Supposing he were compelled to fight a close action? No, he had gone through that before. He had a good ship and well-trained crew, but on this tossing sea that advantage would be largely discounted by the fact that the Loire provided a steadier gun platform. Odds of four to one in weight of metal were greater than it was advisable to risk. Momentarily Hornblower saw himself appearing in the written history of the future. He might have the distinction of being the first British captain in the present war to fall a victim of the French navy. What a distinction! Then even in the cold gale blowing round him he could feel the blood hot under his skin as he pictured the action. Horrors presented themselves in endless succession to the crack of doom like the kings in Macbeth. He thought of death. He thought of being a prisoner of war; he had experienced that already in Spain and only by a miracle he had achieved release. The last war had gone on for ten years; this one might do the same. Ten years in prison! Ten years during which his brother officers would be gaining fame, distinguishing themselves, making fortunes in prize money while he would fret himself to pieces in prison, emerging at the end a cranky eccentric, forgotten by all his world — forgotten even by Maria, he fancied. He would rather die, just as he would rather die than be mutilated; or so he thought (he told himself brutally) until the choice should be more imminently presented to him. Then he might well flinch, for he did not want to die. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid of death, that he merely regretted the prospect of missing all the interesting and amusing things that life held in store for him, and then he found himself sneering at himself for not facing the horrid truth that he was afraid.
Then he shook himself out of this black mood. He was in danger, and this was no time for morbid introspection. It was resolution and ingenuity that he demanded of himself. He tried to make his face a mask to hide his recent feelings as he met the gaze of Bush and Prowse.
“Mr Prowse,” he said. “Bring your journal. Let’s look at the chart.”
The rough log recorded every change of course, every hourly measurement of speed, and by its aid they could calculate — or guess at — the present position of the ship starting from her last point of departure at Ar Men.
“We’re making fully two points of leeway,” said Prowse despondently. His long face seemed to grow longer and longer as he looked down at Hornblower seated at the chart‑table. Hornblower shook his head.
“Not more than a point and a half. And the tide’s been making in our favour for the last two hours.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” said Prowse.
“If I’m not,” said Hornblower, working the parallel rulers, “we’ll have to make fresh plans.”
Despondency for the sake of despondency irritated Hornblower when displayed by other people; he knew too much about it.
“In another two hours,” said Prowse, “the Frenchman’ll have us under his guns.”
Hornblower looked fixedly at Prowse, and under that unwavering gaze Prowse was at length reminded of his omission, which he hastily remedied by belatedly adding the word “sir”. Hornblower was not going to allow any deviation from discipline, not in any crisis whatever — he knew well enough how these things might develop in the future. Even if there might be no future. Having made his point there was no need to labour it.
“You can see we’ll weather Ushant,” he said, looking down at the line he had pencilled on the chart.
“Maybe, sir,” said Prowse.
“Comfortably,” went on Hornblower.
“I wouldn’t say exactly comfortably, sir,” demurred Prowse.
“The closer the better,” said Hornblower. “But we can’t dictate that. We daren’t make an inch more of leeway.”
He had thought more than once about that possibility, of weathering Ushant so close that Loire would not be able to hold her course. Then Hotspur would free herself from pursuit like a whale scraping off a barnacle against a rock; an amusing and ingenious idea, but not practicable as long as the wind stayed steady.