton. ‘You or me?’
Hornblower took a grip of his eagerness.
‘You are the senior officer on the station, sir,’ he said. ‘It is for you to say.’
‘Yes,’ said Bolton, meditatively. ‘Yes.’
He looked at Hornblower with a considering eye.
‘You’d give three fingers to go,’ he said suddenly, ‘and you know it. You’re the same restless devil that you were in the Indefatigable. I remember beating you for it, in ’93, or was it ’94?’
Hornblower flushed hotly at the reminder. The bitter humiliation of being bent over a gun and beaten by the lieutenant of the midshipman’s berth rankled to this day when it was recalled to him. But he swallowed his resentment; he had no wish to quarrel with Bolton, especially at this juncture, and he knew he was exceptional in regarding a beating as an outrage.
‘ ’93, sir,’ he said. ‘I’d just joined.’
‘And now you’re a post captain, and most noteworthy one in the bottom half of the list,’ said Bolton. ‘God, how time flies. I’d let you go, Hornblower, for old times’ sake, if I didn’t want to go myself.’
‘Oh,’ said Hornblower. His evident disappointment made his expression ludicrous. Bolton laughed.
‘Fair’s fair,’ he said. ‘I’ll spin a coin for it. Agreed?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hornblower, eagerly. Better an even chance than no chance at all.
‘You’ll bear me no malice if I win?’
‘No, sir. None.’
With maddening slowness Bolton reached into his fob and brought out his purse. He took out a guinea and laid it on the table, and then, with the same deliberation, while Hornblower wrestled with his eagerness, he replaced the purse. Then he took up the guinea, and poised it on his gnarled thumb and forefinger.
‘King or spade?’ he asked, looking across at Hornblower.
‘Spade,’ said Hornblower, swallowing hard.
The coin rang as Bolton spun it in the air; he caught it, and crashed it on to the table.
‘Spade it is,’ he said, lifting his hand.
Bolton went through all the motions once more of taking out his purse, putting the guinea back, and thrusting the purse into his fob, while Hornblower forced himself to sit still and watch him. He was cool again now, with the immediate prospect of action.
‘Damn it, Hornblower,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you won. You can speak the Dago lingo, which is more than I can. You’ve had experience with ’em in the South Sea. It’s the sort of duty just made for you. Don’t be gone more than three days. I ought to put that in writing, in case his High Mightiness comes back. But I won’t trouble. Good luck to you, Hornblower, and fill your glass.’
Hornblower filled it two-thirds full – if he left a little in the bottom he would only have drunk half a glass more than he wanted then. He sipped, and leaned back in his chair, restraining his eagerness as long as possible. But it overcame him at last, and he rose.
‘God damn it, man, you’re not going?’ said Bolton. Hornblower’s attitude was unmistakable, but he could not believe the evidence of his eyes.
‘If you would permit me, sir,’ said Hornblower. There’s a fair wind—’
Hornblower was actually stammering as he tried to make all his explanations at once. The wind might change; if it was worth while separating it was better to go now than later; if the Sutherland were to stand in towards the coast during the dark hours there was a chance that she might snap up a prize at dawn – every sort of explanation except the true one that he could not bear to sit still any longer with immediate action awaiting him just over the horizon.
‘Have it your own way, then,’ grumbled Bolton. ‘If you must, you must. You’re leaving me with a half empty bottle. Does that mean you don’t like my port?’
‘No, sir,’ said Hornblower, hastily.
‘Another glass, then, while your boat’s crew is making ready. Pass the word for Captain Hornblower’s gig.’
The last sentence was bellowed towards the closed door of the cabin, and was immediately repeated by the sentry outside.
Boatswain’s pipes twittered as Hornblower went down the Caligula’s side, officers stood to attention, side boys held the lines. The gig rowed rapidly over the silver water in the fading evening; Coxswain Brown looked sidelong, anxiously, at his captain, trying to guess what this hurried and early departure meant. In the Sutherland there was similar anxiety; Bush and Gerard and Crystal and Rayner were all on the quarterdeck awaiting him – Bush had obviously turned out of bed at the news that the captain was returning.
Hornblower paid no attention to their expectant glances. He had made it a rule
to offer no explanation – and there was a pleasurable selfish thrill in keeping his subordinates in ignorance of their future. Even as the gig came leaping up to the tackles he gave the orders which squared the ship away before the wind, heading back to the Spanish coast where adventure awaited them.
‘Caligula’s signalling, sir,’ said Vincent ‘Good luck.’
‘Acknowledge,’ said Hornblower.
The officers on the quarterdeck looked at each other, wondering what the future held in store for them for the commodore to wish them good luck. Hornblower noted the interchange of glances without appearing to see them.
‘Ha-h’m,’ he said, and walked with dignity below, to pore over his charts and plan his campaign. The timbers creaked faintly as the gentle wind urged the ship over the almost placid sea.
X
‘Two bells, sir,’ said Polwheal, waking Hornblower from an ecstatic dream. ‘Wind East by South, course Nor’ by East, an’ all sail set to the royal, sir. An’ Mr Gerard says to say land in sight on the larboard beam.’
This last sentence jerked Hornblower from his cot without a moment’s more meditation. He slipped off his nightshirt and put on the clothes Polwheal held ready for him. Unshaved and uncombed he hurried up to the quarterdeck. It was full daylight now, with the sun half clear of the horizon and looking over the starboard quarter, and just abaft the port beam a grey mountain shape reflecting its light. That was Cape Creux, where a spur of the Pyrenees came jutting down to the Mediterranean, carrying the Spanish coast line out of its farthest easterly point.
‘Sail ho!’ yelled the lookout at the masthead. ‘Nearly right ahead. A brig, sir, standing out from the land on the starboard tack.’
It was what Hornblower had been hoping for; it was for this reason that he had laid his course so as to be on this spot at this moment. All the seaboard of Catalonia, as far south as Barcelona and beyond, was in the hands of the French, and a tumultuous French army – the ‘Account of the Present War in Spain’ estimated it at nearly eighty thousand men – was endeavouring to extend its conquests southwards and inland.
But they had Spanish roads to contend against as well as Spanish armies. To supply an army eight thousand strong, and a large civilian population as well, was impossible by land over the Pyrenean passes, even though Gerona had surrendered last December after a heroic defence. Food and siege materials and ammunition had to be sent by sea, in small craft which crept along the coast, from shore battery to shore battery, through the lagoons and the shallows of the coast of the Gulf of Lions, past the rocky capes of Spain, as far as Barcelona.
Since Cochrane’s recall, this traffic had met with hardly any interference from the British in the Mediterranean. When Hornblower first reached his rendezvous off Palamos Point he had been careful to disappear again over the horizon immediately, so as to give no warning of the approach of a British squadron. He had hoped that the French might grow careless. With the wind nearly in the east, and Cape Creux running out almost directly eastwards, there was a chance that some supply ship or other, compelled to stand far out from the land to weather the point, might be caught at dawn out of range of the shore batteries, having neglected to make this dangerous passage at night. And so it had proved.
‘Hoist the colours, Mr Gerard,’ said Hornblower. ‘And call all hands.’
‘The brig has wore, sir,’ hailed the lookout. ‘She’s running before the wind.’
‘Head so as to cut her off, Mr Gerard. Set stu’ns’ls both sides.’
Before the wind, and with only the lightest of breezes blowing, was the Sutherland’s best point of sailing, as might be expected of her shallow build and clumsy beam. In these ideal conditions she might easily have the heels of a deep-laden coasting brig.
‘Deck, there!’ hailed the lookout. ‘The brig’s come to the wind again, sir. She’s on her old course.’
That was something very strange. If the chase had been a ship of the line, she might have been challenging battle. But a mere brig, even a brig of war, would be expected to fly to the shelter of the shore batteries. Possibly she might be an English brig.
‘Here, Savage. Take your glass and tell me what you can see.’
Savage dashed up the main rigging at the word.
‘Quite right, sir. She’s closehauled again on the starboard tack. We’ll pass her to leeward on this course. She’s wearing French national colours, sir. And she’s signalling now, sir. Can’t read the flags yet, sir, and she’s nearly dead to leeward, now.’
What the devil was the brig up to? She had settled her own fate by standing to windward again; if she had dashed for the land the moment she had sighted the Sutherland she might possibly have escaped. Now she was a certain capture – but why was the French brig signalling to a British ship of the line? Hornblower sprang up on to the rail; from there he could see the brig’s topsails over the horizon, as she held her windward course.
‘I can read the signal now, sir. MV.’
‘What the devil does MV mean?’ snapped Hornblower to Vincent, and then regretted that he had said it. A look would have done as well.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Vincent, turning the pages of the signal book. ‘It’s not in the code.’
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said Bush. ‘We’re coming up to her fast. Hullo! She’s wearing round again. She’s come before the wind. But it’s no use now, Mongseer. You’re ours. A handsome bit of prize money there for us, my lads.’
The excited chatter of the quarterdeck reached Hornblower’s ears to be unheard. This last attempt at flight on the Frenchman’s part had explained his previous movements. Bush, Gerard, Vincent, Crystal, were all too careless to have thought about it, too excited at the prospect of prize money. Hornblower could guess now what had happened. At first sight of the Sutherland, the brig had turned to fly. Then she had seen the red ensign which the Sutherland had hoisted, and misread it as the French colours – both sides had made the same mistake before this, the red fly both of tricolour and of red ensign led easily to confusion.
It was fortunate this time that Leighton had been Rear-Admiral of the Red, so that the Sutherland had worn his colours. What was more, the Sutherland had the round bow given her by her Dutch builders, the same as nearly every French ship of the line, and unlike every English ship save three or four. So the brig had taken the Sutherland to be French, and as soon as she was sure of this had held to the wind again, anxious to make her offing so as to weather Cape Creux. Then the MV signal which she had flown had been the private French recognition signal – that was something well worth knowing. It was only when the Sutherland did not make the expected conventional reply that the French captain had realised his mistake, and made one last dash for liberty.
A quite unavailing dash, for the Sutherland had cut her off from all chance of escape to leeward. The ships were only two miles apart now, and converging. Once more the brig came round, this time with the very faint hope of clawing away out of range to windward. But the Sutherland was hurtling close upon her.
‘Fire a shot near him,’ snapped Hornblower.
At that threat the French captain yielded. The brig hove to, and the tricolour came down from her peak. A cheer went up from the Sutherland’s main deck.
‘Silence, there!’ roared Hornblower. ‘Mr Bush, take a boat and board her. Mr Clarke, you’re prize-master. Take six hands with you and navigate her to Port Mahon.’
Bush was all smiles on his return.
‘Brig Amelie, sir. Six days out from Marseilles for Barcelona. General cargo of military stores. Twenty-five tons powder. One hundred and twenty-five tons of biscuit. Beef and pork in casks. Brandy. Admiralty agent at Port Mahon’ll buy her, sure as a gun, ship, stores, and all.’ Bush rubbed his hands. ‘And we the only ship in sight!’
If any other British ship had been in sight she would have shared the prize money. As it was the only shares to be given away were those of the Admiral commanding in the Mediterranean and of Admiral Leighton commanding the squad
ron. Between them they would have one-third of the value, so that Hornblower’s share would be about two-ninths – several hundred pounds at least.
‘Bring the ship before the wind,’ said Hornblower. Not for worlds would he give any sign of his delight at being several hundred pounds richer. ‘We’ve no time to lose.’
He went below to shave, and as he scraped the lather from his cheeks and contemplated the melancholy face in the glass he meditated once more on the superiority of sea over land. The Amelie was a small vessel, almost inconsiderable in size. But she carried between two and three hundred tons of stores; and if the French had tried to send that amount overland to Barcelona it would have called for a first-class military convoy – a hundred or more waggons, hundreds of horses, taking up a mile or more of road and needing a guard of thousands of troops to protect it from the attacks of the Spanish partisans. Troops and horses would have needed food, too, and that would call for more waggons still, all crawling along at fifteen miles a day at most over the Spanish roads. Small wonder, then, that the French preferred to run the risk of sending their stores by sea. And what a blow it would be for the harassed French army to find a British squadron on their flank, and their best route of communication broken.
Walking forward to take his bath with Polwheal in attendance, a new idea struck him.
‘Pass the word for the sailmaker,’ he said.
Potter the sailmaker came aft and stood at attention while Hornblower rotated himself under the jet of the washdeck pump.