“Full and bye,” he ordered.
They were as close under Petit Minou as possible, a quarter of a mile from those well‑known hills, but there was nothing visible at all. There might be a solid black wall a yard from Hornblower’s eyes whichever way he turned them. Eleven fathoms; they were on the edge of the fairway now. The last of the flood, two days after the lowest neaps, and wind north by east; the current should be less than a knot and the eddy off Mengam non-existent.
“No bottom!”
More than twenty fathoms; that was right.
“A good night this for the Frogs, sir,” muttered Bush beside him; he had been waiting for this moment.
Certainly it was a good night for the French if they were determined to escape. They knew the times of ebb and flood as well as he did. They would see the snow. Comfortable time for them to up anchor and get under weigh, and make the passage of the Goulet with a fair wind and ebb tide. Impossible for them to escape by the Four with this wind; the Iroise was guarded — he hoped — by the Inshore Squadron, but on a night as black as this they might try it in preference to the difficult Raz du Sein.
Nineteen fathoms; he was above the Little Girls, and he could be confident of weathering Mengam. Nineteen fathoms.
“Should be slack water now, sir,” muttered Prowse, who had just looked at his watch in the light of the shaded binnacle.
They were above Mengam now; the lead should record a fairly steady nineteen fathoms for the next few minutes, and it was time that he should plan out the next move — the next move but one, rather. He conjured up the chart before his mental eye.
“Listen!” Bush’s elbow dug into Hornblower’s ribs with the urgency of the moment.
“Avast there at the lead!” said Hornblower. He spoke in a normal tone to make sure he was understood; with the wind blowing that way his voice would not carry far in the direction he was peering into.
There was the sound again; there were other noises. A long drawn monosyllable borne by the wind, and Hornblower’s straining senses picked it up. It was a Frenchman calling “Seize,” sixteen. French pilots still used the old‑fashioned toise to measure depths, and the toise was slightly greater than the English fathom.
“Lights!” muttered Bush, his elbow at Hornblower’s ribs again. There was a gleam here and there — the Frenchman had not darkened his ship nearly as effectively as the Hotspur. There was enough light to give some sort of indication. A ghost ship sweeping by within biscuit toss. The topsails were suddenly visible — there must be a thin coating of snow on the after surfaces whose gleaming white could reflect any light there was. And then —
“Three red lights in a row on the mizzen tops’l yard,” whispered Bush.
Visible enough now; shaded in front, presumably, with the light directed aft to guide following ships. Hornblower felt a surge of inspiration, of instant decision, plans for the moment, plans for the next five minutes, plans for the more distant future.
“Run!” he snapped at Bush. “Get three lights hoisted the same way. Keep ’em shaded, ready to show.”
Bush was off at the last word, but the thoughts had to come more rapidly like lightning. Hotspur dared not tack; she must wear.
“Wear ship!” he snapped at Prowse — no time for the politenesses he usually employed.
As Hotspur swung round he saw the three separated red lights join together almost into one, and at the same moment he saw a blue glare; the French ship was altering course to proceed down the Goulet and was burning a blue light as an indication to the ships following to up helm in succession. Now he could see the second French ship, a second faint ghost — the blue light helped to reveal it.
Pellew in the old Indefatigable, when Hornblower was a prisoner in Ferrol, had once confused a French squadron escaping from Brest by imitating the French signals, but that had been in the comparatively open waters of the Iroise. It had been in Hornblower’s mind to try similar tactics, but here in the narrow Goulet there was a possibility of more decisive action.