“I can set you men free,” he said. “There will be an end of beatings and slavery if you will do what I order. I am an English officer, and I am going to sail this ship to England. Does anyone not want to come?”
There was a little sigh from the group; it was as if they could not believe they were hearing aright — probably they could not.
“In England,” went on Hornblower, “you will be rewarded. There will be a new life awaiting you.”
Now at last they were beginning to understand that they had not been brought on board the cutter for further toil, that there really was a chance of freedom.
“Yes, sir,” said a voice.
“I am going to unfasten your chain,” said Hornblower. “Remember this. There is to be no noise. Sit still until you are told what to do.”
He fumbled for the padlock in the dim light, unlocked it and snapped it open — it was pathetic, the automatic gesture with which the first man lifted his arms. He was accustomed to being locked and unlocked daily, like an animal. Hornblower set free each man in turn, and the chain clanked on the deck; he stood back with his hands on the butts of his pistols ready in case of trouble, but there was no sign of any. The men stood dazed — the transition from slavery to freedom had taken no more than three minutes.
Hornblower felt the movement of the cutter under his feet as the wind swung her; she was bumping gently against the fends-off hung between her and the quay. A glance over the side confirmed his conclusions — the tide had not yet begun to ebb. There were still some minutes to wait, and he turned to Brown, standing restless aft of the mainmast with the pilot sitting miserably at his feet.
“Brown,” he said quietly, “run down to our boat and bring me my parcel of clothes. Run along now — what are you waiting for?”
Brown went unhappily. It seemed dreadful to him that his captain should waste precious minutes over recovering his clothes, and should even trouble to think of them. But Hornblower was not as mad as he might appear. They could not start until the tide turned, and Brown might as well be employed fetching clothes as standing fidgeting. For once in his life Hornblower had no intention of posing before his subordinates. His head was clear despite his excitement.
“Thank you,” he said, as Brown returned, panting with the canvas bag. “Get me my uniform coat out.”
He stripped off his colonel’s tunic and put on the coat which Brown held for him, experiencing a pleasant thrill as his fingers fastened the buttons with their crown and anchor. The coat was sadly crumpled, and the gold lace bent and broken, but still it was a uniform, even though the last time he had worn it was months ago when they had been capsized in the Loire. With this coat on his back he could no longer be accused of being a spy, and should their attempt result in failure and recapture it would shelter both himself and his subordinates. Failure and recapture were likely possibilities, as his logical brain told him, but secret murder now was not. The stealing of the cutter would attract sufficient public attention to make that impossible. Already he had bettered his position — he could not be shot as a spy nor be quietly strangled in prison. If he were recaptured now he could only be tried on the old charge of violation of the laws of war, and Hornblower felt that his recent exploits might win him sufficient public sympathy to make it impolitic for Bonaparte to press even that charge.
It was time for action now. He took a belaying pin from the rail, and walked up slowly to the seated pilot, weighing the instrument meditatively in his hand.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I want you to pilot this ship out to sea.”
The pilot goggled up at him in the faint moonlight.
“I cannot,” he gabbled. “My professional honour — my duty —”
Hornblower cut him short with a menacing gesture of the belaying pin.