The capstan was clanking as they hove the ship up towards the best bower. They would have to deal with the extra weight of the boat carronade that backed that anchor; the additional labour was the price to be paid for the security of the past days. It was a clumsy, as well as a laborious operation.
“Shall I heave short on the small bower, sir?”
“Yes, if you please, Mr Bush. And you can get under way as soon as is convenient to you.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Make that signal, Mr Foreman.”
The quarter‑deck was suddenly illuminated, the sinister blue light blending with the equally sinister crimson of the Bengal fire. The last splutterings had hardly died away before the answer came from the flagship, a blue light that winked three times as it was momentarily screened.
“Flagship acknowledges, sir!”
“Very well.”
And this was the end of his stay in harbour, of his visit to England. He had seen the last of Maria for months to come; she would be a mother when he saw her next.
“Sheet home!”
Hotspur was gathering way, turning on her heel with a fair wind to weather Berry Head. Hornblower’s mind played with a score of inconsequential thoughts as he struggled to put aside his overwhelming melancholy. He remembered the brief private conversation that he had witnessed between Cornwallis and the steward. He was quite sure that the latter had been telling his Admiral about the parcel prepared for transmission to Hotspur. Doughty was not nearly as clever as he thought he was. That conclusion called up a weak smile as Hotspur breasted the waters of the Channel, with Berry Head looming up on her starboard beam.
Chapter 15
Now it was cold, horribly cold; the days were short and the nights were very, very long. Along with the cold weather came easterly winds — the one involved the other — and a reversal of the tactical situation. For although with the wind in the east Hotspur was relieved of the anxiety of being on a lee shore her responsibilities were proportionately increased. There was nothing academic now about noting the direction of the wind each hour, it was no mere navigational routine. Should the wind blow from any one of ten points of the compass out of thirty-two it would be possible even for the lubberly French to make their exit down the Goulet and enter the Atlantic. Should they make the attempt it was Hotspur’s duty to pass an instant warning for the Channel Fleet to form line of battle if the French were rash enough to challenge action, and to cover every exit — by the Raz, by the Iroise, by the Four — if, as would be more likely, they attempted merely to escape.
Today the last of the flood did not make until two o’clock in the afternoon, a most inconvenient time, for it was not until then that Hotspur could venture in to make her daily reconnaissance at closest range. To do so earlier would be to risk that a failure of the wind, leaving her at the mercy of the tide, would sweep her helplessly up, within range of the batteries on Petit Minou and the Capuchins — the Toulinguet battery; and more assuredly fatal than the batteries would be the reefs, Pollux and the Little Girls.
Hornblower came out on deck with the earliest light — not very early on this almost the shortest day of the year — to check the position of the ship while Prowse took the bearings of the Petit Minou and the Grand Gouin.
“Merry Christmas, sir,” said Bush. It was typical of a military service that Bush should have to touch his hat while saying those words.
“Thank you. The same to you, Mr Bush.”
It was typical, also, that Hornblower should have been acutely aware that it was December 25th and yet should have forgotten that it was Christmas Day; tide tables made no reference to the festivals of the church.
“Any news of your good lady, sir?” asked Bush.
“Not yet,” answered Hornblower, with a smile that was only half‑forced. “The letter I had yesterday was dated the eighteenth, but there’s nothing as yet.”