As Hotspur lifted to a wave Hornblower saw her topsails, not very plainly. They were braced sharp round, presenting only their edge to his telescope. Hotspur was at least four miles to windward of her.
“Look! She’s going about, sir!”
The topsails were broadening into oblongs; they wavered for a moment, and then settled down; they were braced round now parallel to the Hotspur’s topsails; the two ships were now on the same tack.
“She went about the moment she was sure who we were, sir. She’s still playing hide‑and‑seek with us.”
“Hide‑and‑seek? Mr Bush, I believe we are at war.”
It was hard to make that momentous statement in the quiet conversational tone that a man of iron nerve would employ; Hornblower did his best. Bush had no such inhibitions. He stared at Hornblower and whistled. But he could follow now the same lines of thought as Hornblower had already traced.
“I think you’re right, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush.” Hornblower said that spitefully, to his instant regret. It was not fair to make Bush pay for the tensions his captain had been experiencing; nor was it in accord with Hornblower’s ideal of imperturbability to reveal that such tensions had existed. It was well that the next order to be given would most certainly distract Bush from any hurt he might feel.
“I think you had better send the hands to quarters, Mr Bush. Clear for action, but don’t run out the guns.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Bush’s grin revealed his instant excitement. Now he was bellowing his orders. The pipes were twittering through the ship. The marine drummer came scrambling up from below. He was a child of no more than twelve, and his equipment was all higgledy‑piggledy. He made not only a slap‑dash gesture of coming to attention on the quarter‑deck, he quite omitted the formal drill of raising the drumsticks high before he began to beat the long roll, so anxious was he to begin.
Prowse approached; as acting‑master his station in battle was on the quarter‑deck beside his captain.
“She’s broad on the starboard beam now, sir,” he said, looking over at the Loire. “She took a long time to go about. That’s what you’d expect.”
One of the factors that had entered into Hornblower’s calculations was the fact that Hotspur would be quicker in stays than the Loire. Bush came up, touching his hat.
“Ship cleared for action, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Bush.”
Now here was navy life epitomized in these few minutes. A moment of decision, of bustle, and excitement, and then — settle down to a long wait again. The two ships were thrashing along close‑hauled, four miles apart. Hotspur almost dead to windward of the Loire. Those four miles, that direction of the wind, conferred immunity upon Hotspur. As long as she could preserve that distance she was safe. If she could not — if some accident occurred — then the Loire’s forty eighteen‑pounders would make short work of her. She could fight for honour, but with no hope of victory. Clearing for action was hardly more than a gesture; men would die, men would be horribly mutilated, but the result would be the same as if Hotspur had tamely surrendered.
“Who’s at the wheel?” asked Prowse of nobody in particular, and he walked over to supervise the steering — perhaps his thoughts were running along those same lines.
The boatswain came rolling aft; as the warrant officer charged with the general supervision of sails and rigging he had no particular station in action, and was justified in moving about. But he was being very formal at the moment. He took off his hat to Bush, instead of merely touching it, and stood holding it, his pigtail thumping his shoulders in the gale. He must be asking permission to speak.
“Sir,” said Bush. “Mr Wise is asking on behalf of the hands, sir. Are we at war?”
Yes? Or no?
“The Frogs know, and we don’t — yet, Mr Wise.” There was no harm in a captain admitting ignorance when the reason for it should be perfectly clear as soon as the hands had time to consider the matter, as they would have. This might be the time to make a resplendent speech, but second thoughts assured Hornblower it was not. Yet Hornblower’s instinct told him that the situation demanded something more than his last bald sentence.