“I am to wait until Mr Bush expressly orders them, sir.”
“And who do you send if you receive those orders?”
“Firth, sir.”
Foreman indicated a likely-looking young seaman at his elbow. But was there perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation about that reply? Hornblower turned on Firth.
“Where do you go?”
Firth’s eyes flickered towards Foreman for a moment. That might be with embarrassment; but Foreman swayed a little on his feet, as if he were pointing with his shoulder, and one hand made a small sweeping gesture in front of his middle, as if he might be indicating Mr Wise’s abdominal rotundity.
“For’ard, sir,” said Firth. “The bos’n issues them. At the break of the fo’c’sle.”
“Very well,” said Hornblower.
He had no doubt that Foreman had quite forgotten to pass on Bush’s orders regarding battle lanterns. But Foreman had been quick-witted enough to remedy the situation, and Firth had not merely been quick-witted but also loyal enough to back up his petty officer. It would he well to keep an eye on both those two, for various reasons. The break of the forecastle had been an inspired guess, as being adjacent to the bos’n’s locker.
Hornblower walked up on to the quarterdeck again, Bush following him, and he cast a considering eye about him, taking in the last uninspected gun — the port-side quarter-deck carronade. He selected a position where the largest possible number of ears could catch his words.
“Mr Bush,” he said, “we have a fine ship. If we work hard we’ll have a fine crew too. If Boney needs a lesson we’ll give it to him. You may continue with the exercises.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The six marines on the quarter-deck, the helmsman, the carronades’ crews, Mr Prowse and the rest of the afterguard had all heard him. He had felt it was not the time for a formal speech, but he could be sure his words would be relayed round the ship during the next dog watch. And he had chosen them carefully. That ‘we’ was meant as a rallying call. Meanwhile Bush was continuing with the exercise. “Cast loose your guns. Level your guns. Take out your tompions,” and all the rest of it.
“We’ll have them in shape soon enough, sir,” said Bush. “Then we’ll only have to get alongside the enemy.”
“Not necessarily alongside, Mr Bush. When we come to burn powder at the next exercise I want the men schooled in firing at long range.”
“Yes, sir. Of course,” agreed Bush.
But that was lip-service only on Bush’s part. He had not really thought about the handling of Hotspur in battle — close action, where the guns could not miss, and only needed to be loaded and fired as rapidly as possible, was Bush’s ideal. Very well for a ship of the line in a fleet action, but perhaps not so suitable for Hotspur. She was only a sloop of war, her timbers and her scantlings more fragile even than those of a frigate. Her twenty nine-pounders that gave her ‘rate’ — the four carronades not being counted — were ‘long guns’, better adapted for work at a couple of cables’ lengths than for close action when the enemy’s guns stood no more chance of missing than hers did. She was the smallest thing with three masts and quarter-deck and forecastle in the Navy List. The odds were heavy that any enemy she might meet would be her superior in size, in weight of metal, in number of men — probably immeasurably her superior. Dash and courage might snatch a victory for her, but skill and forethought and good handling might be more certain. Hornblower felt the tremor of action course through him, accentuated by the vibrating rumble of the guns being run out.
“Land ho! Land ho!” yelled the look-out of the fore-topmast head. “Land one point on the lee bow!”
That would be France, Ushant, the scene of their future exploits, perhaps where they would meet with disaster or death. Naturally there was a wave of excitement through the ship. Heads were raised and faces turned.
“Sponge your guns!” bellowed Bush through his speaking-trumpet. Bush could be relied on to maintain discipline and good order through any distraction. “Load!”
It was hard for the men to go through the play-acting of gun drill in these circumstances; discipline on the one side, resentment, disillusionment on the other.
“Point your guns! Mr Cheeseman! The hand-spike man on No. 7 gun isn’t attending to his duty. I want his name.”
Prowse was training a telescope forward; as the officer responsible for navigation that was his duty, but it was also his privilege.
“Run your guns in!”
Hornblower itched to follow Prowse’s example, but he restrained himself; Prowse would keep him informed of anything vital. He allowed the drill to go on through one more mock broadside before he spoke.
“Mr Bush, you may secure the guns now, thank you.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Prowse was offering his telescope.
“That’s the light-tower on Ushant, sir,” he said.
Hornblower caught a wavering glimpse of the thing, a gaunt framework topped by a cresset, where the French government in time of peace maintained a light for the benefit of the ships — half the world’s trade made a landfall off Ushant — that needed it.
“Thank you, Mr Prowse.” Hornblower visualized the chart again; recalled the plans he had made in the intervals of commissioning his ship, in the intervals of his honeymoon, in the intervals of sea-sickness, during the past crowded days. “Wind’s drawing westerly. But it’ll be dark before we can make Cape Matthew. We’ll stand to the s’uth’ard under easy sail until midnight. I want to be a league off the Black Stones an hour before dawn.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush joined them, fresh from the business of securing the guns.
“Look at that, sir! There’s a fortune passing us by.”
A large ship was hull-up to windward, her canvas reflecting the weltering sun.
“French Indiaman,” commented Hornblower, turning his glass on her.
“A quarter of a million pounds, all told!” raved Bush. “Maybe a hundred thousand for you, sir, if only war were declared. Doesn’t that tease you, sir? She’ll carry this wind all the way to Havre and she’ll be safe.”
“There’ll be others,” replied Hornblower soothingly.
“Not so many, sir. Trust Boney. He’ll send warnings out the moment he’s resolved on war, and every French flag’ll take refuge in neutral ports. Madeira and the Azores, Cadiz and Ferrol, while we could make our fortunes!”
The possibilities of prize money bulked large in the thoughts of every naval officer.
“Maybe we will,” said Hornblower. He thought of Maria and his allotment of pay; even a few hundreds of pounds would make a huge difference.
“Maybe, sir,” said Bush, clearly discounting the possibility.
“And there’s another side to the picture,” added Hornblower, pointing round the horizon.
There were half a dozen other sails all visible at this time, all British. They marked the enormous extent of British maritime commerce. They bore the wealth that could support navies, sustain allies, maintain manufactories of arms — to say nothing of the fact that they provided the basic training for seamen who later would man the ships of war which kept the seas open for them and closed them to England’s enemies.
“They’re only British, sir,” said Prowse, wonderingly. He had not the vision to see what Hornblower saw. Bush had to look hard at his captain before it dawned upon him.
The heaving of the log, with the changing of the watch, relieved Hornblower of the temptation to preach a sermon.
“What’s the speed, Mr Young?”
“Three knots and a half, sir.”
“Thank you.” Hornblower turned back to Prowse. “Keep her on her present course.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower was training his telescope out over the port bow. There was a black dot rising and falling out there towards Molene Island. He kept it under observation.
“I think, Mr Prowse,” he said, his glass still at his eye, “we might edge in a little more inshore. Say two points. I’d like to pass that fishing-boat close.”