Someone near at hand raised his voice; Hornblower could tell that he was not hailing, or quarrelling, but singing, going through an exercise incomprehensible and purposeless for the sake of some strange pleasure it gave. ‘From Ushant to Scilly is thirty‑five leagues.’ That was perfectly true, and Hornblower supposed that circumstances justified making this sort of noise about it. He steeled himself to a stoical endurance as others joined in, ‘Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies’. It was very noticeable that the atmosphere in the Princess had changed metaphorically as well as actually; spirits had risen with the fall in the barometer. There were smiles, there were grins to be seen. With the wind veering another couple of points, as it did, there was a decided probability that the evening of next day would see them into Plymouth. As if she had caught the prevailing infection the Princess began to leap over the waves; in her clumsiness there was something almost lewd, like a tubby old lady showing her legs in a drunken attempt to dance.
Yet over there Meadows did not share in the mirth and the excitement. He was isolated and unhappy; even the two officers who had been next senior to him in the Hotspur — his first lieutenant and his sailing master — were over here chatting with Hornblower instead of keeping him company. Hornblower began to make his way over to him, at the same moment as a rain squall came hurtling down upon the Princess to cause sudden confusion while the weaker spirits rushed forward and aft for shelter.
“Plymouth tomorrow, sir,” said Hornblower conversationally when he reached Meadows’ side.
“No doubt, sir,” said Meadows.
“We’re in for a bit of a blow, I think,” said Hornblower gazing upwards into the rain. He knew he was being exaggerated in the casual manner he was trying to adopt, but he could not modify it.
“Maybe,” said Meadows.
“Likely enough we’ll have to make for Tor Bay instead,” suggested Hornblower.
“Likely enough,” agreed Meadows — although agreement was too strong a word for that stony indifference.
Hornblower would not admit defeat yet. He struggled on trying to make conversation, feeling a little noble — more than a little — at standing here growing wet to the skin in an endeavour to relieve another man’s troubles. It was some small comfort when the rain squall passed on over the Princess’s lee bow, but it was a much greater relief when one of the seamen forward hailed loudly.
“Sail ho! Two points on the weather bow!”
Meadows came out of his apathy sufficiently to look forward along with Hornblower in the direction indicated. With the sudden clearing of the weather the vessel was no more than hull‑down at this moment of sighting, no more than five or six miles away and in plain view, close hauled on the port tack on the Princess’s starboard bow, on a course that would apparently come close to intercepting the course of the Princess within the hour.
“Brig,” commented Hornblower, making the obvious conversational remark, but he said no more as his eye recorded the other features that made themselves apparent.
There was that equality between the fore‑ and main-topmasts; there was that white sheen about her canvas; there was even something about the spacing of those masts — everything was both significant and dangerous. Hornblower felt Meadows’ hand clamp round his arm like a ring of iron.
“Frenchman!” said Meadows, with a string of oaths.
“May well be,” said Hornblower.
The spread of her yards made it almost certain that she was a ship of war, but even so there was a considerable chance that she was British, one of the innumerable prizes captured from the French and taken into the service recently enough to have undergone little alteration.
“Don’t like the looks of her!” said Meadows.
“Where’s Baddlestone?” exclaimed Hornblower turning to look aft.
He tore himself from Meadows’ grasp when he perceived Baddlestone, newly arrived on deck, with his telescope trained on the brig; the two of them at once started to push towards him.
“Come about, damn you!” yelled Meadows, but at that very same second Baddlestone had begun to bellow orders. There was a second or two of wild and dangerous confusion as the idle passengers attempted to aid, but they were all trained seamen. With the sheets hauled in against the violent pressure of the wind the helm was put over. Princess gybed neatly enough; the big lugsails flapped thunderously for a moment and then as the sheets were eased off she lay over close hauled on the other tack. As she did so, she lifted momentarily on a wave and Hornblower, his eyes still on the brig, saw the latter lift and heel at the same time. For half a second — long enough — he could see a line of gunports, the concluding fragment of evidence that she was a ship of war.