“They’re signalling a lot, sir,” said Bush, his glass to his eye. They had been signalling all day, for that matter — the first flurry of bunting, Hornblower shrewdly surmised, had been occasioned by their catching sight of the Sutherland, unaware that she had been keeping company with them for fifteen hours. Frenchmen retained their talkative habits at sea, and no French captain was happy without messages passing back and forth along the squadron.
The Sutherland was clear of the Cape Creux peninsula now, and Rosas Bay was opening out on her beam. It was in these very waters, but in very different weather conditions, that the Pluto had lost her masts and had been towed to safety by the Sutherland; over there, on those green-grey slopes, had occurred the fiasco of the attack on Rosas; through his glass Hornblower thought he could discern the precipitous face of the mesa up which Colonel Claros had led his fugitive Catalans. If the wind came farther round now, the French had a refuge open to them under the guns of Rosas, where they would be safe until the British could bring up fireships and explosion vessels to drive them out again; actually it would be a more secure refuge for them than the anchorage at Barcelona.
He looked up at the pendant flapping at the masthead — the wind was certainly more southerly. It was growing doubtful whether the French would weather Palamos Point on their present tack, while he would certainly have to go about soon and stand out into the Frenchmen’s wake, with all his advantages of position lost by the inconstancy of the weather. And the wind was beginning to come in irregular puffs now — a sure sign of its diminishing force. He turned his glass on the French squadron again to see how they were behaving. There was a fresh series of signals fluttering at their yardarms.
“Deck, there!” yelled Savage from the masthead.
Then there was a pause. Savage was not too sure of what he could see.
“What is it, Mr Savage?”
“I think — I’m not quite sure, sir — there’s another sail, right on the horizon, sir, abaft the enemy’s beam.”
Another sail! It might be a stray merchant ship. Otherwise it could only be Leighton’s ships or the Cassandra.
“Keep your eye on her, Mr Savage.”
It was impossible to wait for news. Hornblower swung himself up into the shrouds and climbed upwards. At Savage’s side he trained his glass in the direction indicated. For a second the French squadron danced in the object glass, disregarded, as he searched.
“A bit farther round, sir. About there, I think, sir.”
It was the tiniest flash of white, too permanent for a wave crest, of a different shade from the few clouds against the blue. Hornblower nearly spoke, but succeeded in limiting himself to “Ha-h’m.”
“It’s nearer now, sir,” said Savage, telescope to eye. “I should say, sir, it’s a ship’s fore-royal.”
There could be no doubt about it. Some ship under full sail was out there beyond the Frenchmen, and standing in to cross their wake.
“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower. He said no more, but snapped his telescope shut and addressed himself to the descent.
Bush dropped to the deck to meet him from the shrouds he had ascended; Gerard, Crystal, they were all on the quarterdeck eyeing him anxiously.
“The Cassandra,” said Hornblower, “standing in towards us.”
By saying that, he was risking his dignity to demonstrate his good sight. No one could guess the new arrival to be the Cassandra from just that glimpse of her royals. But it could only be the Cassandra who would be on that course, unless his judgment were sadly at fault. Should she be revealed not to be, he would appear ridiculous — but the temptation to appear to recognise her when Savage was not even sure whether she was a ship or a cloud was too strong.
All the implications of the Cassandra’s appearance were evident to the officers’ minds at once.
“Where’s the flagship and Caligula?” demanded Bush, of no one in particular.
“May be coming up, too,” said Gerard.
“The Frogs are cut off if they are,” said Crystal