Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“We’ll render passing honours, Mr Bush!” he yelled — no trumpet needed with the wind behind him. “You gunners! Hold your fire until her mainmast comes into your sights. Quartermaster! Starboard a little. We’ll pass her close.”

‘Pistol shot’ was the ideal range for firing a broadside according to old tradition, or even ‘half pistol shot’, twenty yards or ten yards. Hotspur was passing Loire starboard side to starboard side, but on the starboard side Hotspur had her guns run out, manned, and ready, while Loire presented to his gaze a line of blank ports — no wonder, with the ship in her present state of confusion.

They were level with her. No. 1 gun went off with a crash; Bush was standing beside it and gave the word, and apparently he intended to walk along the battery firing each gun in turn but Hotspur with the wind behind her was going far too fast for him. The other guns went off in a straggling roll. Hornblower saw the splinters fly from the Frenchman’s side, saw the holes battered in it. With the wind behind her Hotspur was hardly rolling at all; she was pitching, but any cool‑headed gun captain could make sure of hitting his mark at fifteen yards. Hornblower saw a single gun‑port open in Loire’s side — they were trying to man the guns, minutes too late. Then he was level with the Loire’s quarter‑deck. He could see the bustling crowd there; for a moment he thought he distinguished the figure of the French captain, but at that moment the carronade beside him went off with a crash that took him by surprise so that he almost leaped from the deck.

“Canister on top of the round‑shot, sir,” said the gun captain turning to him with a grin. “That’ll learn ’em.”

A hundred and fifty musket bullets in a round of canister would sweep the Loire’s quarter‑deck like a broom. The marines posted on the deck were all biting fresh cartridges and plying their ramrods — they must have been firing too, without Hornblower perceiving it. Bush was back beside him.

“Every shot told!” he spluttered. “Every single shot, sir!”

It was amazing and interesting to see Bush so excited, but there was still no time for trifles. Hornblower looked back at the Loire; she was still in irons — that broadside must have thrown her crew into complete disorder again. And over there was Ushant, grim and black.

“Port two points,” he said to the men at the wheel. A sensible man would conserve all the sea room available.

“Shall we come to the wind and finish her off, sir?” asked Bush.

“No.”

That was the sensible decision, reached in spite of his fighting madness. Despite the advantage gained by firing an unanswered broadside Hotspur was far too weak to enter voluntarily into a duel with Loire. If Loire had lost a mast, if she had been disabled, he would have tried it. The ships were already a mile apart; in the time necessary to beat back to his enemy she would recover and be ready to receive him. There she was; now she had swung, she had come under control again. It simply would not do.

The crew were chattering like monkeys, and like monkeys they were dancing about the deck in their excitement. Hornblower took the speaking‑trumpet to magnify his order.

“Silence!”

At his bellow the ship instantly fell silent, with every eye turned towards him. He was impervious to that, strangely. He paced across the quarter‑deck and back again, judging the distance of Ushant, now receding over the starboard quarter, and of the Loire, now before the wind. He waited, almost reached his decision, and then waited again, before he gave his orders.

“Helm a‑weather! Mr Prowse, back the maintops’l, if you please.”

They were in the very mouth of the English Channel now, with Loire to windward and with an infinite avenue of escape available to leeward. If Loire came down upon him he would lure her up‑channel. In a stern chase and with night coming on he would be in little enough danger, and the Loire would be cutting herself off from safety with every prospect of encountering powerful units of the British Navy. So he waited, hove‑to, on the faint chance that the Frenchman might not resist temptation. Then he saw her yards swing, saw her come about, on to the starboard tack. She was heading for home, heading to keep Brest under her lee. She was acting conservatively and sensibly. But to the world, to everyone in Hotspur — and to everyone in the Loire, for that matter — Hotspur was challenging her to action and she was running for safety with her tail between her legs. At the sight of her in flight the Hotspur’s crew raised an undisciplined cheer; Hornblower took the speaking-trumpet again.

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