Читать книгу Hornblower and the Hotspur - Cecil Louis Troughton Smith - Страница 7

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The cabin was quite dark when Hornblower awoke; there was not even the glimmering of light through the two stern windows. He lay curled on his side only half conscious, and then a single sharp note from the ship’s bell recalled him to the world, and he turned over on his back and stretched himself, half fretfully and half luxuriously trying to put his thoughts into order. That must be one bell in the morning watch, because one bell in the middle watch had sounded as he was getting back into bed after being roused when the ship was put about at midnight. He had had six hours of sleep, even after making allowance for that break; there were great advantages about being in command of a ship; the watch which had retired to bed at that time had been up on deck again for half an hour already.

The cot on which he lay was swaying easily and slowly. Hotspur must be under very easy sail indeed, and, as far as he could judge, with a moderate wind on the starboard beam. That was as it should be. He would soon have to get up—he turned on to his other side and went to sleep again.

‘Two bells, sir,’ said Grimes, entering the cabin with a lighted lamp. ‘Two bells, sir. Bit of haze, and Mr Prowse says he’d like to go about on the other tack.’ Grimes was a weedy young seaman who affirmed that he had acted as captain’s steward in a West India packet.

‘Get me my coat,’ said Hornblower.

It was cold in the misty dawn, with only a greatcoat on over his nightshirt. Hornblower found Maria’s gloves in a pocket and pulled them on gratefully.

‘Twelve fathoms, sir,’ reported Prowse as the ship steadied on her new course with the lead going in the forechains.

‘Very well.’

There was time to dress, there was time to have breakfast. There was time for—Hornblower felt a wave of temptation breaking round him. He wanted a cup of coffee. He wanted two or three cups of coffee, strong and scalding hot. Yet he had on board no more than two pounds of coffee. At seventeen shillings a pound that was all he had been able to afford to buy. The miraculous forty-five pounds had melted away which he had won at whist the night before the appearance of the King’s message regarding the fleet. There had been his sea-going clothing and his sword to get out of pawn, his cabin furniture to buy, and he had had to leave seventeen pounds with Maria for her support until she could draw his allotment of pay. So there had been little enough left over for ‘captain’s stores.’ He had not bought a sheep or a pig; not a single chicken. Mrs Mason had bought six dozen eggs for him—they were packed in shavings in a tub lashed to the deck in the chart-room—and six pounds of heavily salted butter. There was a loaf of sugar and some pots of jam, and then the money had run out. He had no bacon, no potted meat. He had dined yesterday on pilchards—the fact that they had been bought with secret service money was some kind of sauce for them, but pilchards were unattractive fish. And of course there was the absurd prejudice of seamen regarding fish, creatures from their own element. They hated having their eternal round of salt beef and pork interrupted by a meal of fish—allowance must be made, of course, for the fact that the cooking of fish left behind a lingering scent, hard to eradicate from utensils sketchily washed in seawater. At this very moment, in the growing dawn, one of the lambs netted down in the boat chocked in the waist emitted a lingering baa-aaa as it woke. The ward-room officers had invested in four of the creatures while the Hotspur was commissioning, and any day now they would be dining on roast lamb—Hornblower determined to get himself invited to dinner in the ward-room that day. The thought reminded him that he was hungry; but that was quite minor compared with his yearning for coffee.

‘Where’s my servant?’ he suddenly roared. ‘Grimes! Grimes!’

‘Sir?’

Grimes put his head round the chart-room door.

‘I’m going to dress, and I’ll want my breakfast. I’ll have coffee.’

‘Coffee, sir?’

‘Yes.’ Hornblower bit off the ‘damn you’ he nearly added. To swear at a man who could not swear back and whose only offence lay in being unoffending was not to his taste, just as some men could not shoot foxes. ‘You don’t know anything about coffee?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Get the oak box and bring it in to me.’

Hornblower explained about coffee to Grimes while working up a lather with a quarter of a pint of freshwater.

‘Count out twenty of those beans. Put them in an open jar—get that from the cook. Then you toast ’em over the galley fire. And be careful with ’em. Keep shaking ’em. They’ve got to be brown, not black. Toasted, not burnt. Understand?’

‘Well, yes, sir.’

‘Then you take ’em to the surgeon, with my compliments.’

‘The surgeon? Yes, sir.’ Grimes, seeing Hornblower’s brows come together like thunderclouds, had the sense to suppress in the nick of time his astonishment at the entry of the surgeon’s name into this conversation.

‘He has a pestle and mortar to pound his jalap with. You pound those beans in that mortar. You break ’em up small. Small, mark you, but you don’t make dust of ’em. Like large grain gunpowder, not mealed gunpowder. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.’

‘Next you—oh, go and get that done and then report to me again.’

Grimes was clearly not a man to do things quickly. Hornblower had shaved and dressed and was pacing the quarter-deck, raging for his breakfast, before Grimes appeared again with a panful of dubious powder. Hornblower gave him brief instructions on how to make coffee with it, and Grimes listened doubtfully.

‘Go and get it done. Oh, and Grimes!’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ll have two eggs. Fried. Can you fry eggs?’

‘Er—yes, sir.’

‘Fry ’em so the yolk’s nearly hard but not quite. And get out a crock of butter and a crock of jam.’

Hornblower was throwing discretion to the winds; he was determined on a good breakfast. And those winds to which he had thrown discretion suddenly asserted themselves. With hardly a warning puff there was a sudden gust which almost took Hotspur aback, and with it, while Hotspur paid off and recovered herself, there came driving rain, an April shower, icy cold. Hornblower shook off Grimes the first time he appeared to report that breakfast was ready, and only went off with him on his second appearance, after Hotspur was steady on her course again. With the weather clearing and daylight growing there was little time he could spare.

‘I’ll be on deck again in ten minutes, Mr Young,’ he said.

The chart-room was a minute compartment beside his cabin—cabin, chart-room, and the captain’s pantry and head occupied the whole space of the Hotspur’s tiny poop. Hornblower squeezed himself into the chair at the little table.

‘Sir,’ said Grimes. ‘You didn’t come when breakfast was ready.’

Here were the eggs. The rim of the whites was black; the yolks were obviously hard.

‘Very well,’ growled Hornblower. He could not blame Grimes for that.

‘Coffee, sir?’ said Grimes. With the chart-room door shut he was wedged against it hardly able to move. He poured from a jug into a cup, and Hornblower sipped. It was only just hot enough to drink, which meant that it was not hot enough, and it was muddy.

‘See that it’s hotter than this another time,’ said Hornblower. ‘And you’ll have to strain it better than this.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Grimes voice seemed to come from a great distance. The man could hardly whisper. ‘Sir—’

Hornblower looked up at him; Grimes was cold with fright.

‘What is it?’

‘I kept these to show you, sir.’ Grimes produced a pan containing a bloody and stinking mess. ‘The first two eggs was bad, sir. I didn’t want you to think—’

‘Very well.’ Grimes was afraid in case he should be accused of stealing them. ‘Take the damned things away.’

Now was it not exactly like Mrs Mason to buy eggs for him of which half were bad? Hornblower ate his unpleasant eggs—even these two, although not exactly bad, were flavoured—while reconciling himself with the prospect of making up for it all with the jam. He spread a biscuit with the precious butter, and here was the jam. Blackcurrant! Of all the misguided purchases! Grimes, squeezing back into the chart-room, positively jumped as Hornblower let out the oath that had been seeking an outlet for several minutes.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m not speaking to you, damn you,’ said Hornblower, his restraint at an end.

Hornblower was fond of jam, but of all the possible varieties he liked blackcurrant least. It was a poor last best. Well, it would have to do; he bit at the iron-hard biscuit.

‘Don’t knock at the door when you’re serving a meal,’ he said to Grimes.

‘No, sir. I won’t sir. Not any more, sir.’

Grimes’s hand holding the coffeepot was shaking, and when Hornblower looked up he could see that his lips were trembling too. He was about to ask sharply what was the matter, but he suppressed the question as the answer became apparent to him. It was physical fear that was affecting Grimes. A word from Hornblower could have Grimes bound to a grating at the gangway, there to have the flesh flogged from the bones of his writhing body. There were captains in the navy who would give just that order when served with such a breakfast. There would never be a time when more things went wrong than this.

There was a knocking at the door.

‘Come in!’

Grimes shrank against the bulkhead to avoid falling out through the door as it opened.

‘Message from Mr Young, sir,’ said Orrock. ‘Wind’s veering again.’

‘I’ll come,’ said Hornblower.

Grimes cowered against the bulkhead as he pushed his way out; Hornblower emerged on to the quarter-deck. Six dozen eggs, and half of them bad. Two pounds of coffee—far less than a month’s supply if he drank coffee every day. Blackcurrant jam, and not much even of that. Those were the thoughts coursing through his mind as he walked past the sentry, and then they were expunged by the blessed air from the sea, and the instant approach of professional problems.

Prowse was peering out to port through his telescope; it was almost full daylight, and the haze had dissipated with the rain.

‘Black Stones broad on the port-beam, sir,’ reported Prowse. ‘You can see the breakers sometimes.’

‘Excellent,’ said Hornblower. At least his breakfast troubles had kept him from fretting during these final minutes before entering on to a decisive day. In fact he had actually to pause for several seconds to collect his thoughts before issuing the orders that would develop the plans already matured in his fevered mind.

‘Do you have good eyesight, Mr Orrock?’

‘Well, sir—’

‘Have you or haven’t you?’

‘Well, yes, sir.’

‘Then take a glass and get aloft. See what you can see of the shipping as we pass the entrance to the roadstead. Consult with the look-out.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Good morning, Mr Bush. Call the hands.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Not for the first time Hornblower was reminded of the centurion in the New Testament who illustrated his authority by saying: ‘I say to one, come, and he cometh, and to another, go, and he goeth.’ The Royal Navy and the Roman Army were identical in discipline.

‘Now, Mr Prowse. How far is the horizon now?’

‘Two miles, sir. Perhaps three miles,’ answered Prowse, looking round and collecting his thoughts after being taken by surprise by the question.

‘Four miles, I should think,’ said Hornblower.

‘Maybe, sir,’ admitted Prowse.

‘Sun’s rising. Air’s clearing. It’ll be ten miles soon. Wind’s north of west. We’ll go down to the Parquette.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Mr Bush, get the topgallants in, if you please. And the courses. Tops’ls and jib’s all we need.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

That way they would attract less notice; also they would, by moving more slowly, have longer for observation as they crossed the passage that led into Brest.

‘Sunset on a clear day,’ said Hornblower to Prowse. ‘Would be a better moment. Then we could look in with the sun behind us.’

‘Yes, sir. You’re right, sir,’ answered Prowse. There was a gleam of appreciation in his melancholy face as he said this; he knew, of course, that the Goulet lay almost east and west, but he had not made any deductions or plans on that basis.

‘But we’re here. We have this chance. Wind and weather serve us now. It may be days before we have another opportunity.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Prowse.

‘Course east by south, Mr Prowse.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Hotspur crept along. The day was cloudy but clear, and the horizon was extending every minute. There was the mainland of France, Pointe St Mathieu—Point Matthew—in plain view. From there the land trended away out of sight again.

‘Land on the lee bow!’ yelled Orrock from the fore-topmasthead.

‘That’ll be the other headland, sir,’ said Prowse.

‘Toulinguet,’ agreed Hornblower and then he corrected his pronunciation of ‘Toolingwette.’ For months or years to come he might be beating about this coast, and he wanted no chance of misunderstanding with any of his officers when he gave orders.

Between those two headlands the Atlantic broke in through the wild Breton coast and reached deep inland to form the roadstead of Brest.

‘Can you make out the channel yet, Mr Orrock?’ yelled Hornblower.

‘Not yet, sir. At least, not very well.’

A ship of war—a King’s ship—approaching a foreign coast was under a handicap on this sort of mission in peacetime. She could not enter into foreign territorial waters (except under stress of weather) without permission previously asked and obtained; she certainly could not trespass within the limits of a foreign naval base without occasioning a series of angry notes between the respective governments.

‘We must keep out of long cannon-shot of the shore,’ said Hornblower.

‘Yes, sir. Oh yes, of course, sir,’ agreed Prowse.

The second more hearty agreement was called forth when Prowse realised the implications of what Hornblower was saying. Nations asserted sovereignty over all the waters that could be dominated by their artillery, even if there was no cannon mounted at any particular point. In fact international law was hardening into a convention fixing an arbitrary limit of three miles.

‘Deck!’ yelled Orrock. ‘I can see masts now. Can just see ’em.’

‘Count all you can see, very carefully, Mr Orrock.’

Orrock went on with his report. He had an experienced sailor beside him at the masthead, but Hornblower, listening, had no intention of trusting entirely to their observation, and Bush was fuming with impatience.

‘Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower. ‘I’ll be wearing ship in fifteen minutes. Would you be so kind as to take a glass to the mizzen-topmast-head? You’ll have a good chance of seeing all that Orrock’s seeing. Please take notes.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush.

He was at the mizzen shrouds in a moment. Soon he was running up the ratlines at a speed that would have been a credit to any young seaman.

‘That makes twelve of the line, sir,’ yelled Orrock. ‘No topmasts hoisted. No yards crossed.’

The seaman beside him interrupted his report.

‘Breakers on the lee bow!’

‘That’s the Parquette,’ said Hornblower.

The Black Stones on the one side, the Parquette on the other, and, farther up, the Little Girls in the middle, marked off the passage into Brest. On a clear day like this, with a gentle wind, they were no menace, but lives by the hundred had been lost on them during storms. Prowse was pacing restlessly back and forward to the binnacle taking bearings. Hornblower was carefully gauging the direction of the wind. If the French squadron had no ship of the line ready for sea there was no need to take risks. A shift in the wind might soon find Hotspur embayed on a lee shore. He swept his glass round the wild coast that had grown up round his horizon.

‘Very well, Mr Prowse. We’ll wear ship now, while we can still weather the Parquette.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Prowse’s relief was obvious. His business was to keep the ship out of danger, and he clearly preferred a wide margin of safety. Hornblower looked round at the officer of the watch.

‘Mr Poole! Wear the ship, if you please.’

The pipes shrilled and the orders were passed. Hands went to the braces as the helm was put up while Hornblower scanned the shore warily.

‘Steady as you go!’

Hotspur settled sweetly on her new course. Hornblower was growing intimate with her ways, like a bridegroom learning about his bride. No, that was an unlucky simile, to be discarded instantly. He hoped that he and Hotspur were better suited to each other than he and Maria. And he must think about something else.

‘Mr Bush! Mr Orrock! You will please come down when you are sure you will see nothing more useful.’

The ship was alive with a new atmosphere; Hornblower was sensitively aware of it as the hands went about their duties. Everyone on board was conscious that they were bearding Boney in his den, that they were boldly looking into the principal naval base of France, proclaiming the fact that England was ready to meet any challenge at sea. High adventure was looming up in the near future. Hornblower had the gratifying feeling that during these past days he had tempered a weapon ready for his hand, ship and ship’s company ready for any exploit, like a swordsman knowing well the weight and balance of his sword before entering upon a duel.

Orrock appeared, touching his hat, and Hornblower listened to his report. It was fortunate that Bush in the mizzen-top still had a view up the Goulet and had not descended; reports should be made independently, each officer out of the hearing of the other, but it would have been tactless to ask Bush to stand aside. Bush did not descend for several more minutes; he had methodically taken notes with paper and pencil, but Orrock could hardly be blamed for not having done so. The thirteen or fourteen ships of the line at anchor in the Roads were none of them ready for sea and three of them were missing at least one mast each. There were six frigates, three with their topmasts sent up and one with her yards crossed and sails furled.

‘That will be the Loire,’ commented Hornblower to Bush.

‘You know about her, sir?’ asked Bush.

‘I know she’s there,’ answered Hornblower. He would gladly have explained further, but Bush was going on with his report, and Hornblower was content to have something more added to his reputation for omniscience.

On the other hand, there was considerable activity in the roadstead. Bush had seen lighters and tenders moving about, and believed he had identified a sheer hulk, a vessel rigged solely for the purpose of putting new masts into large ships.

‘Thank you, Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower. ‘That is excellent. We must look in like this every day if possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Constant observation would increase their information in geometrical progression—ships changing anchorage, ships sending up topmasts, ships setting up their rigging. The changes would be more significant than anything that could be deduced from a single inspection.

‘Now let’s find some more fishing-boats,’ went on Hornblower.

‘Yes, sir.’

Bush trained his glass out towards the Parquette, whose sullen black rocks, crowned by a navigation beacon, seemed to rise and fall as the Atlantic swell surged round them.

‘There’s one in the lee of the reef there, sir,’ said Bush.

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘Lobster pots, sir,’ reported Bush. ‘Getting in his catch, I should say, sir.’

‘Indeed?’

Twice in his life Hornblower had eaten lobster, both occasions being during those bleak bitter days when under the compulsion of hunger and cold he had acted as a professional gambler in the Long Rooms. Wealthy men there had called for supper, and had tossed him an invitation. It was a shock to realise that it was only a fortnight ago that that horrible period in his life had ended.

‘I think,’ said Hornblower, slowly, ‘I should like lobster for my supper tonight. Mr Poole! Let her edge down a little towards the reef. Mr Bush, I would be obliged if you would clear away the quarter-boat ready for launching.’

The contrast between these days and those was quite fantastic. These were golden April days; a strange limbo between peace and war. They were busy days, during which Hornblower had friendly chats with fishing-boats’ captains and dispensed gold pieces in exchange for a small portion of their catch. He could drill his crew and he could take advantage of those exercises to learn all he could about the behaviour of the Hotspur. He could peep up the Goulet and measure the preparation of the French fleet for sea. He could study this Gulf of Iroise—the approaches to Brest, in other words—with its tides and its currents. By observing the traffic there he could obtain an insight into the difficulties of the French naval authorities in Brest.

Brittany was a poor province, neither productive nor well-populated, at the extremity of France, and by land the communications between Brest and the rest of the country were most inferior. There were no navigable rivers, no canals. The enormously ponderous materials to equip a fleet could never be brought to Brest by road. The artillery for a first-rate weighed two hundred tons; guns and anchors and shot could only be brought by sea from the foundries in Belgium round to the ships in Brest. The mainmast of a first-rate was a hundred feet long and three feet thick; only ships could transport those, in fact only ships specially equipped.

To man the fleet that lay idle in Brest would call for twenty thousand men. The seamen—what seamen there were—would have to march hundreds of miles from the merchant ports of Le Havre and Marseille if they were not sent round by sea. Twenty thousand men needed food and clothing, and highly specialised food and clothing moreover. The flour to make biscuit, the cattle and pigs and the salt to salt them down, and the barrel-staves in which to store them—where were they to come from? And provisioning was no day-to-day, hand-to-mouth operation, either. Before going to sea the ships would need rations for a hundred days—two million rations to be accumulated over and above daily consumption. Coasting vessels by the hundred were needed—Hornblower observed a constant trickle of them heading into Brest, rounding Ushant from the north and the Pointe du Raz from the south. If war should come—when war should come—it would be the business of the Royal Navy to cut off this traffic. More particularly it would be the business of the light craft to do this—it would be Hotspur’s business. The more he knew about all these conditions the better.

These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower’s mind as Hotspur stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The wind was south-easterly this afternoon, and Hotspur was running free—creeping along under topsails—with her look-outs posted at her mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzen-mast came two successive hails.

‘Deck! There’s a ship coming down the channel!’

‘She’s a frigate, sir!’ That was Bush supplementing Cheeseman’s report.

‘Very well,’ hailed Hornblower in return. Maybe the appearance of the frigate had nothing to do with his own evolutions in the Iroise, but the contrary was much more likely. He glanced round the ship; the hands were engaged in the routine of holystoning the decks, but he could effect a transformation in five minutes. He could clear for action or he could set all sail at a moment’s notice.

‘Steady as you go,’ he growled at the quartermaster. ‘Mr Cargill, we’ll hoist our colours, if you please.’

‘There she is, sir,’ said Prowse. The glass showed a frigate’s topgallant sails; she was reaching down the Goulet with a fair wind, on a course that would intersect Hotspur’s some miles ahead.

‘Mr Bush! I’d like you on deck, if you please, as soon as you have completed your observations.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Hotspur stole quietly along; there was no purpose in hurriedly setting additional sail and pretending to be innocent—the French fleet must have heard from a dozen sources about her continued presence in the approaches.

‘You’re not going to trust ’em, sir?’ This was from Bush, back on the quarter-deck and in a state of some anxiety; the anxiety was not displayed by any change in Bush’s imperturbable manner, but by the very fact that he volunteered advice in this positive form.

Hornblower did not want to run away. He had the weather gauge, and in a moment he could set all sail and come to the wind and stand out to sea, but he did not want to. He could be quite sure that if he were to do so the frigate would follow his example and chase him, ignominiously, out into the Atlantic with his tail between his legs. A bold move would stimulate his crew, would impress the French and—this was the point—would subdue his own doubts about himself. This was a test. His instinct was to be cautious; but he told himself that his caution was probably an excuse for cowardice. His judgement told him that there was no need for caution; his fears told him that the French frigate was planning to lure him within range of her guns and then overwhelm him. He must act according to his judgement and he must abhor the counsel of his fears, but he wished his heart would not beat so feverishly, he wished his palms would not sweat nor his legs experience these pins-and-needles feelings. He wished Bush were not crowding him at the hammock netting, so that he might take a few paces up and down the quarter-deck; and then he told himself that he could not possibly at this moment pace up and down and reveal to the world that he was in a state of indecision.

Today coasters had been swarming out of Brest, taking advantage of the fair wind; if war had been declared they would have been doing nothing of the sort. He had spoken to three different fishing-boats, and from none of them had he received a hint of war—they might all have been taking part in a conspiracy to lull him into a sense of security, but that was most unlikely. If news of war had reached Brest only an hour ago the frigate could never have prepared herself for sea and come down the Goulet in this time. And to support his judgement from the other direction was the thought that the French naval authorities, even if war was not declared, would act in just this way. Hearing of the audacious British sloop cruising outside they would find men enough for the frigate by stripping other ships of their skeleton crews and would send her out to scare the British ship away. He must not be scared away; this wind could easily persist for days, and if he once ran down to leeward it would be a long time before he could beat back and resume his observation of Brest.

The frigate was hull-up now; through his glass he could see her down to the waterline. She was big; there were her painted ports, twenty of them a side besides the guns on quarter-deck and forecastle. Eighteen pounders, probably; she had not merely twice as many guns as Hotspur but would discharge a weight of broadside four times as great. But her guns were not run out, and then Hornblower raised his glass to study her yards. He strained his eyes; this time he must not only trust his judgement but his eyesight. He was sure of what he saw. Fore-yard and fore-topsail-yard, main-yard and maintopsail-yard; they were not supported by chain slings. If the frigate were ready for action they would never have omitted that precaution. She could not be planning to fight; this could not be an ambush.

‘Any orders, sir?’ asked Bush.

Bush would have liked to clear for action, to open the ports and run out the guns. If anything could precipitate hostilities it would be that, and Hornblower remembered how his orders from Cornwallis, both written and oral, had stressed the necessity to do nothing that would bring on England the odium of starting a war.

‘Yes,’ said Hornblower in reply to Bush’s question, but the relief that showed instantly in Bush’s expression changed back into concern as he noted the gleam in Hornblower’s eyes.

‘We must render passing honours, Mr Bush,’ said Hornblower. There was something madly stimulating in forcing himself to be coldly formal when internally he was boiling with excitement. That must be what went on inside one of Mr Watt’s steam engines when the safety valve did not function.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Bush; the disciplined answer, the only answer when a superior officer spoke.

‘Do you remember the procedure, Mr Bush?’

Never in his life had Hornblower rendered honours to a French ship of war; through his whole professional career until now sighting had meant fighting.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then be so good as to give the orders.’

‘Aye aye, sir. All hands! All hands! Man the side! Mr Wise! See that the men keep order. Sergeant of marines! Parade your men on the quarter-deck! Smartly now. Drummer on the right. Bos’n’s mates! Stand by to pipe on the beat of the drum.’ Bush turned to Hornblower. ‘We’ve no music, sir, except the drum and the pipes.’

‘They won’t expect more,’ said Hornblower, his eye still at his glass. One sergeant, one corporal, twelve privates and a drummer were all the marines allotted to a sloop of war, but Hornblower was not devoting any further thought to the marines. His whole attention was concentrated on the French frigate. No doubt on the Frenchman’s deck a dozen glasses were being trained on the Hotspur. As the bustle began on the Hotspur’s deck he could see a corresponding bustle on the Frenchman’s. They were manning the side, an enormous crowd of them. Carried by the water came the noise as four hundred excited Frenchmen took up their stations.

‘Silence!’ ordered Bush at that very moment. There was a certain strangeness about his voice as he continued, because he did not want his words to be overheard in the Frenchman, and so he was endeavouring to bellow sotto voce. ‘Show the Frogs how a British crew behaves. Heads up, there, and keep still.’

Blue coats and white breeches; these were French soldiers forming up on the frigate’s quarter-deck; Hornblower’s glass detected the flash of steel as bayonets were fixed, and the gleam of brass from the musical instruments. The ships were closing steadily on their converging courses, with the frigate under her greater canvas drawing ahead of the sloop. Nearer and nearer. Hotspur was the visiting ship. Hornblower put away his telescope.

‘Now,’ he said.

‘Drum!’ ordered Bush.

The drummer beat a long roll.

‘Present-arr-ums!’ ordered the sergeant of marines, and in a much lower voice, ‘One. Two. Three!’

The muskets of the marines and the half-pike of the sergeant came to the present in the beautiful movements of the prescribed drill. The pipes of the bos’n’s mates twittered, long and agonisingly. Hornblower took off his hat and held it before his chest; the offhand salute with hand to the brim was not for this occasion. He could see the French captain on his quarter-deck now, a bulky man, holding his hat over his head in the French fashion. On his breast gleamed a star, which must be this new-fangled Legion of Honour which Boney had instituted. Hornblower came back to reality; he had been the first to render the honours, and he must be the first to terminate them. He growled a word to Bush.

‘Drum!’ ordered Bush, and the long roll ended. With that the twittering of the pipes died away, a little more raggedly than Hornblower liked. On the French quarter-deck someone—the drum major, perhaps—raised a long staff hung with brass bells into the air and brought it down again with a thump. Instantly the drums rolled, half a dozen of them, a martial, thrilling sound, and then over the water came the sound of music, that incomprehensible blend of noises which Hornblower could never appreciate; the drum major’s staff rose and fell rhythmically. At last the music stopped, with a final roll of the drums. Hornblower put on his hat, and the French captain did the same.

‘Sl-o-o-ope ar-rums,’ yelled the sergeant of marines.

‘All hands! Dismiss!’ yelled Bush, and then, reverting to his softer tone, ‘Quietly, there! Silence!’

The hands were excited and prone to chatter with the order to dismiss—never in any of their lives, either, had they passed a French ship of war so close without guns firing. But Bush was determined to make the Frenchman believe that Hotspur was manned entirely by stoics. Wise with his rattan enforced the order, and the crew dispersed in an orderly mob, the good order only disturbed by a single quickly suppressed yelp as the rattan struck home on some rash posterior.

‘She’s the Loire, surely enough, sir,’ said Bush. They could see the name entwined in gilded letters amid the scrollwork of the frigate’s stern; Hornblower remembered that Bush still was in ignorance of his source of information. It was amusing to be thought omniscient, even without justification.

‘And you were right, sir, not to run away from them,’ went on Bush. Why was it so intolerable in this case to note the gleam of admiration in Bush’s eyes? Bush did not know of the quickening heartbeats and the sweaty palms.

‘It’s given our fellows a close look at a Frenchman,’ said Hornblower, uneasily.

‘It certainly did that, sir,’ agreed Bush. ‘I never expected in all my life to hear that tune from a French frigate!’

‘What tune?’ asked Hornblower unguardedly, and was instantly furious with himself for this revelation of his weakness.

‘God Save The King, sir,’ answered Bush, simply. Luckily it never occurred to him that anyone could possibly fail to recognise the national anthem. ‘If we’d had any music on board we’d have had to play their Marseillaise.’

‘So we would,’ said Hornblower; it was desperately necessary to change the subject. ‘Look! He’s getting in his topgallants. Quick! Time him! We’ll see what sort of seamen they are.’