Brittany was a poor province, neither productive nor well-populated, at the extremity of France, and by land the communications between Brest and the rest of the country were most inferior. There were no navigable rivers, no canals. The enormously ponderous materials to equip a fleet could never be brought to Brest by road. The artillery for a first‑rate weighed two hundred tons; guns and anchors and shot could only be brought by sea from the foundries in Belgium round to the ships in Brest. The mainmast of a first‑rate was a hundred feet long and three feet thick; only ships could transport those, in fact only ships specially equipped.
To man the fleet that lay idle in Brest would call for twenty thousand men. The seamen — what seaman there were — would have to march hundreds of miles from the merchant ports of Le Havre and Marseille if they were not sent round by sea. Twenty thousand men needed food and clothing, and highly specialized food and clothing moreover. The flour to make biscuit, the cattle and pigs and the salt to salt them down, and the barrel‑staves in which to store them — where were they to come from? And provisioning was no day‑to‑day, hand‑to‑mouth operation, either. Before going to sea the ships would need rations for a hundred days — two million rations to be accumulated over and above daily consumption. Coasting vessels by the hundred were needed — Hornblower observed a constant trickle of them heading into Brest, rounding Ushant from the north and the Pointe du Raz from the south. If war should come — when war should come — it would be the business of the Royal Navy to cut off this traffic. More particularly it would be the business of the light craft to do this — it would be Hotspur’s business. The more he knew about all these conditions the better.
These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower’s mind as Hotspur stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The wind was south‑easterly this afternoon, and Hotspur was running free — creeping along under topsails — with her look‑outs posted at her mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzenmast came two successive hails.
“Deck! There’s a ship coming down the channel!”
“She’s a frigate, sir!” That was Bush supplementing Cheeseman’s report.
“Very well,” hailed Hornblower in return. Maybe the appearance of the frigate had nothing to do with his own evolutions in the Iroise, but the contrary was much more likely. He glanced round the ship; the hands were engaged in the routine of holystoning the decks, but he could effect a transformation in five minutes. He could clear for action or he could set all sail at a moment’s notice.
“Steady as you go,” he growled at the quartermaster. “Mr Cargill, we’ll hoist our colours, if you please.”
“There she is, sir,” said Prowse. The glass showed a frigate’s topgallant sails; she was reaching down the Goulet with a fair wind, on a course that would intersect Hotspur’s some miles ahead.
“Mr Bush! I’d like you on deck, if you please, as soon as you have completed your observations.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hotspur stole quietly along; there was no purpose in hurriedly setting additional sail and pretending to be innocent — the French fleet must have heard from a dozen sources about her continued presence in the approaches.
“You’re not going to trust ’em, sir?” This was from Bush, back on the quarter‑deck and in a state of some anxiety; the anxiety was not displayed by any change in Bush’s imperturbable manner, but by the very fact that he volunteered advice in this positive form.
Hornblower did not want to run away. He had the weather gauge, and in a moment he could set all sail and come to the wind and stand out to sea, but he did not want to. He could be quite sure that if he were to do so the frigate would follow his example and chase him, ignominiously, out into the Atlantic with his tail between his legs. A bold move would stimulate his crew, would impress the French and — this was the point — would subdue his own doubts about himself. This was a test. His instinct was to be cautious; but he told himself that his caution was probably an excuse for cowardice. His judgement told him that there was no need for caution; his fears told him that the French frigate was planning to lure him within range of her guns and then overwhelm him. He must act according to his judgement and he must abhor the counsel of his fears, but he wished his heart would not beat so feverishly, he wished his palms would not sweat nor his legs experience these pins-and‑needles feelings. He wished Bush were not crowding him at the hammock netting, so that he might take a few paces up and down the quarter‑deck, and then he told himself that he could not possibly at this moment pace up and down and reveal to the world that he was in a state of indecision.