The hands saw it, they saw her go, and someone raised a cheer which ran raggedly along the deck. There were grins and smiles which revealed teeth strangely white against the powder blackened faces. Bush came up from the waist, powder blackened like the others.
“Sir!” he said. “I don’t know how to congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush. You can keep your eye on Wise. There’s the two spare stuns’l booms — fish the main yard with those.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Despite the blackening of his features, despite the fatigue that even Bush could not conceal, there was that curious expression in Bush’s face again, inquiring, admiring, surprised. He was bursting with things that he wanted to say. It called for an obvious effort of will on Bush’s part to turn away without saying them; Hornblower fired a parting shot at Bush’s receding back.
“I want the ship ready for action again before sunset, Mr Bush.”
Gurney the Gunner was reporting.
“We’ve fired away all the top tier of powder, sir, an’ we’re well into the second tier. That’s a ton an’ a half of powder. Five tons of shot, sir. We used every cartridge; my mates are sewing new ones now.”
The carpenter next, and then Huffnell the purser and Wallis the surgeon; arrangements to feed the living, and arrangements to bury the dead.
The dead whom he had known so well; there was a bitter regret and a deep sense of personal loss as Wallis read the names. Good seamen and bad seamen, alive this morning and now gone from this world, because he had done his duty. He must not think along those lines at all. It was a hard service to which he belonged, hard and pitiless like steel, like flying cannon-shot.
At nine o’clock at night Hornblower sat down to the first food he had eaten since the night before, and as he submitted to Bailey’s clumsy ministrations, he thought once more about Doughty, and from Doughty he went on — the step was perfectly natural — to think about eight million Spanish dollars in prize money. His weary mind was purged of the thought of sin. He did not have to class himself with the cheating captains he had heard about, with the peculating officers he had known. He could grant himself absolution; grudging absolution.
Chapter 23
With her battered sides and her fished main yard, Hotspur beat her way back towards the rendezvous appointed in case of separation. Even in this pleasant latitude of Southern Europe winter was asserting itself. The nights were cold and the wind blew chill, and Hotspur had to ride out a gale for twenty-four hours as she tossed about; St Vincent, bearing north fifteen leagues, was the place of rendezvous, but there was no sign of the frigate squadron. Hornblower paced the deck as he tried to reach a decision, as he calculated how far off to leeward the recent gale might have blown Indefatigable and her colleagues, and as he debated what his duty demanded he should do next. Bush eyed him from a distance as he paced; even though he was in the secret regarding the flota he knew better than to intrude. Then at last came the hail from the mast-head.
“Sail ho! Sail to windward! Deck, there! There’s another. Looks like a fleet, sir.”
Now Bush could join Hornblower.
“I expect that’s the frigates, sir.”
“Maybe.” Hornblower hailed the main-topmast-head. “How many sail now?”
“Eight, sir. Sir, they look like ships of the line, some of them, sir. Yes, sir, a three-decker an’ some two-deckers.”
A squadron of ships of the line, heading for Cadiz. They might possibly be French — fragments of Bonaparte’s navy sometimes evaded blockade. In that case it was his duty to identify them, risking capture. Most likely they were British, and Hornblower had a momentary misgiving as to what their presence would imply in that case.
“We’ll stand towards them, Mr Bush. Mr Foreman! Hoist the private signal.”
There were the topsails showing now, six ships of the line ploughing along in line ahead, a frigate out on either flank.
“Leading ship answers 264, sir. That’s the private signal for this week.”
“Very well. Make our number.”
Today’s grey sea and grey sky seemed to reflect the depression that was settling over Hornblower’s spirits.
“Dreadnought, sir. Admiral Parker. His flag’s flying.”
So Parker had been detached from the fleet off Ushant; Hornblower’s unpleasant conviction was growing.
“Flag to Hotspur, sir. ‘Captain come on board’.”
“Thank you, Mr Foreman. Mr Bush, call away the quarter boat.”
Parker gave an impression of greyness like the weather when Hornblower was led aft to Dreadnought‘s quarter-deck. His eyes and his hair and even his face (in contrast with the swarthy faces round him) were of a neutral grey. But he was smartly dressed, so that Hornblower felt something of a ragamuffin in his presence, wishing, too, that this morning’s shave had been more effective.
“What are you doing here, Captain Hornblower?”
“I am on the rendezvous appointed for Captain Moore’s squadron, sir.”
“Captain Moore’s in England by this time.”
The news left Hornblower unmoved, for it was what he was expecting to hear, but he had to make an answer.
“Indeed, sir?”
“You haven’t heard the news?”
“I’ve heard nothing for a week, sir.”
“Moore captured the Spanish treasure fleet. Where were you?”
“I had an encounter with a French frigate, sir.”
A glance at Hotspur lying hove-to on the Dreadnought‘s beam could take in the fished main-yard and the raw patches on her sides.
“You missed a fortune in prize money.”
“So I should think, sir.”
“Six million dollars. The Dons fought, and one of their frigates blew up with all hands before the others surrendered.”
In a ship in action drill and discipline had to be perfect; a moment’s carelessness on the part of a powder boy or a gun loader could lead to disaster. Hornblower’s thoughts on this subject prevented him this time from making even a conversational reply, and Parker went on without waiting for one.
“So it’s war with Spain. The Dons will declare war as soon as they hear the news — they probably have done so already. This squadron is detached from the Channel Fleet to begin the blockade of Cadiz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had better return north after Moore. Report to the Channel Fleet off Ushant for further orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The cold grey eyes betrayed not the least flicker of humanity. A farmer would look at a cow with far more interest than this Admiral looked at a Commander.
“A good journey to you, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The wind was well to the north of west; Hotspur would have to stand far out to weather St Vincent, and farther out still to make sure of weathering Cape Roca. Parker and his ships had a fair wind for Cadiz and although Hornblower gave his orders the moment he reached the deck they were over the horizon almost as soon as Hotspur had hoisted in her boat and had settled down on the starboard tack, close-hauled, to begin the voyage back to Ushant. And as she plunged to the seas that met her starboard bow there was something additional to be heard and felt about her motion. As each wave crest reached her, and she began to put her bows down, there was a sudden dull noise and momentary little shock through the fabric of the ship, to be repeated when she had completed her descent and began to rise again. Twice for every wave this happened, so that ear and mind came to expect it at each rise and fall. It was the fished main-yard, splinted between the two spare studding sail booms. However tightly the trapping was strained that held the joint together, a little play remained, and the ponderous yardarms settled backward and forward with a thump, twice with every wave, until mind and ear grew weary of its ceaseless monotony.