A Ship of the Line. C. S. Forester

“Walmer Castle’s hauled her wind, sir.”

Hornblower put his glass to his eye. The Walmer Castle was the leading ship of the convoy, and the farthest to port. She was about three miles away, and there was no mistaking the fact that she had spun round on her heel and was now clawing frantically up to windward towards them.

“She’s signalling, sir,” said Vincent, “but I can’t read it. It might be No. 29, but that’s ‘Discontinue the action’ and she can’t mean that.’

“Masthead!” bellowed Bush. “What can you see on the port bow?”

“Northin’, sir.”

“She’s hauled it down now, sir,” went on Vincent. “There goes another one! No. 11, sir. Enemy in sight.”

“Here, Savage,” said Bush. “Take your glass and up with you.” The next ship in the straggling line had come up into the wind, too; Savage was halfway up the rigging, when the masthead lookout hailed.

“I can see ’em now, sir. Two luggers, sir, on the port bow.”

Luggers off Ushant could only mean French privateers.

Swift, handy, and full of men, with a length of experience at sea only equalled by that of the British navy, they would court any danger to make a prize of a fat East Indiaman. Such a capture would make their captains wealthy men. Bush, Vincent, everyone on the quarterdeck looked at Hornblower. If he were to lose such a ship entrusted to his charge he would forfeit every bit of credit at the Admiralty that he possessed.

“Turn up the hands, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower. In the excitement of instant action he had no thought for the dramatic aspect of affairs, forgot the need to pose, and made no attempt to impress his subordinates with his calm; and the calculations which came flooding up into his mind had so rapidly engrossed him that he betrayed no excitement whatever, as they saw.

The Indiamen all carried guns — the Lord Mornington actually had eighteen ports a side — and could beat off any long range attack by a small privateer. The luggers’ tactics would be to swoop alongside and board; no boarding nettings manned by an Indiaman’s crew would keep out a hundred Frenchmen mad for gold. They would manoeuvre so as to cut off a ship to windward of him — while he was beating up against the wind they could rush her in three minutes and carry her off under his very eyes. He must not allow such a situation to arise, and yet the Indiamen were slow, his crew was undrilled, and French luggers were as quick as lightning in stays — there were two of them, as well, and he would have to parry two thrusts at once.

They were in sight now from the deck, their dark sails lifting above the horizon, two-masted and closehauled. The dark squares of their sails were urgent with menace, and Hornblower’s eye could read more than the mere dreams of the silhouettes against the clear horizon. They were small, with not more than twenty guns apiece, and no more than nine pounders at that — the Sutherland could sink them with a couple of broadsides if they were ever foolish enough to come within close range. But they were fast; already they were hull-up, and Hornblower could see the white water under their bows. And they were lying at least a point nearer the wind than ever he could induce the Sutherland to lie. Each would have at least a hundred and fifty men on board, because French privateers had little thought for the comfort of their crews, nor needed to when they only intended to dash out of port, snap up a prize, and dash back again.

“Shall I clear for action, sir,” asked Bush, greatly daring.

“No,” snapped Hornblower. “Send the men to quarters and put out the fires.”

There was no need to knock down bulwarks and risk spoiling his property and imperil the live-stock on board, because there was no chance of a stand-up fight. But a stray nine-pounder ball into the galley fire might set the whole ship ablaze. The men went to their stations, were pushed there, or led there — some of the men were still confused between port and starboard sides — to the accompaniment of the low-voiced threats and curses of the petty officers.

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