“Stand by your guns.”
There she was, looming faintly on the starboard bow.
“Starboard two points. Meet her.”
They saw Hotspur at that same moment; from out of the darkness came the hail of a speaking‑trumpet, but in the middle of a word Hornblower spoke down into the waist again.
“Fire!”
The guns went off so nearly together that he felt Hotspur’s light fabric heed a little with the force of the recoil, and there again was the shape of a ship lit up by the glare of the broadside. He could not hope to force her on the shoals; there were too much sea‑room for that. He took the speaking‑trumpet.
“Elevate your guns! Aim for her spars!”
He could cripple her. The first gun of the new broadside went off immediately after he said the words — some fool had not paid attention. But the other guns fired after the interval necessary to withdraw the coigns, flash after flash, bang after bang. Again and again and again. Suddenly a flash revealed a change in the shape of the illuminated mizzen topsail, and at the same moment that mizzen topsail moved slowly back abaft the beam. The Frenchman had thrown all aback in a desperate attempt to escape this tormentor, risking being raked in the hope of passing under Hotspur’s stern to get before the wind. He would wear the Hotspur round and bring her under the fire of the port broadside and chase her on to the Trepieds; the speaking‑trumpet was at his lips when the darkness ahead erupted into a volcano of fire.
Chaos. Out of the black snow‑filled night had come a broadside, raking the Hotspur from bow to stern. Along with the sound and the flash came the rending crash of splintered woodwork, the loud ringing noise as a cannon‑ball hit the breech of a gun, the shriek of the flying splinters, and following on that came the screaming of a wounded man, cutting through the sudden new stillness.
One of the armed frigates of the escort — the leader of the line, most likely — had seen the firing and had been close enough to intervene. She had crossed Hotspur’s bows to fire in a raking broadside.
“Hard‑a‑starboard!”
He could not tack, even if he were prepared to take the chance of missing stays with the rigging as much cut up as it must be, for he was not clear of the transport yet. He must wear, even though it meant being raked once more.
“Wear the ship!”
Hotspur was turning even as her last guns fired into the transport. Then came the second broadside from ahead, flaring out of the darkness, a fraction of a second between each successive shot, crashing into Hotspur’s battered bows, while Hornblower stood, trying not to wince, thinking what he must do next. Was that the last shot? Now there was a new and rending crash forward, a succession of snapping noises, another thundering crash, and cries and shrieks from forward. That must be the foremast fallen. That must be the fore‑topsail yard crashing on the deck.
“Helm doesn’t answer, sir,” called the quartermaster at the wheel.
With the foremast down Hotspur would tend to fly up in the wind, even if the wreckage were not dragging alongside to act as a sea‑anchor. He could feel the wind shifting on his cheek. Now Hotspur was helpless. Now she could be battered to destruction by an enemy twice her size, with four times her weight of metal, with scantlings twice as thick to keep out Hotspur’s feeble shot. He would have to fight despairingly to the death. Unless . . . The enemy would be putting his helm a‑starboard to rake Hotspur from astern, or he would be doing so as soon as he could make out in the darkness what had happened. Time would pass very fast and the wind was still blowing, thank God, and there was the transport close on his starboard side still. He spoke loudly into the speaking‑trumpet.
“Silence! Silence!”
The bustle and clatter forward, where the hands had been struggling with the fallen spars, died away. Even the groaning wounded fell silent; that was discipline, and not the discipline of the cat o’ nine tails. He could just hear the rumble of the French frigate’s gun trucks as they ran out the guns for the next broadside, and he could hear shouted orders. The French frigate was turning to deliver the coup de grace as soon as she made certain of her target. Hornblower pointed the speaking-trumpet straight upwards as if addressing the sky, and he tried to keep his voice steady and quiet. He did not want the French frigate to hear.