The Porta Coeli went smartly about, and reached to the northwestward, closehauled to the south-westerly wind.
‘The tide starts to make about now, Sir Horatio,’ said Freeman, beside him.
‘Thank you.’
That was an additional bit of data in the problem of the morrow which was not yet fully revealed to him. War was as unlike spherical trigonometry as anything could be, thought Hornblower, grinning at the inconsequence of his thoughts. Often one approached a problem in war without knowing what it was one wanted to achieve, to prove, or construct, and without even knowing fully what means were available for doing it. War was generally a matter of slipshod, makeshift, hit-or-miss extemporisation. Even if it were not murderous and wasteful it would still be no trade for a man who enjoyed logic. Yet maybe he was taking too flattering a view of himself; maybe some other officer – Cochrane, say, or Lidyard – would, if in his position, already have a plan worked out for dealing with the mutineers, a plan that could not fail to bring satisfactory results.
Four bells rang out sharply; they had been over half an hour on this tack.
‘Kindly go about on the other tack, Mr Freeman. I don’t want to get too far from land.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
If it was not for the war, no captain in his senses would dream for a moment of plunging about in the darkness on this shoal coast, especially when he was extremely doubtful of his exact position – their present estimate was the sum of a series of guesses, guesses about the leeway made while hove-to, guesses at the effects of the tides, guesses at the correspondence between soundings taken overside and soundings marked on the chart.
‘What do you think the mutineers will do, sir, when they sight us?’ asked Freeman.
The fact that Hornblower had unbent enough to give an explanation of why he wanted to go about must have encouraged Freeman to this familiarity; Hornblower was irritated, but most of all because he had no thoughts on the matter.
‘There’s no profit in asking questions which time will surely answer, Mr Freeman,’ he said, tartly.
‘Yet speculation is a fascinating thing, Sir Horatio,’ replied Freeman, so unabashed that Hornblower stared at him in the darkness. Bush, if Hornblower had spoken to him in that fashion, would have retired wounded into his shell.
‘You may indulge yourself in it if you so desire, Mr Freeman. I have no intention of doing so.’
‘Thank you, Sir Horatio.’
Now was there, or was there not, a hint of mockery behind the hint of subservience in that reply? Was it possible that Freeman could actually be smiling inwardly at his superior officer? If so, he was running a fearful risk; a suggestion of dissatisfaction in Hornblower’s future report to the Admiralty would put Freeman on the beach for life. But Hornblower knew, the moment the thought came into his head, that he would do no such thing. He could never blast an able man’s career just because that man had not treated him with slavish respect.
‘Water’s shoaling fast, sir,’ said Freeman, suddenly – both he and Hornblower had subconsciously been listening to the cry of the leadsman in the chains. ‘I should like to go about again.’
‘Certainly, Mr Freeman,’ said Hornblower, formally.
They were creeping round Cape de la Hève, the northerly point of the Seine estuary, just within which lies Le Havre. There was a chance, a tiny one, that they might find themselves at dawn both to leeward of the Flame and between her and France so that she would have no means of escape at all. And the night was wearing on; it would not be long now before daylight.
‘You have a good man at the masthead, Mr Freeman?’
‘Yes, Sir Horatio.’
He would have to tell the hands about the mission on which they had been sent, even though that meant violating the secrecy surrounding the mutiny. Normally there would be little enough need to confide in the hands; British seamen, fatalistic after twenty years of war, would fire into Frenchmen or Americans or Dutchmen without much thought about the rights or wrongs; but to ask them to fight against a sister-ship, to fire into a British vessel, which might, for all he knew, still be wearing her commissioning pendant and her White Ensign, might cause hesitation if he called upon them to do so without some preliminary warning. A careful officer would in ordinary circumstances never breathe the word ‘mutiny’ to his men; no lion-tamer would ever remind the lion that the lion was stronger than he. It was almost daylight.
‘Would you be so good as to turn up the hands, Mr Freeman? I wish to address them.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The pipes wailed through the brig, and the watch below came streaming up through the hatchway, pouring sleepily aft; the poor devils were losing an hour of sleep because of the inconsiderate way in which dawn did not correspond with the end of the watch. Hornblower looked round for some point of vantage from which he could address them; in a flush-decked vessel like the Porta Coeli he had not the advantage of speaking down into a waist from a quarterdeck. He swung himself up onto the weather bulwark, balancing himself with a hand on the mainbackstay.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘are you wondering what has sent you out here?’
Maybe they were, but the rather sleepy, apathetic, breakfastless lines before him showed little sign of it.
‘Are you wondering what has sent me out to sea with you?’
By God, they were wondering that. There must have been speculation on the lower deck as to why a full commodore – and not only a commodore, but Hornblower of the legendary past – should have been sent to sea in a mere eighteen-gun brig. It was flattering to see a movement of interest in the lines, a lifting of heads, even while Hornblower cursed at fate for having to make use of rhetorical tricks, and more for having to exploit his own personal renown.
‘There is villainy afloat,’ said Hornblower. ‘British seamen have disgraced themselves. They have mutinied in the very presence of the enemy.’
He had the men’s interest now, without a doubt. He had said the word ‘mutiny’ to these slaves of the lash and the whistle. Mutiny, the remedy for all their ills, which would give them freedom from the hardship of their lives, the cruelty and the danger, the foul food and the severance from all the amenities of life. One crew had mutinied. Why should not they do so too? He would have to tell them about the Flame, remind them that close, at hand lay the shores of France, where Bonaparte would gladly heap wealth and luxury upon any British seaman who brought a British ship of war over to him. Hornblower let a note of contempt creep into his voice.
‘The crew of the Flame, our own sister-ship, has done this thing. Now they are sheltering here in this very bay of the Seine. Every man’s hand is against them. The French have no use for mutineers, and it is our mission to dig these rats from their holes. They have betrayed England, forgotten their duty to King and Country. I expect most of them are honest but stupid, led astray by a few designing villains. It is those villains who must pay the price of their villainy, and we must see they have no chance of escape. If they are mad enough to offer fight, then we must fight them. If they surrender without bloodshed, that fact will be remembered in their favour when they are brought to trial. I want no bloodshed if I can help it – you know as well as I do that a cannon-shot will kill a man without stopping to ask whether he is a villain or just a fool. But if they want bloodshed, then we shall let them have it.’
Hornblower ended his speech, and looked over to Freeman to dismiss the men. It was a cheerless business making a speech to hungry men in a grey dawn, but Hornblower, darting glances at the men as they went about their business, saw that there was nothing to fear from the ship’s company. They were buzzing with talk, of course, but news of mutiny would set any crew a-buzz, just as a village would be set a-buzz by news of a local murder. But it was only gossipy talk, he could see; the men were not making any deductions from the news. He had presented the case to them in such a way as to make it obvious to them that he expected them to obey his orders for dealing with the mutineers, and he had let no hin
t creep into his speech of his fear that they should be tempted to follow their example. That had not occurred to them yet – but it might, if they were allowed to ruminate over it. He must see that they were kept busy; the ordinary ship’s routine was attending to that at the moment, for they were at work on the opening business of every naval day, washing down the decks before being piped to breakfast.
‘Land!’ yelled a voice from the masthead. ‘Land on the port bow.’
It was rather thick weather, typical Channel weather for the end of the year, but in the growing light Hornblower could see the dark line against the grey. Freeman was scrutinising the coast through his glass.
‘That’s the south shore of the Bay,’ said Freeman. ‘There’s the Cane river.’
Hornblower was only just beginning to realise that Freeman was anglicising the pronunciation of ‘Caen’ when Freeman trained his telescope round and gave a string of more surprising examples still of what an Englishman can do to French names.
‘Yes, there’s Cape dee lay Heave, and Harbour-Grace,’ he said.
The growing light revealed the Porta Coeli’s position, over towards the southern shore of the estuary of the Seine.
‘That was an excellent piece of navigation last night, Mr Freeman.’
‘Thank you, Sir Horatio.’
Hornblower would have added more words of warmer praise, if it had not been for Freeman’s rather chilling manner; he supposed Freeman was entitled to be short-tempered before breakfast if he wished. And any capable lieutenant was entitled to be jealous of a captain; in the opinion of every ambitious lieutenant a captain was just a lieutenant who had been lucky and who would continue to be lucky, drawing three times a lieutenant’s pay and prize-money, reaping the harvest of the lieutenant’s labours, and secure in the knowledge that time would make an admiral of him in the end while the lieutenant’s promotion still depended on the whims of his superiors. Hornblower could remember feeling just the same when he was a lieutenant; for Freeman to show it was natural even though foolish.
The leadsman’s cry in the chains indicated that the water was shoaling again; they had left the middle ground far behind them and had now crossed the southerly channel of the estuary. There was still plenty of water for the Porta Coeli; she had been expressly designed for this very purpose of penetrating into inlets and estuaries, carrying the war as close to Bonaparte’s shores as might be. Bonaparte’s dominion stopped short at the line which the shot from his shore batteries could reach, and beyond that line England ruled supreme and unchallenged.
‘Sail on the lee bow!’ yelled the lookout.
Freeman swung himself up to the lee main-shrouds with the agility of an ape; braced against the ratlines, he trained his glass forward.
‘A brig, sir,’ he hailed down to Hornblower, and a few seconds later, ‘That’s Flame all right, sir.’
‘Put the helm up and we’ll bear down on her, Mr Freeman, if you please.’
Flame was exactly where one would expect to find her, close up under the lee of the land, sheltered from any gale from northwest round to east; and free to consult her own safety whether attacked by British or French. Soon Hornblower’s own glass picked her out from the grey murk. A trim, beautiful little vessel, lying hove-to on the edge of the shoals. She showed no signs, at that distance at least, of any disorder on board. Hornblower wondered how many telescopes there were being trained upon the Porta Coeli, what anxious debate was being held on board by men recognising the new arrival as the first move on the part of their Lordships of the Admiralty in reply to their suicidal ultimatum. Those men had ropes round their necks.
‘She’s waiting for us to come down to her,’ said Freeman.
‘I wonder for how long,’ answered Hornblower.
‘What are you men standing chattering there for?’ suddenly blared out Freeman, addressing a group of excited seamen lining the bulwark forward. ‘Master-at-arms! Master-at-arms! Take those men’s names and bring them to me at the end of the watch! You, bos’un’s mate, there! Collier! Keep those men of yours at work! This is a King’s ship, not a blasted school for young ladies!’
A thin beam of watery sunshine broke through the greyness and lit up the Flame as she lay in the circle of Hornblower’s glass. He suddenly saw her yards swing round; she put herself before the wind and began to move in the direction of Honfleur. Her foretopsail was conspicuously patched – a light cross against the darker material, as if she were some crusading ship.
‘They won’t stand and wait for us,’ said Freeman.
‘Sail ho!’ yelled the lookout again. ‘Sail on the lee quarter!’
Telescopes swung round as if all were actuated by a single machine. A big ship with all plain sail set to the royals had appeared out of the mist beyond the middle ground, on a course rapidly diverging from that of the Porta Coeli. Hornblower recognised her instantly for what she was, and did not need Freeman’s identification.
‘French West Indiaman,’ said Freeman. ‘With a clear run to Harbour-Grace.’
One of the rare ships to run the continental blockade, bearing an invaluable cargo of grain and sugar to ease Bonaparte’s distress; she had taken advantage of the recent gale, which had blown the blockading squadrons from their stations, to dash up the Channel. A cargo delivered into the Seine, where centred the Imperial power, and whence diverged the whole road and canal systems, was worth two brought into some isolated inlet on the Biscay coast. The small British vessels of war, like the Porta Coeli and the Flame, had been constructed and stationed to prevent this very thing.
‘There’ll be no catching her before she reaches Harbour-Grace,’ muttered Freeman.
‘Let her go, Mr Freeman,’ said Hornblower, loudly. ‘Our duty’s with Flame at present. There goes ten pounds a man prize-money.’
There were enough hands within earshot to hear that speech; they would repeat it to the rest of the crew. No one who thought of the lost prize-money would feel any better disposed towards the mutineers.
Hornblower turned his attention back to the Flame; she was standing steadily and without hesitation on a course which would take her into Honfleur. It would not be long before she was in French power, and it would be foolish to press matters to such an extreme, even though it was a bitter pill to swallow, to admit a check.
‘Oh, heave-to, Mr Freeman, please. Let’s see what she does then.’
The Porta Coeli came up into the wind in response to sail and helm, Hornblower training round his glass to keep Flame under observation. The moment the Porta Coeli’s manoeuvre became apparent, the Flame imitated it, coming up into the wind and lying motionless, the white cross conspicuous on her foretopsail.
‘Try bearing down on them again, Mr Freeman.’
Flame turned away instantly towards France.
‘A wink’s as good as a nod, Mr Freeman. Heave-to again.’
Clearly the mutineers had no intention of allowing the Porta Coeli to come any nearer than she was at present, well beyond cannon-shot. She would hand herself over to the French sooner than permit any closer approach.
‘Mr Freeman, will you be so good as to have a boat hoisted out for me? I’ll go and parley with the villains.’
That would be a sign of weakness, but the mutineers could be in no doubt about the weakness of his position and the corresponding strength of their own. It would be telling them nothing that they did not know already, that they held Hornblower and the Lords of the Admiralty and the British Empire itself in a cleft stick. Freeman showed no signs of his doubts regarding the advisability of a valuable captain putting himself in the power of mutineers. Hornblower went below to pocket his orders; it might even be necessary to show the mutineers the full powers with which he had been entrusted – but it would be only in the last resort that he would do so; that would be letting the mutineers too much into their Lordships’ confidence. The boat was overside with Brown at the tiller when Hornblower came on deck again; Hornblower went down the side and settled himself into the ste
rnsheets.
‘Give way!’ ordered Brown; the oars bit the water and the boat began to crawl towards the Flame, dancing over the little waves of the estuary,
Hornblower watched the brig as they approached; she lay hove-to but Hornblower could see that her guns were run out and her boarding-nettings rigged, and she had clearly no intention of being taken by surprise. The hands were at their guns, there were lookouts aloft, a warrant officer aft with a telescope under his arm – not a sign in the world of mutiny on board.
‘Boat ahoy!’ came the hail across the water.
Brown held up his four fingers, the universal signal that there was a captain in the boat – four fingers for the four side-boys demanded by ceremonial.
‘Who are ye?’ hailed the voice.
Brown looked round at Hornblower, received a nod from him, and hailed back.
‘Commodore Sir Horatio Hornblower, K.B.’
‘We’ll allow Commodore Hornblower on board, but no one else. Come alongside, and we’ve cold shot here to drop into you if you play any tricks.’
Hornblower reached for the main-chains and swung himself up into them; a seaman raised the boarding-nettings so that he could struggle under them to the deck.
‘Kindly tell your boats to sheer off, Commodore. We’re taking no risks,’ said a voice.
It was a white-haired old man who addressed him, the telescope under his arm marking him out as officer of the watch. White hair fluttered about his ears; sharp blue eyes in a wrinkled face looked at Hornblower from under white brows. The only thing in the least bizarre about his appearance was a pistol stuck in his belt. Hornblower turned and gave the required order.
‘And now may I ask your business here, Commodore?’ asked the old man.