Cecil Forester - A Ship of the Line

“God damn it, man, you’re not going?” said Bolton. Hornblower’s attitude was unmistakable, but he could not believe the evidence of his eyes.

“If you would permit me, sir,” said Hornblower. “There’s a fair wind—”

Hornblower was actually stammering as he tried to make all his explanations at once. The wind might change; if it was worth while separating it was better to go now than later; if the Sutherland were to stand in towards the coast during the dark hours there was a chance that she might snap up a prize at dawn—every sort of explanation except the true one that he could not bear to sit still any longer with immediate action awaiting him just over the horizon.

“Have it your own way, then,” grumbled Bolton. “If you must, you must. You’re leaving me with a half empty bottle. Does that mean you don’t like my port?”

“No, sir,” said Hornblower, hastily.

“Another glass, then, while your boat’s crew is making ready. Pass the word for Captain Hornblower’s gig.”

The last sentence was bellowed towards the closed door of the cabin, and was immediately repeated by the sentry outside.

Boatswain’s pipes twittered as Hornblower went down the Caligula’s side, officers stood to attention, side boys held the lines. The gig rowed rapidly over the silver water in the fading evening; Coxswain Brown looked sidelong, anxiously, at his captain, trying to guess what this hurried and early departure meant. In the Sutherland there was similar anxiety; Bush and Gerard and Crystal and Rayner were all on the quarterdeck awaiting him—Bush had obviously turned out of bed at the news that the captain was returning.

Hornblower paid no attention to their expectant glances. He had made it a rule to offer no explanation—and there was a pleasurable selfish thrill in keeping his subordinates in ignorance of their future. Even as the gig came leaping up to the tackles he gave the orders which squared the ship away before the wind, heading back to the Spanish coast where adventure awaited them.

“ Caligula’s signalling, sir,” said Vincent, “Good, luck.”

“Acknowledge,” said Hornblower.

The officers on the quarterdeck looked at each other, wondering what the future held in store for them for the commodore to wish them good luck. Hornblower noted the interchange of glances without appearing to see them.

“Ha-h’m,” he said, and walked with dignity below, to pore over his charts and plan his campaign. The timbers creaked faintly as the gentle wind urged the ship over the almost placid sea.

“Two bells, sir,” said Polwheal, waking Hornblower from an ecstatic dream. “Wind East by South, course Nor’ by East, an’ all sail set to the royal, sir. An’ Mr. Gerard says to say land in sight on the larboard beam.”

This last sentence jerked Hornblower from his cot without a moment’s more meditation. He slipped off his nightshirt and put on the clothes Polwheal held ready for him. Unshaved and uncombed he hurried up to the quarterdeck. It was full daylight now, with the sun half clear of the horizon and looking over the starboard quarter, and just abaft the port beam a grey mountain shape reflecting its light. That was Cape Creux, where a spur of the Pyrenees came jutting down to the Mediterranean, carrying the Spanish coast line out of its farthest easterly point.

“Sail ho!” yelled the lookout at the masthead. “Nearly right ahead. A brig, sir, standing out from the land on the starboard tack.”

It was what Hornblower had been hoping for; it was for this reason that he had laid his course so as to be on this spot at this moment. All the seaboard of Catalonia, as far south as Barcelona and beyond, was in the hands of the French, and a tumultuous French army—the ‘Account of the Present War in Spain’ estimated it at nearly eighty thousand men—was endeavouring to extend its conquests southwards and inland.

But they had Spanish roads to contend against as well as Spanish armies. To supply an army eight thousand strong, and a large civilian population as well, was impossible by land over the Pyrenean passes, even though Gerona had surrendered last December after a heroic defence. Food and siege materials and ammunition had to be sent by sea, in small craft which crept along the coast, from shore battery to shore battery, through the lagoons and the shallows of the coast of the Gulf of Lions, past the rocky capes of Spain, as far as Barcelona.

Since Cochrane’s recall, this traffic had met with hardly any interference from the British in the Mediterranean. When Hornblower first reached his rendezvous off Palamos Point he had been careful to disappear again over the horizon immediately, so as to give no warning of the approach of a British squadron. He had hoped that the French might grow careless. With the wind nearly in the east, and Cape Creux running out almost directly eastwards, there was a chance that some supply ship or other, compelled to stand far out from the land to weather the point, might be caught at dawn out of range of the shore batteries, having neglected to make this dangerous passage at night. And so it had proved.

“Hoist the colours, Mr. Gerard,” said Hornblower. “And call all hands.”

“The brig has wore, sir,” hailed the lookout. “She’s running before the wind.”

“Head so as to cut her off, Mr. Gerard. Set stu’ns’ls both sides.”

Before the wind, and with only the lightest of breezes blowing, was the Sutherland’s best point of sailing, as might be expected of her shallow build and clumsy beam. In these ideal conditions she might easily have the heels of a deep-laden coasting brig.

“Deck, there!” hailed the lookout. “The brig’s come to the wind again, sir. She’s on her old course.”

That was something very strange. If the chase had been a ship of the line, she might have been challenging battle. But a mere brig, even a brig of war, would be expected to fly to the shelter of the shore batteries. Possibly she might be an English brig.

“Here, Savage. Take your glass and tell me what you can see.”

Savage dashed up the main rigging at the word.

“Quite right, sir. She’s closehauled again on the starboard tack. We’ll pass her to leeward on this course. She’s wearing French national colours, sir. And she’s signalling now, sir. Can’t read the flags yet, sir, and she’s nearly dead to leeward, now.”

What the devil was the brig up to? She had settled her own fate by standing to windward again; if she had dashed for the land the moment she had sighted the Sutherland she might possibly have escaped. Now she was a certain capture—but why was the French brig signalling to a British ship of the line? Hornblower sprang up on to the rail; from there he could see the brig’s topsails over the horizon, as she held her windward course.

“I can read the signal now, sir. MV.”

“What the devil does MV mean?” snapped Hornblower to Vincent, and then regretted that he had said it. A look would have done as well.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Vincent, turning the pages of the signal book. “It’s not in the code.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Bush. “We’re coming up to her fast. Hullo! She’s wearing round again. She’s come before the wind. But it’s no use now, Mongseer. You’re ours. A handsome bit of prize money there for us, my lads.”

The excited chatter of the quarterdeck reached Hornblower’s ears to be unheard. This last attempt at flight on the Frenchman’s part had explained his previous movements. Bush, Gerard, Vincent, Crystal, were all too careless to have thought about it, too excited at the prospect of prize money. Hornblower could guess now what had happened. At first sight of the Sutherland, the brig had turned to fly. Then she had seen the red ensign which the Sutherland had hoisted, and misread it as the French colours—both sides had made the same mistake before this, the red fly both of tricolour and of red ensign led easily to confusion.