‘She’s head-reaching on us!’ said Bush.
‘She’s a full point for’rard of the beam now,’ said Prowse.
The Loire was going faster through the water than Hotspur, gaining in the race to that extent. Everyone knew that French ship designers were cleverer than English ones; French ships were usually faster. But in this particular case it might mean tragedy. But there was worse news than this.
‘I think, sir,’ said Bush, slowly, as if each word caused him pain, ‘she’s weathering on us, too.’
Bush meant that the Loire was not yielding to the same extent as the Hotspur to the thrust of the wind down to leeward; relatively Hotspur was drifting down upon the Loire, closer to her guns. Hornblower, with a twinge of apprehension, knew that he was right. It would only be a question of time, if the present weather conditions persisted, before the Loire could open her ports and commence fire. So the simplest way of keeping out of trouble was denied him. If Hotspur had been the faster and the more weatherly of the two he could have maintained any distance he chose. His first line of defence was broken through.
‘It’s not to be wondered at,’ he said. He tried to speak coldly, or nonchalantly, determined to maintain his dignity as captain. ‘She’s twice our size.’
Size was important when clawing to windward. The same waves battered against small ships as against big ones, but they would push the small ships farther to leeward; moreover the keels of big ships reached down farther below the surface, farther below the turbulence, and maintained a better hold in the more tranquil water.
The three telescopes, as of one mind, trained out towards the Loire.
‘She’s luffing up a little,’ said Bush.
Hornblower could see the Loire’s topsails shiver momentarily. She was sacrificing some of her headway to gain a few yards to windward; having superior speed through the water she could afford to do so.
‘Yes. We’ve drawn level with her again,’ said Prowse.
That French captain knew his business. Mathematically, the best course to take when trying to close on a ship to windward was to keep the ship being chased right in the wind’s eye, and that was where the Hotspur now found herself again, relative to the Loire, while the latter, resuming her former course, close-hauled, was twenty or thirty yards nearer to her in the direction of the wind. A gain of twenty or thirty yards, repeated often enough, and added to the steady gain resulting from being the more weatherly ship, would eventually close the gap.
The three telescopes came down from the three eyes, and Hornblower met the gaze of his two subordinates. They were looking to him to make the next move in this crisis.
‘Call all hands, if you please, Mr Bush. I shall put the ship about.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Here was a moment of danger. If Hotspur were mishandled she was lost. If she missed stays – as she once had done with Cargill handling her – she would lie dead in the water for minutes, sagging down to leeward with the Loire coming up fast upon her, while in this gale the sails might thrash themselves to ribbons leaving her more helpless still, even if nothing more vital carried away. The operation must be carried out to perfection. Cargill by coincidence was officer of the watch. He could be given the task. So might Bush, or Prowse. But Hornblower knew perfectly well that he could not tolerate the thought of anyone other than himself bearing the responsibility, whether in his own eyes or in those of the ship’s company.
‘I’m going to put the ship about, Mr Cargill,’ he said, and that fixed the responsibility irrevocably.
He walked over the wheel, and stared round him. He felt the tension, he felt the beating of his heart, and noticed with momentary astonishment that this was pleasurable, that he was enjoying this moment of danger. Then he forced himself to forget everything except the handling of the ship. The hands were at their stations; every eye was on him. The gale shrieked past his ears as he planted his feet firmly and watched the approaching seas. This was the moment.
‘Handsomely, now,’ he growled to the hands at the wheel. ‘Put your wheel down.’
There was a brief interval before Hotspur answered. Now her bow was turning.
‘Helm’s a-lee!’ shouted Hornblower.
Headsail sheets and bowlines were handled, with Hornblower watching the behaviour of the ship like a tiger stalking its prey.
‘Tacks and sheets!’ and then turning back to the wheel. ‘Now! Hard over!’
She was coming rapidly into the wind.
‘Mains’l haul!’ The hands were keyed up with the excitement of the moment. Bowlines and braces were cast off and the yards came ponderously round at the exact moment that Hotspur was pointing directly into the wind.
‘Now! Meet her! Hard over!’ snapped Hornblower to the wheel. Hotspur was turning fast, and still carrying so much way that the rudder could bite effectively, checking the swing before she could turn too far.
‘Haul off all!’
The thing was done; Hotspur had gone from one tack to the other without the unnecessary loss of a second or a yard, thrashing along now with her starboard bow butting into the waves. But there was no time to feel relief or pleasure; Hornblower hurried to the port quarter to train his glass on the Loire. She was tacking naturally; the mathematics of the theory of the pursuit to windward demanded that the pursuer should tack at the same moment as the pursued. But she was bound to be a little late; her first inkling that Hotspur was about to tack would be when she saw her fore-topsail shiver, and even if Loire had all hands at their stations for going about the Hotspur would have two minutes’ grace. And she was far slower in stays. Even now, when Hotspur was settled on the new tack with every inch of sail drawing, the Loire’s fore-topsail was still shivering, her bows were still turning. The longer she took to go about the more distance she would lose in the race to windward.
‘We’ve weathered on her, sir,’ said Prowse, watching through his glass. ‘Now we’re head reaching on her.’
Hotspur had won back some of her precious lead, and Hornblower’s second line of defence was proving at least stronger than his first.
‘Take the bearing again,’ ordered Hornblower.
Once settled on the new tack the Loire’s natural advantages asserted themselves once more. She showed her extra speed and extra weather-liness; she drew up again from Hotspur’s quarter to her beam; then she could luff up briefly and gain a little more to windward on the Hotspur. The minutes passed like seconds, an hour like a minute, as the Hotspur plunged along, with every man braced on the heeling deck and the wind shrieking.
‘Time to go about again, sir?’ asked Bush, tentatively and greatly daring, but the theoretically correct moment was passing.
‘We’ll wait a little longer,’ said Hornblower. ‘We’ll wait for that squall.’
It was hurtling down wind upon them, and as it reached them the world was blotted out with driving rain. Hornblower turned from the hammock netting over which he was peering and climbed up the steep deck to the wheel. He took the speaking- trumpet.
‘Stand by to go about.’
In the gusts that were blowing the crew could hardly hear what he said, but every eye was on him, everyone was alert, and, drilled as they were, they could not mistake his orders. It was a tricky business to tack while the squall prevailed, because the gusts were liable to veer a point or two, unpredictably. But the Hotspur was so handy – as long as the manoeuvre was well timed – that she had a good deal to spare for emergencies. The slight change in the wind’s direction which threatened to take her aback was defeated because she still had sufficient steerage way and command to keep her swinging. The gust died away and the blinding chilly rain ceased while the hands were trimming all sharp, and the last of the squall drove off to leeward, still hiding the Loire from view.
‘That’s done him!’ said Bush with satisfaction. He was revelling in the mental picture of the Loire still thrashing along on the one tack while the Hotspur was comfortably on the other and the gap between the two ships
widening rapidly.
They watched the squall travelling over the foam-flecked grey water, shrieking towards France. Then in the thickness they saw a more solid nucleus take shape; they saw it grow sharper in outline.
‘God—’ exclaimed Bush; he was too disconcerted, too dumbfounded, to finish the oath. For there was Loire emerging from the squall, comfortably on the same tack as Hotspur, plunging along in her relentless pursuit with the distance in no way diminished.
‘That’s a trick we won’t try a second time,’ said Hornblower. He was forcing a smile, tight-lipped.
The French captain was no fool, evidently. He had observed the Hotspur delaying past the best moment for tacking, he had seen the squall engulfing her, and had anticipated her action. He must have tacked at the very same moment. In consequence he had lost little while tacking, and that little had been regained by the time the two ships were in sight of each other once more. Certainly he was a dangerous enemy. He must be one of the more able captains that the French navy possessed. There were several who had distinguished themselves in the last war; true, in consequence of the over-powering British naval strength, most of them had ended the war as prisoners, but the Peace of Amiens had set them free.
Hornblower turned away from Bush and Prowse and tried to pace the heeling deck, to think out all the implications. This was a dangerous situation, as dangerous as the worst he had envisaged. Inexorably wind and wave were forcing Hotspur closer to the Loire. Even as he tried to pace the deck he felt her shudder and lurch, out of the rhythm of her usual pitch and roll. That was the ‘rogue wave,’ generated by some unusual combination of wind and water, thumping against Hotspur’s weather side like a battering ram. Every few seconds rogue waves made themselves felt, checking Hotspur’s way and pushing her bodily to leeward; Loire was encountering exactly similar rogue waves, but with her greater size she was not so susceptible to their influence. They played their part along with the other forces of nature in closing the gap between the two ships.
Supposing he were compelled to fight a close action? No, he had gone through that before. He had a good ship and well-trained crew, but on this tossing sea that advantage would be largely discounted by the fact that the Loire provided a steadier gun platform. Odds of four to one in weight of metal were greater than it was advisable to risk. Momentarily Hornblower saw himself appearing in the written history of the future. He might have the distinction of being the first British captain in the present war to fall a victim to the French navy. What a distinction! Then even in the cold gale blowing round him he could feel the blood hot under his skin as he pictured the action. Horrors presented themselves in endless succession to the crack of doom like the kings in Macbeth. He thought of death. He thought of mutilation, of agony under the surgeon’s knife, and of being wheeled about legless through a blank future. He thought of being a prisoner of war; he had experienced that already in Spain and only by a miracle he had achieved release. The last war had gone on for ten years; this one might do the same. Ten years in prison! Ten years during which his brother officers would be gaining fame, distinguishing themselves, making fortunes in prize money while he would fret himself to pieces in prison, emerging at the end a cranky eccentric, forgotten by all his world – forgotten even by Maria, he fancied. He would rather die, just as he would rather die than be mutilated; or so he thought (he told himself brutally) until the choice should be more imminently presented to him. Then he might well flinch, for he did not want to die. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid of death, that he merely regretted the prospect of missing all the interesing and amusing things that life held in store for him, and then he found himself sneering at himself for not facing the horrid truth that he was afraid.
Then he shook himself out of this black mood. He was in danger, and this was no time for morbid introspection. It was resolution and ingenuity that he demanded of himself. He tried to make his face a mask to hide his recent feelings as he met the gaze of Bush and Prowse.
‘Mr Prowse,’ he said. ‘Bring your journal. Let’s look at the chart.’
The rough log recorded every change of course, every hourly measurement of speed, and by its aid they could calculate – or guess at – the present position of the ship starting from her last point of departure at Ar Men.
‘We’re making fully two points of leeway,’ said Prowse despondently. His long face seemed to grow longer and longer as he looked down at Hornblower seated at the chart-table. Hornblower shook his head.
‘Not more than a point and a half. And the tide’s been making in our favour for the last two hours.’
‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ said Prowse.
‘If I’m not,’ said Hornblower, working the parallel rulers, ‘we’ll have to make fresh plans.’
Despondency for the sake of despondency irritated Hornblower when displayed by other people; he knew too much about it.
‘In another two hours,’ said Prowse, ‘The Frenchman’ll have us under his guns.’
Hornblower looked fixedly at Prowse, and under that unwavering gaze Prowse was at length reminded of his omission, which he hastily remedied by belatedly adding the word ‘sir.’ Hornblower was not going to allow any deviation from discipline, not in any crisis whatever – he knew well enough how these things might develop in the future. Even if there might be no future. Having made his point there was no need to labour it.
‘You can see we’ll weather Ushant,’ he said, looking down at the line he had pencilled on the chart.
‘Maybe, sir,’ said Prowse.
‘Comfortably,’ went on Hornblower.
‘I wouldn’t say exactly comfortably, sir,’ demurred Prowse.
‘The closer the better,’ said Hornblower. ‘But we can’t dictate that. We daren’t make an inch more of leeway.’
He had thought more than once about that possibility, of weathering Ushant so close that Loire would not be able to hold her course. Then Hotspur would free herself from pursuit like a whale scraping off a barnacle against a rock; an amusing and ingenious idea, but not practicable as long as the wind stayed steady.
‘But even if we weather Ushant, sir,’ persisted Prowse, ‘I don’t see how it will help us. We’ll be within range by then, sir.’
Hornblower put down his pencil. He had been about to say ‘Perhaps you’d advise saving trouble by hauling down our colours this minute, Mr Prowse,’ but he remembered in time that such a mention of the possibility of surrender, even with a sarcastic intention, was contrary to the Articles of War. Instead he would penalise Prowse by revealing nothing of the plan he had in mind; and that would be just as well, in case the plan should fail and he should have to fall back on yet another line of defence.
‘We’ll see when the time comes,’ he said, curtly, and rose from his chair. ‘We’re wanted on deck. By now it’ll be time to go about again.’
On deck there was the wind blowing as hard as ever; there was the spray flying; there was the Loire, dead to leeward and luffing up to narrow the gap by a further important trifle. The hands were at work on the pumps; in these weather conditions the pumps had to be employed for half an hour every two hours to free the ship from the sea water which made its way on board through the straining seams.
‘We’ll tack the ship, Mr Poole, as soon as the pumps suck.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Some way ahead lay Ushant and his plan to shake off the Loire, but before that he had to tack twice more at least, each time with its possibilities of making a mistake, of handing Hotspur and himself over to the enemy. He must not stumble over an obstacle at his feet through keeping his eyes on the horizon. He made himself perform the manoeuvre as neatly as ever, and made himself ignore any feeling of relief when it was completed.
‘We gained a full cable’s length on him that time, sir,’ said Bush, after watching Loire steady herself on the starboard tack on Hotspur’s beam.
‘We may not always be so lucky,’ said Hornblower. ‘But we’ll make this leg a shor
t one and see.’
On the starboard tack he was heading away from his objective; when they went about on the port tack again he must hold on for a considerably longer time, but he must make it appear as though by inadvertence. If he could deceive Bush it would be an indication that he was deceiving the French captain.
The hands seemed to be actually enjoying this sailing contest. They were light-hearted, revelling in the business of cheating the wind and getting every inch of way out of the Hotspur. It must be quite obvious to them that Loire was gaining in the race, but they did not care; they were laughing and joking as they looked across at her. They had no conception of the danger of the situation, or, rather, they made light of it. The luck of the British navy would save them, or the unhandiness of the French. Or the skill of their captain – without faith in him they would be far more frightened.
Time to go about again and beat towards Ushant. He resumed charge of the ship and turned her about. It was only after the turn was completed that he noted, with satisfaction, that he had forgotten his nervousness in the interest he was taking in the situation.
‘We’re closing fast, sir,’ said Prowse, gloomy as ever. He had his sextant in his hand and had just finished measuring the angle subtended between the Loire’s masthead and her waterline.
‘I can see that for myself, thank you, Mr Prowse,’ snapped Hornblower. For that matter the eye was as trustworthy as any instrumental observation on that heaving sea.
‘My duty, sir,’ said Prowse.
‘I’m glad to see you executing your duty, Mr Prowse,’ said Horn-blower. The tone he used was the equivalent of saying, ‘Damn your duty,’ which would have also been contrary to the Articles of War.
Northward the Hotspur held her steady course. A squall engulfed her, blinding her, while the quartermasters juggled desperately at the wheel, allowing her, perforce, to pay off in the worst of the gusts, and putting down the wheel to keep her to the wind when the wind backed a point. The final gust went by, flapping Hornblower’s coat-tails. It whipped the trouser-legs of the quartermasters at the wheel so that a momentary glance would make a stranger believe that, with their swaying arms and wavering legs, they were dancing some strange ritual dance. As ever, when the squall passed on, all eyes not dedicated to present duty turned to leeward to look for the Loire.