“I’m afraid I’ll have to endure it, nevertheless, Mr Bush.”
“I can only say I wish you didn’t have to, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush. I’m going to turn in now, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m glad of that, sir.”
“See that I’m called the moment the weather shows signs of thickening.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Can I trust you, Mr Bush?”
That brought a smile into what was too serious a conversation.
“You can, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush.”
It was interesting after Bush’s departure to look into the speckled chipped mirror and observe his thinness, the cheeks and temples fallen in, the sharp nose and the pointed chin. But this was not the real Hornblower. The real one was inside, unaffected — as yet, at least — by privation or strain. The real Hornblower looked out at him from the hollow eyes in the mirror with a twinkle of recognition, a twinkle that brightened, not with malice, but with something akin to that — a kind of cynical amusement — at the sight of Hornblower seeking proof of the weaknesses of the flesh. But time was too precious to waste; the weary body that the real Hornblower had to drag about demanded repose. And, as regards the weaknesses of the flesh, how delightful, how comforting it was to clasp to his stomach the hot‑water bottle that Doughty had put into his cot, to feel warm and relaxed despite the clamminess of the bedclothes and the searching cold that pervaded the cabin.
“Sir,” said Doughty, coming into the cabin after what seemed to be one minute’s interval but which, his watch told him, was two hours. “Mr Prowse sent me. It’s snowing, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll come.”
How often had he said those words? Every time the weather had thickened he had taken Hotspur up the Goulet, enduring the strain of advancing blind up into frightful danger, watching wind and tide, making the most elaborate calculations, alert for any change in conditions, ready to dash out again at the first hint of improvement, not only to evade the fire of the batteries, but also to prevent the French from discovering the close watch that was being maintained over them.
“It’s only just started to snow, sir,” Doughty was saying. “But Mr Prowse says it’s set in for the night.”
With Doughty’s assistance Hornblower had bundled himself automatically into his deck clothing without noticing what he was doing. He went out into a changed world, where his feet trod a thin carpet of snow on the deck, and where Prowse loomed up in the darkness shimmering in the white coating of snow on his oilskins.
“Wind’s nor’ by east, sir, moderate. An hour of flood still to go.”
“Thank you. Turn the hands up and send them to quarters, if you please. They can sleep at the guns.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Five minutes from now I don’t want to hear a sound.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
This was only regular routine. The less the distance one could see the readier the ship had to be to open fire should an enemy loom up close alongside. But there was no routine about his own duties; every time he took the ship up conditions were different, the wind blowing from a different compass point and the tide of a different age. This was the first time the wind had been so far round to the north. Tonight he would have to shave the shallows off Petit Minou as close as he dared, and then, close‑hauled, with the last of the flood behind him, Hotspur could just ascend the northern channel, with the Little Girls to starboard.
There was spirit left in the crew; there were jokes and cries of surprise when they emerged into the snow from the stinking warmth of the ‘tween deck, but sharp orders suppressed every sound. Hotspur was deadly quiet, like a ghost ship when the yards had been trimmed and the helm orders given and she began to make her way through the impenetrable night, night more impenetrable than ever with the air full of snowflakes silently dropping down upon them.
A shuttered lantern at the taffrail for reading the log, although the log’s indications were of minor importance, when speed over the ground could be so different — instinct and experience were more important. Two hands in the port‑side main‑chains with the lead. Hornblower on the weather side of the quarter‑deck could hear quite a quiet call, even though there was a hand stationed to relay it if necessary. Five fathoms. Four fathoms. If his navigation were faulty they would strike before the next cast. Aground under the guns of Petit Minou, ruined and destroyed; Hornblower could not restrain himself from clenching his gloved hands and tightening his muscles. Six and a half fathoms. That was what he had calculated upon, but it was a relief, nevertheless — Hornblower felt a small contempt for himself at feeling relieved, at his lack of faith in his own judgement.