Hornblower and the Atropos. C. S. Forester

“Port your helm,” he ordered. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the little ship’s response would be delayed. Perhaps — He had to keep his voice steady. “Bring her to the wind.”

The wheel spun over. There was a nervous second or two. Then he felt the heel of the ship alter under his feet; and he saw the flagship come round on Atropos’ port beam, and he knew Atropos was turning.

“Steady! ”

The yards were braced up; strong arms were hauling on the tacks. A moment or two while Atropos regained the small amount of way she had lost through her turn; but even making allowance for that he could see that the flagship was slowly head‑reaching on her.

“Mr. Jones! Sheet home the mizzen tops’l.”

With the mizzen topsail drawing full they would head‑reach in turn upon the flagship.

“Keep the hands at the braces there!”

Occasionally spilling the wind from the mizzen topsail would enable Atropos to keep her speed equal to the flagship’s. Hornblower felt the wind on his neck; he looked up at the pendant and at the flagship. He was exactly to windward of her, and there was two cables’ lengths between them.

“Mr. Jones! You may begin the salute.”

Fifteen guns for a vice‑admiral, a minute and a quarter to fire them. That might be long enough for him to regain his composure, and for his heart to resume its normal rate of beating. Now they were part of the Mediterranean Fleet, the tiniest, most insignificant part of it. Hornblower looked down the massive lines of ships ploughing along behind them, three‑deckers, two‑deckers, ships of a hundred guns and ships of seventy‑four, the ships which had fought at Trafalgar, the roar of whose cannons had dashed from Bonaparte’s lips the heady cup of world domination. On the invisibly distant Mediterranean shores that encompassed them armies might march, kings might be set up and kings might be pulled down; but it was these ships which in the end would decide the destiny of the world, as long as the men who sailed them retained their skill, as long as they remained ready to endure danger and hardship, as long as the government at home remained resolute and unafraid.

“Our number, sir! Flag to Atropos. ‘Welcome.'”

“Reply to Flag. ‘Respectful greetings.'” Eager hands worked vigorously on the signal halyards.

“Signal ‘Atropos to Flag. Have aboard dispatches and letters for fleet’.”

“Flagship acknowledges, sir.”

“Flagship’s signalling again,” announced Still; from a point of vantage on the weather side he could see through his glass enough of the flagship’s quarter-deck, despite the fact that she was heeling away from him, to make out that signal ratings were bending fresh flags on the halliards. The dark lumps soared up to the flagship’s yardarm and broke into gaily‑coloured bunting.

“General signal. ‘Heave to on the starboard tack.'”

“Acknowledge, Mr. Jones! Clue up the courses.”

Hornblower watched the hands at the clue‑garnets and buntlines, the hands at the tacks and sheets.

“Signal’s down, sir.”

Hornblower had already seen the first movement of descent.

“Back the mizzen tops’l. Let her come up.”

Atropos rode easily, just meeting the waves with her bow, as the sharp struggle with the wind changed to yielding acquiescence, like a girl’s resistance giving way in her lover’s arms. But this was no time for that sort of sentimental simile — here was another long signal from the flagship.

“General signal. ‘Send to’ — our number, sir — ‘for letters.'”

“Mr. Carslake! Have those mail‑bags on deck at once. You’ll have a boat from every ship in the fleet alongside.”

It was at least a month — it might well be two — since any letters had reached the Fleet from England. Not a newspaper, not a word. Possibly some of the ships present had not yet seen the accounts in the press of the victory they had won at Trafalgar four months before. Atropos had brought a respite from the dreadful isolation in which a fleet at sea habitually lived. Boats would be hastening as fast as sail or oar could drive them to collect the pitifully lean mail‑bags.

Another signal.

“Our number, sir. ‘Flag to Atropos. Come and report.'”

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