“But even if we weather Ushant, sir,” persisted Prowse, “I don’t see how it will help us. We’ll be within range by then, sir.”
Hornblower put down his pencil. He had been about to say “Perhaps you’d advise saving trouble by hauling down our colours this minute, Mr Prowse,” but he remembered in time that such a mention of the possibility of surrender, even with a sarcastic intention, was contrary to the Articles of War. Instead he would penalize Prowse by revealing nothing of the plan he had in mind; and that would be just as well, in case the plan should fail and he should have to fall back on yet another line of defence.
“We’ll see when the time comes,” he said, curtly, and rose from his chair. “We’re wanted on deck. By now it’ll be time to go about again.”
On deck there was the wind blowing as hard as ever; there was the spray flying; there was the Loire, dead to leeward and luffing up to narrow the gap by a further important trifle. The hands were at work on the pumps; in these weather conditions the pumps had to be employed for half an hour every two hours to free the ship from the sea water which made its way on board through the straining seams.
“We’ll tack the ship, Mr Poole, as soon as the pumps suck.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Some way ahead lay Ushant and his plan to shake off the Loire, but before that he had to tack twice more at least, each time with its possibilities of making a mistake, of handing Hotspur and himself over to the enemy. He must not stumble over an obstacle at his feet through keeping his eyes on the horizon. He made himself perform the manoeuvre as neatly as ever, and made himself ignore any feelings of relief when it was completed.
“We gained a full cable’s length on him that time, sir,” said Bush, after watching Loire steady herself on the starboard tack on Hotspur’s beam.
“We may not always be so lucky,” said Hornblower. “But we’ll make this leg a short one and see.”
On the starboard tack he was heading away from his objective; when they went about on the port tack again he must hold on for a considerably longer time, but he must make it appear as though by inadvertence. If he could deceive Bush it would be an indication that he was deceiving the French captain.
The hands seemed to be actually enjoying this sailing contest. They were light‑hearted, revelling in the business of cheating the wind and getting every inch of way out of the Hotspur. It must be quite obvious to them that Loire was gaining in the race, but they did not care; they were laughing and joking as they looked across at her. They had no conception of the danger of the situation, or, rather, they made light of it. The luck of the British navy would save them, or the unhandiness of the French. Or the skill of their captain — without faith in him they would be far more frightened.
Time to go about again and beat towards Ushant. He resumed charge of the ship and turned her about. It was only after the turn was completed that he noted, with satisfaction, that he had forgotten his nervousness in the interest he was taking in the situation.
“We’re closing fast, sir,” said Prowse, gloomy as ever. He had his sextant in his hand and had just finished measuring the angle subtended between the Loire’s masthead and her waterline.
“I can see that for myself, thank you, Mr Prowse,” snapped Hornblower. For that matter the eye was as trustworthy as any instrumental observation on that heaving sea.
“My duty, sir,” said Prowse.
“I’m glad to see you executing your duty, Mr Prowse,” said Hornblower. The tone he used was the equivalent of saying, ‘Damn your duty,’ which would have also been contrary to the Articles of War.
Northward the Hotspur held her steady course. A squall engulfed her, blinding her, while the quartermasters juggled desperately at the wheel, allowing her, perforce, to pay off in the worst of the gusts, and putting down the wheel to keep her to the wind when the wind backed a point. The final gust went by, flapping Hornblower’s coat‑tails. It whipped the trouser‑legs of the quartermasters at the wheel so that a momentary glance would make a stranger believe that, with their swaying arms and wavering legs, they were dancing some strange ritual dance. As ever, when the squall passed on, all eyes not dedicated to present duty turned to leeward to look for the Loire.