Grimes knocked at the door and entered. “They’re calling the watch, sir,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ll come.” The squeals of the pipes and the bellowings of the petty officers echoing through the ship made Grimes’ words a little superfluous, but Hornblower had to act the part of a newly awakened man. He retied his neckcloth and pulled on his coat, slipped on his shoes and walked out on deck. Bush was there with paper and pencil in his hand.
“The semaphore’s been signalling, sir,” he reported. “Two long messages at fifteen minutes past four and four‑thirty. Two short ones at — there they go again, sir.”
The long gaunt arms of the semaphore were jerkingly swinging out and up and back again.
“Thank you, Mr Bush.” It was sufficient to know that the semaphore had been busy. Hornblower took the glass and trained it out to seaward. The Inshore Squadron was sharply silhouetted against the clear sky; the sun, just down on the horizon, was still so bright that he could not look towards it at all, but the squadron was well to the northward of it.
“Tonnant’s signalling again, sir, but it’s a ninety‑one signal,” reported Foreman.
“Thank you.”
It had been agreed that all flag‑signals from Tonnant preceded by the numerals ninety‑one should be disregarded; Tonnant was only making them to deceive the French on Petit Minou into thinking some violent action was being planned by the inshore squadron.
“There goes Naiad, sir,” said Bush.
Under easy sail the frigate was creeping northward from her station to the south where she had been watching over Carnaret Bay, heading to join the big ships and the Doris. The sun was now touching the sea; small variations in the water content of the nearly clear air were causing strange freaks of refraction, so that the reddening disc was lightly out of shape as it sank.
“They’re heaving the long boat up out of its chocks, sir,” commented Bush.
“Yes.”
The sun was half‑way down in the sea, the remaining half pulled by refraction into twice its normal length. There was still plenty of light for an observer with a good glass on Petit Minou — and undoubtedly there was one — to pick out the preparations going on on the Doris’s deck and in the big ships. The sun had gone. Above where it had sunk a small sliver of cloud shone brilliantly gold and then turned to pink as he looked. Twilight was closing in on them.
“Send the hands to the braces, if you please, Mr Bush. Fill the main‑tops’l and lay her on the starboard tack.”
“Starboard tack. Aye aye, sir.”
Hotspur crept northward through the growing night, following after Doris, heading towards the big ships and Point Matthew.
“There goes the semaphore again, sir.”
“Thank you.”
There was just light enough in the darkening sky to see the telegraphic arms silhouetted against it, as they spun round, signalling the latest move on the part of the British, this concentration towards the north — this relaxing of the hold of the British navy on the passages of the south.
“Only just keep her going,” said Hornblower to the quartermasters at the helm. “Don’t let the Frogs see what we’re up to.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower was feeling nervous; he did not want to leave the Toulinguet Passage too far behind him. He turned his glass towards the inshore squadron. Now there was a strip of red sky along the horizon behind it — the last light of day — and against it the sails of the ships of the line stood out in startling black. The red was fading rapidly, and above it Venus could be seen; Pellew over there was holding on to the last possible moment. Pellew was not only a man of iron nerve; he was a man who never underestimated his enemy. At last; the rectangles of the silhouetted topsails shortened, hesitated, and lengthened again.
“Inshore Squadron’s hauled its wind, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Already the topsails were out of sight with the complete fading of the sky. Pellew had timed the move perfectly. A Frenchman on Petit Minou could not help but think that Pellew, looking towards the night‑covered east, had thought that his ships were now invisible, and had come to the wind without realizing that the move could still be seen by an observer looking towards the west. Hornblower stared round him. His eyes were aching, so that with his hands on the hammock netting he closed his eyes to rest them. Never had a minute seemed so long as that one. Then he opened them again. The light was all gone. Venus was shining where once the sun had shone. The figures about him were almost invisible. Now one or two of the brighter stars could be seen, and Hotspur must be lost to sight, to that unknown observer on Petit Minou. He gulped, braced himself, and plunged into action.