“Mr. Carslake! Have the mail‑bags ready for sending off.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His own packet of despatches for Collingwood was handy in his cabin.
“Signal midshipman! Can’t you see the flagship’s making a signal?”
“Yes, sir, but the flags are blowing straight away from us. I can’t make them out.”
“What do you think the repeating frigate’s for? Use your eyes.”
“General signal, sir. Number 41. That is ‘tack’, sir.”
“Very well.”
As Atropos had not yet officially joined the Mediterranean squadron a general signal could not apply to her. Down came the signal from the flagship’s yardarm; that was the executive moment. Round came the flagship’s yards; round came the yards of the scouting frigates, and of the leader of the lee column. One by one, at precise intervals, the succeeding ships in the columns came round in order; Hornblower could see the momentary backing and filling of the mizzen‑topsails which maintained the ships so exactly spaced. It was significant that the drill was being carried out under all plain sail, and not merely under the “fighting sails”. There was something thrilling in the sight of this perfection of drill; but at the same time something a little disturbing. Hornblower found himself wondering, with a qualm of doubt, if he would be able to maintain Atropos so exactly in station now that the time had come to join the fleet.
The manoeuvre was completed now; on its new tack the fleet was steadily plunging forward over the blue sea. There was more bunting fluttering at the flagship’s yardarm.
“General signal, sir. ‘Hands to dinner.'”
“Very well.”
Hornblower felt a bubbling of excitement within him as he stood and watched. The next signal would surely be for him.
“Our number, sir! Flag to Atropos. Take station to windward of me at two cables’ lengths.”
“Very well. Acknowledge.”
There were eyes turned upon him everywhere on deck. This was the moment of trial. He had to come down past the screening frigates, cross ahead of what was now the weather column, and come to the wind at the right moment and at the right distance. And the whole fleet would be watching the little ship. First he had to estimate how far the flagship would progress towards his starboard hand while he was running down to her. But there was nothing for it but to try; there was some faint comfort in being an officer in a fighting service where an order was something that must be obeyed.
“Quartermaster! Port a little. Meet her. Steady as you go! Keep her at that! Mr. Jones!”
“Aye aye, sir.”
No need for an order to Jones. He was more anxious — at least more apparently anxious — than Hornblower was. He had the hands at the braces trimming the yards already. Hornblower looked up at yards and commission pendant to assure himself that the bracing was exact. They had left the Maenad behind already; here they were passing Amphion, one of the central frigates in the screen. Hornblower could see her lying over as she thrashed to windward, the spray flying from her bows. He turned back to look at the flagship, nearly hull up, at least two of her three rows of checkered gunports visible.
“Port a little! Steady!”
He resented having to give that additional order; he wished he could have headed straight for his station with no alteration of course. The leading ship — she wore a rear admiral’s flag — of the weather column was now nearly on his port beam. Four cables’ length was the distance between the two columns, but as his station was to windward of the flagship, nearly on her starboard beam, he would be by no means between the two ships, nor equidistant from them. He juggled in his mind with the scalene triangle that could be drawn connecting Atropos with the two flagships.
“Mr. Jones! Clue up the mizzen tops’l.” Now Atropos would have a reserve of speed that he could call for if necessary. He was glad that he had subjected his crew to ceaseless sail drill ever since leaving Deptford. “Stand by the mizzen tops’l sheets.”
The reduction in the after‑sail would make Atropos a little slower in coming to the wind; he must bear it in mind. They were fast approaching their station. His eye darted from one column of ships to the other; he could see all the starboard sides of one and all the port sides of the other. It might be useful to take sextant angles, but he would rather trust his eye in a trigonometrical problem as uncomplicated as this. His judgment told him this must be the moment. The bows were pointing at the flagship’s jib‑boom.