“Now, Mr. Jones,” he said, “we’ll start again. We’ll have topmasts and yards struck — all top hamper down and stowed away. Order ‘out pipes’, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Jones.
The hands had already spent half the morning at sail drill; Hornblower was taking advantage of the fogbound calm to exercise his ship’s company. With so many landsmen on board, with officers unfamiliar with their divisions, this fog actually could be used to advantage; the ship could be made more of a working, fighting unit during this interval of grace before proceeding down Channel. Hornblower put his cold hand inside his coat and brought out his watch; as if the gesture had called forth the sound five bells rang out sharply from beside the binnacle, and from the thick fog surrounding them came the sound of other bells — there were many ships anchored in the Downs all about them, so many that it was some minutes before the last sound died away; the sand‑glasses on board the ships were by no means in agreement.
While the bells were still sounding Hornblower took note of the position of the minute hand of his watch and nodded to Jones. Instantly came a roar of orders; the men, already called to attention after their brief stand‑easy came pouring aft with their petty officers urging them on. Watch in hand, Hornblower stood back by the taffrail. From where he stood only the lower part of the main rigging was visible; the foremast was completely hidden in fog. The hands went hurrying up the ratlines, Hornblower watching keenly to see what proportion of them were vague about their stations and duties. He could have wished that he could see all that was going on — but then if there had been no fog there would have been no sail drill, and Atropos would have been making the best of her way down Channel. Here was the Prince, hurried along by Horrocks with a hand at his shoulder.
“Come on,” said Horrocks, leaping at the ratlines.
The Prince sprang up beside him. Hornblower could see the bewildered expression on the boy’s face. He had small enough idea of what he was doing. He would learn, no doubt — he was learning much even from the fact that the blood‑royal, the King’s nephew, could be shoved about by the plebeian hand of a midshipman.
Hornblower got out of the way as the mizzen topsail came swaying down. A yelping master’s mate came running up with a small pack of waisters at his heels; they fell upon the ponderous roll and dragged it to the side. The mizzen mast hands were working faster than the mainmast, apparently — the main topsail was not lowered yet. Jones, his head drawn back so that his Adam’s apple protruded apparently by inches, was bellowing the next orders to the masthead. A shout from above answered him. Down the ratlines came a flood of men again.
“Let go! Haul! Lower away!”
The mizzen topsail yard turned in a solemn arc and made its slow descent down the mast. There was an exasperating delay while the mainstay tackle was applied — organization at this point was exceedingly poor — but at last the yard was down and lying along the booms beside its fellows. The complicated and difficult business of striking the topmasts followed.
“An hour and a quarter, Mr. Jones. More nearly an hour and twenty minutes. Far too long. Half an hour — half an hour with five minutes’ grace; that’s the longest you should ever take.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jones. There was nothing else he could say.
As Hornblower was eyeing him before giving his next orders a faint dull thud came to his ears, sounding flatly through the fog. A musket shot? A pistol shot? That was certainly what it sounded like, but with the fog changing the quality of all the sounds he could not be sure. Even if it were a shot, fired in one of the numerous invisible ships round about, there might be endless innocent explanations of it; and it might not be a shot. A hatch cover dropped on a deck — a grating being pushed into place — it could be anything.