Hornblower on his quarterdeck set himself to try and think the thoughts of Bonaparte at the Tuileries. Beyond the Straits lay the Atlantic and the whole world. Yet it was hard to imagine any useful objective for four French ships of the line out there; the French West Indies had been nearly all reduced by English expeditions, the Cape of Good Hope was in English hands, Mauritius was about to fall. The French squadron might be intended for a mere commerce destroying raid, but in that case an equal number of frigates would be both cheaper and more effective. That was not like Bonaparte. And on the other hand exactly enough time had elapsed for the appearance of Leighton’s squadron on the Catalan coast and the resultant dearth of supplies to have been reported to the Tuileries, and for orders to have been transmitted thence to Toulon. Those orders would bear the Bonaparte stamp. Three British ships on the Catalan coast? Then send four French ones against them. Man with crews picked from all the ships rotting in Toulon harbour. Load them with all the stores for which the Barcelona garrison is clamouring. Let them slip out one dark night, hack their way through to Barcelona, crush the British squadron if they can, and return if they are lucky. In a week they might be safe and sound, and if not—every omelette demands the breaking of eggs.
That must be the French plan, and he would gladly bet all he had that he was right. It only remained to decide how to defeat the French aims, and the opening moves were obvious. First, he must keep between the French and their objective, and second, it would be desirable to keep out of sight of the French, over their horizon, as long as possible—it would be a surprise to them to find a ship of considerable force, and not a mere frigate, in their path; and surprise was half a battle. In that case his first instinctive move had been correct, and the Sutherland was on the right course to achieve both these ends—Hornblower wondered uneasily whether his unthinking mind had jumped at once to the conclusions which his thinking mind had only just reached. All that remained to be done was to call down the Pluto and the Caligula. Three British ships of the line and a frigate could fight four French ships, picked crews or not, and Bonaparte’s opinion notwithstanding.
“Cleared for action, sir,” said Bush, touching his hat. His eyes were bright with the anticipation of action. Hornblower saw in him a fighting man of the type to which he regretted he did not belong—a man who relished the prospect of a battle for its own sake, who loved physical danger, who would never stop to count the odds against him.
“Dismiss the watch below, if you please,” said Hornblower. There was no object in keeping every man at his station when action was far distant, and Hornblower saw Bush’s expression alter when he heard the words. They meant that the Sutherland was not going to plunge immediately into action against odds of four to one.
“Aye aye, sir,” he said, reluctantly.
There was something to be said for Bush’s point of view, for the Sutherland well handled might knock away so many French spars as to leave two or three at least of the French so crippled as to fall a certain prey into British hands sooner or later. It would be at the cost of her own destruction, however, and he could think about it again later. A fair wind today might still mean a foul wind tomorrow; there might still be time for the Pluto and the Caligula to come up if only they could be informed of the proximity of their prey.
“Give me that signal book,” said Hornblower to Longley.
He turned its pages, refreshed his memory regarding the wording of some of the arbitrary signals. In sending a long message there was always danger of misunderstanding. And he pulled his chin while he composed his message. Like every British officer retreating, he was running the risk of having his motives misunderstood, even though as he told himself petulantly, not even the mad British public, gorged with past victories, could condemn him for refusing action against odds of four to one. But if everything went wrong the Wellesley faction might seek a scapegoat; and the order he was about to transmit might mean the difference between success and failure, between a court of inquiry and the thanks of Parliament.
“Send this message,” he said abruptly to Vincent.
Hoist after hoist the flags crept up the mast. The Cassandra was to set all sail she could carry, and to make use of her frigate’s turn of speed to turn westward, seek out the Pluto and Caligula–Hornblower could not be exact in his description of their position—and bring them down to Barcelona. Phrase by phrase the Cassandra acknowledged the signal. Then there was a pause after its completion, before Vincent, glass to eye, reported.
“Cassandra signalling, sir. ‘Submit—’.”
It was the first time Hornblower had ever had that word addressed to him. He had used it so often in signals to admirals and senior captains, had included it so often in reports, and now another officer was beginning a signal to him with the word ‘Submit’. It was a clear, definite proof of his growing seniority, and gave him a thrill keener even than he had known when a ship had first piped the side for him on his being posted. Yet naturally the word ‘submit’ ushered in a protest. Cooke of the Cassandra was not in the least anxious to be thus summarily dismissed from the scene of a promising action. He submitted that it would be better for the Cassandra to stay in sight of the French.
“Signal ‘Carry out orders acknowledged’,” said Hornblower, tersely.
Cooke was wrong and he was right—Cooke’s protest helped his decision to crystallise. A frigate’s whole function, what she was built for, was to enable the ships of the line to come into action. The Cassandra could not face a single broadside from one of the ships rolling along after her; if she could bring the Pluto and the Caligula into action she would have multiplied her own value an infinity of times. It was heart-warming to Hornblower to be not only convinced that he was right, but to be able to enforce the course of action he had decided upon. That six months’ difference in seniority made Cooke obedient to him, and would make him obedient all their lives—if ever Cooke and he flew their flags together as admirals, he would still be the senior and Cooke the junior. He watched the Cassandra shake out the reefs from her topsails and bear away westwards, with all her five knots’ superiority of speed being put to its best use now.
“Shorten sail, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower.
The French would see the Cassandra vanish over their horizon; there was a chance that the Sutherland might keep them under observation without being seen. He stuck his telescope into his pocket and set himself to climb the mizzen rigging, sedately—even a little laboriously; it was imperilling his dignity to do so, when every hand in the ship could climb the mast quicker than he, but he had to see with his own eyes the enemy astern of him. The ship was plunging heavily in the following sea, and the wind blew keenly about his ears. It called for resolution to continue his ascent without undignified pauses, so as to appear merely as leisurely as a captain had a right to be, and yet neither timid nor awkward.
At last he found a secure perch on the mizzen topmast cross trees, and could train his glass on the heaving horizon. With her main topsail taken in the Sutherland’s speed was considerably reduced, and it could not be long before the French appeared. He saw them soon enough—a tiny rectangle of white just lifting over the horizon, then another beside it, and another, and another.