“It’s not to be wondered at,” he said. He tried to speak coldly, or nonchalantly, determined to maintain his dignity as captain. “She’s twice our size.”
Size was important when clawing to windward. The same waves battered against small ships as against big ones, but they would push the small ships farther to leeward; moreover the keels of big ships reached down farther below the surface, farther below the turbulence, and maintained a better hold in the more tranquil water.
The three telescopes, as of one mind, trained out towards the Loire.
“She’s luffing up a little,” said Bush.
Hornblower could see the Loire’s topsails shiver momentarily. She was sacrificing some of her headway to gain a few yards to windward; having superior speed through the water she could afford to do so.
“Yes. We’ve drawn level with her again,” said Prowse.
That French captain knew his business. Mathematically, the best course to take when trying to close on a ship to windward was to keep the ship being chased right in the wind’s eye, and that was where the Hotspur now found herself again, relative to the Loire, while the latter, resuming her former course, closehauled, was twenty or thirty yards nearer to her in the direction of the wind. A gain of twenty or thirty yards, repeated often enough, and added to the steady gain resulting from being the more weatherly ship, would eventually close the gap.
The three telescopes came down from the three eyes, and Hornblower met the gaze of his two subordinates. They were looking to him to make the next move in this crisis.
“Call all hands, if you please, Mr Bush. I shall put the ship about.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Here was a moment of danger. If Hotspur were mishandled she was lost. If she missed stays — as she once had done with Cargill handling her — she would lie dead in the water for minutes, sagging down to leeward with the Loire coming up fast upon her, while in this gale the sails might thrash themselves to ribbons leaving her more helpless still, even if nothing more vital carried away. The operation must be carried out to perfection. Cargill by coincidence was officer of the watch. He could be given the task. So might Bush, or Prowse. But Hornblower knew perfectly well that he could not tolerate the thought of anyone other than himself bearing the responsibility, whether in his own eyes or in those of the ship’s company.
“I’m going to put the ship about, Mr Cargill,” he said, and that fixed the responsibility irrevocably.
He walked over the wheel, and stared round him. He felt the tension, he felt the beating of his heart, and noticed with momentary astonishment that this was pleasurable, that he was enjoying this moment of danger. Then he forced himself to forget everything except the handling of the ship. The hands were at their stations; every eye was on him. The gale shrieked past his ears as he planted his feet firmly and watched the approaching seas. This was the moment.
“Handsomely, now,” he growled to the hands at the wheel. “Put your wheel down.”
There was a brief interval before Hotspur answered. Now her bow was turning.
“Helm’s alee!” shouted Hornblower.
Headsail sheets and bowlines were handled, with Hornblower watching the behaviour of the ship like a tiger stalking its prey.
“Tacks and sheets!” and then turning back to the wheel. “Now! Hard over!”
She was coming rapidly into the wind.
“Mains’l haul!” The hands were keyed up with the excitement of the moment. Bowlines and braces were cast off and the yards came ponderously round at the exact moment that Hotspur was pointing directly into the wind.
“Now! Meet her! Hard over!” snapped Hornblower to the wheel. Hotspur was turning fast, and still carrying so much way that the rudder could bite effectively, checking the swing before she could turn too far.
“Haul off all!”
The thing was done; Hotspur had gone from one tack to the other without the unnecessary loss of a second or a yard, thrashing along now with her starboard bow butting into the waves. But there was no time to feel relief or pleasure; Hornblower hurried to the port quarter to train his glass on the Loire. She was tacking naturally; the mathematics of the theory of the pursuit to windward demanded that the pursuer should tack at the same moment as the pursued. But she was bound to be a little late; her first inkling that Hotspur was about to tack would be when she saw her fore‑topsail shiver, and even if Loire had all hands at their stations for going about the Hotspur would have two minutes’ grace. And she was far slower in stays. Even now, when Hotspur was settled on the new tack with every inch of sail drawing, the Loire’s fore‑topsail was still shivering, her bows were still turning. The longer she took to go about the more distance she would lose in the race to windward.