“Deck there!” hailed the masthead. “Enemy’s hauled her wind, sir.”
“Very well! Mr. Turner, wear ship, if you please. Point our bows right at her, and take in the fore course.”
The terrier had evaded the bull’s charge and was now yapping at its heels again. It was easy to follow the Castilla for the rest of the night, keeping a sharp lookout during the periods of darkness lest she should play on them the same trick as Atropos had played once. Dawn, rising ahead, revealed the Castilla’s royals and topsails an inky black before they changed to ivory white against the blue sky. Hornblower could imagine the rage of the Spanish captain at the sight of his pertinacious pursuer, dogging him in this fashion with insolent impunity. Seven miles separated the ships, but as far as the Castilla’s big eighteenpounders mattered it might as well be seventy, and moreover the invisible wind, blowing direct from Atropos to Castilla, was an additional protection, guarding her from her enemy like the mysterious glass shield that turned the hero’s sword in one of the Italian epics. Atropos, seven miles to windward, was as safe and yet as visible as the Saracen magician.
Hornblower was conscious of weariness again. He had been on his feet since midnight, after less than four hours’ rest. He wanted, passionately, to rest his legs; he wanted, hardly less, to close his aching eyes. The hammocks had been brought up, the decks swabbed, and it only remained now to cling to Castilla’s heels, but when any moment might bring the need for a quick decision he dared not leave the deck—odd that now he was safely to windward the situation was more dynamic than yesterday when he had been to leeward, but it was true. Castilla might come to the wind at any unforeseen moment, and moreover the two ships were driving into the blue Mediterranean where any surprise might be over the horizon.
“I’ll have a mattress up here,” said Hornblower.
They brought one up and laid it aft beside the weather scuppers. He eased his aching joints down on to it, settled his head on his pillow, and closed his eyes. The lift and send of the ship were soporific, and so was the sound of the sea under the Atropos’ counter. The light played backward and forward over his face as the shadows of sails and rigging followed the movement of the ship. He could sleep—he could sleep, heavily and dreamlessly, while the ships flew on up the Mediterranean, while they called the watch, while they hove the log, even while they trimmed the yards as the wind came a little northerly, moving round ahead of the sun.
It was afternoon when he woke. He shaved with the aid of a mirror stuck in the hammock nettings; be took his bath under the washdeck pump and put on the clean shirt that he sent for; he sat on the deck and ate cold beef and the last of the goodly soft bread taken on board at Gibraltar, somewhat stale now but infinitely better than ship’s biscuit; and the fresh butter from the same source, kept cool so far in an earthenware crock was quite delicious. It struck seven bells as he finished his last mouthful.
“Deck there! Enemy’s altering course.”
He was on his feet in a flash, his plate sliding into the scuppers, the telescope in his hand without conscious volition on his part. No doubt about it. Castilla had altered to a more northerly course, with the wind abeam. It was not very surprising for they had run a full two hundred miles from Cartagena; unless the Castilla was prepared to go right up the Mediterranean far to leeward of all Spanish bases, it was time for her to head north to fetch Minorca. He would follow her there, the terrier harassing the bull, and he would give a final yap at the bull’s heels outside Port Mahon. Besides, the Castilla’s alteration of course might not portend a mere flight to Minorca. They were right on the track of convoys beating up the Mediterranean from Sicily and Malta.
“Port your helm, Mr. Still, if you please. Maintain a parallel course.”
It was only sensible to stay up to windward of Castilla as much as possible. The intense feeling of wellbeing of five minutes ago was replaced now by excitement, a slight tingling under the skin. Ten to one the Castilla’s alteration of course meant nothing at all, but there was the tenth chance. Eight bells; hands mustered for the first dogwatch.
“Deck there! There’s a sail ahead of the enemy, sir!”
That was it, then.
“Get aloft with you, Mr. Smiley. You can go too, Mr. Prince.”
That would show His Serene Highness that a punishment cleared the record in the Navy, and that he was being trusted not to risk any more monkey tricks. It was a detail that had to be borne in mind despite the flood of excitement following the masthead report. There was no knowing what that sail over there, invisible from the deck, might imply. But there was a chance that it was a British ship of war, fair in Castilla’s path.
“Two sail! Three sail! Captain, sir, it looks like a convoy, dead to leeward.”
A convoy could only be a British convoy, and a convoy meant the presence of a British ship of war ahead there in Castilla’s path.
“Up helm and bear down on the enemy. Call all hands, Mr. Still, if you please. Clear for action.”
During all the long flight and pursuit he had not cleared for action. He had not wanted action with the vastly superior Castilla, and had been determined on avoiding it. Now he hoped for it—hoped for it with that tremor of doubt that made him hate himself, all the more so as the repeating of the order brought a cheer from the men, the watch below pouring on deck for duty with expectant grins and schoolboy excitement. Mr. Jones came bustling up on deck buttoning his coat; apparently he had been dozing comfortably through the afternoon watch. To Jones would fall the command of the Atropos if any accident should befall him, if a shot should take off his leg or dash him into bloody fragments. Odd that the thought of Jones becoming responsible for handling Atropos was as disturbing as the rest of it. But all the same Jones must be brought up to date on the situation and told what should be done. He did it in three sharp sentences.
“I see, sir,” said Jones, pulling at his long chin. Hornblower was not so sure that he did see, but there was no more time to spare for Jones.
“Masthead! What of the convoy?”
“One sail has tacked, sir. She’s standing towards us.”
“What d’you make of her?”
“She looks like a ship of war, sir. I can only see her royals, sir.”
“Mr. Horrocks, make the private signal and our number.”
A ship standing towards Castilla could only be a ship of war, the escorting vessel. Hornblower could only hope she would be one of the larger frigates, able to meet the big Castilla on something like equal terms. But he knew most of the frigates Collingwood had—Sirius, Naiad, Hermione–thirtytwo gun twelvepounder frigates most of them, hardly a match for Castilla’s fortyfour eighteenpounders unless well handled, and unless Castilla fought badly, and unless he himself had a chance to intervene. He strained his eyesight staring forward through his glass, but the British ship was not yet in sight from the deck, and Castilla was still running boldly down before the wind. Clearing for action was nearly completed; they were casting loose the guns.
“Signal, sir!”
Horrocks was ready with the book as the masthead reported the flags.