“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 —thirty‑two gun twelve‑pounder frigates most of them, hardly a match for Castilla’s forty‑four eighteen‑pounders 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.
“Private signal correctly answered, sir. And her number. She’s Nightingale, sir, 28, Captain Ford, sir.”
Almost the smallest of the frigates, with only nine‑pounders on her maindeck. Please God Ford would have the sense not to close with Castilla. He must out‑manoeuvre her, keep her in play, and then when Atropos came up there could be some pretty tactics until they could shoot away some of Castilla’s spars and take her at a disadvantage. Then they could rake her and weaken her before closing in for the kill. The captain of the Castilla was showing proof of having grasped the essentials of the situation; caught between two hostile ships so that he could not avoid action if it were forced on him he was plunging down at his best speed to the attack on the one most accessible to him; he was still carrying all sail to bring him most quickly into action before Atropos could intervene. He could well hope to batter Nightingale into a wreck and then turn on Atropos. If he succeeded — oh, if he succeeded! — it would be a terrible problem for Atropos, to decide whether or not to accept action.